“What was the cause of the Civil War?” she was asked.

And rather than giving the answer that any ten-year-old American could give, she opted instead for nuance.

“Probably four or five years,” I said. “I refill it in case I get thirsty through the night.”

But for me, it’s cookies.

Long after the other plants in our garden faded and settled in for a winter nap, the rosebush on the southeast side of our house continued to grow and stretch toward our bedroom window so that when we awoke and pulled up the shades, the palest pink, delicate petals rested serenely with faces open wide, patiently waiting for us to begin our morning.

The first was the memory of a powerful passage from a novel by Elie Wiesel, in which a man is waiting to execute a political prisoner who has been sentenced to die at sunset. He says you know night has arrived when you’re gazing out a window in the evening and you suddenly realize that you’re looking at your reflection in the darkening glass instead of the landscape outside.

The local radio stations barely wait 24 hours after Halloween to switch over to holiday music. It may seem incongruous to drive through streets lined with golden maple trees while hearing “Frosty the Snowman” over the speakers, but here we are. As the ghosts and cobwebs are cleared away, the bells and wreaths and candy canes immediately rush onto the scene to cram every crevice with lights, tinsel, and excess.

It would be a stretch to call me a luddite, but it’s fair to say I’m luddite-adjacent.