Tonight I got onto the World Magazine site and went back through all of Chelsea Kolz's articles because, obviously, you need to read about a parasailing version of James Joyce on a snowy Christmas Eve instead of filling stockings with care and putting French toast into the crock pot. G. K. Chesterton would have painted a big blue James Joyce on a guitar box, too.
Dr. Libby turns up in this particular story, incidentally, being very Dr. Libby-ish, and I do like coming across stories about old friends. It's like finding a new story by an old favorite author.
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