27th December 2007

~Holidays, for what they are. For what they should be~

“Has it been this goddamn cold all month?” a friend of mine said over his heady pint of ale. I hadn’t seen him for a good fifteen months and though I’m sure we had plenty of things to fill each other in on he only seemed to want to discuss the wretched New England weather. I suppose small talk habits never die. His name is Thomas (doesn’t answer to Tom) and he’s even more of a gypsy than I. Quite literally. While I’ve spent a great deal of my life on the traveler’s road he calls it home, so naturally him and I became great friends very quickly. It was Christmas Eve and he was in town to spend the holiday so what else do two vagabonds do in celebration besides find a pub and catch up over our chosen poisons.

Captain John Stone’s Inn is where we landed. A haunted tavern in sleepy Ashland with a local history and legacy. He had never been there and I had terrifyingly fond memories from childhood of