Lick the pipe and let’s be irie 

St. Martin Christmas is necessarily different than Vermont Christmas. The weather doesn’t change, you’ve got all kinds of cultures and traditions bashed up against each other, and like two thirds of the people here today won’t actually be here in two weeks. 

Still and all , it’s Christmas for sure. The title of this post is a line from a song I heard on two different stations on a half-hour drive yesterday. Sing it to Deck the Halls, and if you don’t know what it means exactly, like me, I’ll venture a Freudian translation: sometimes a pipe is just a  way to commune with Jah in a way that is recently legal in several states, and then again sometimes it isn’t. 

On the boardwalk, there’s a giant ornament to take pictures in. 


The Harbormaster’s office is a study in tasteful restraint. 


And there are a few Griswolds among us…

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