Erin O'Mara

The Harpswell social season is upon us, and I've got brushing up to do. I want to be invited to parties and when I'm there, I don't want to be the person people edge away from because I have spanakopita in my teeth or because the only stuff I can think to say is weird.

In sixth grade, my friends and I volunteered to clean the attic of our friend Kristin's parents' garage so we could have a clubhouse. We pushed and swallowed years of dust to carve out a meeting space.

The sign says, "Eat here or we'll both starve." It's been there as long as I can remember, a beacon to pin my location on the map and tell me if I'm coming from or going to my childhood home.

Dear Santa, I hope you're well as you ramp up to the biggest night of your year! I've been really, really good this year. My 2023 behavior borders on exemplary.

Sometimes, the mental gymnastics I perform to access even the tiniest bit of gratitude are so extreme, I'm sure I'll rupture a muscle.

Did a coven of nutritionists invent bobbing for apples? Only powerful witchcraft could convince people to dunk their heads in a bucket of water swirling with the oily lip balm, sweat, saliva and snot of every stranger who already bobbed — all to come up with an apple. An apple!

I was 20, traveling in a van caravan with fellow students to study the geology and ecology of the West. By random chance, I was sharing a bench seat in a van across the endless plains of Kansas with a person who quickly became my No. 1 fan.