Boxing Day actually.
I spent Christmas Eve and Day comforting Fenway. Apparently, someone named “Damon” defected to a tribe known as the Damn Yankees. From what I gather they are native to New York, and we live in the outback of the western region of New York, but apparently this is still a bad thing. Something about the seventh sign and selling one’s soul through the process of a haircut.
I will never understand baseball.
On another note I bought the game warden a crate of oranges as a holiday gift. This seems to me like carrying coals to Newcastle but it was Ken’s idea and she was nonetheless delighted. Ken said he didn’t need anything as a gift and so I didn’t get him anything. I am never sure when to take humans at face value and when not to. Ken also said that I might get something when they celebrate “Little Christmas.” I’m not sure what that is but am sure I will find out soon enough.