To Our Beloved Family, Friends, And The Mysterious Strangers Who Stumbled Onto This Blog Because They Googled “What Happens If You Accidentally Join a Cult,”

Greetings from the land of snow, pine trees, and questionable decisions!

First, let me apologize for skipping the last two years’ Christmas newsletters. I truly meant to write them, but as many of you know, the last couple years felt like… what’s the polite term? Oh, yeah. A whole circus of bananas.

Let me explain.

Remember how, in 2022, the government repossessed our sardine island after that unfortunate DEA misunderstanding? Well, the hubster and I decided 2023, 2024, and 2025 would be quiet. Calm. Peaceful. I just wanted a few years of “absolutely nothing that might cause federal involvement.”

And that lasted… approximately four days.

It all began when the hubster announced he wanted “a simple hobby.” He said it with the earnestness of a man who once accidentally smuggled contraband because “the nice fellows offered cash.”

So naturally, we bought a “slightly used” RV from a man named Chip who absolutely swore it was in perfect working condition, despite the fact it smelled faintly of dirty underwear and burnt marshmallows.

Off we went—our grand tour of America!
Or… so we thought.

Somewhere between Bangor and the nearest Dunkin’, the RV engine gave one last wheeze and died dramatically on the side of the highway like a Victorian heroine fainting on a chaise lounge.

While waiting for a tow truck, a local “wilderness survival expert” named Travis emerged from the woods, shirtless despite it being 34° (because testosterone has no thermostat) and convinced the hubster that we were dangerously close to cougar territory.

Travis insisted he could “lead us to safety” away from cougar territory, which resulted in us spending ELEVEN HOURS following this man through the forest, only to emerge…50 yards behind the gas station we’d started from.

Then came the moose.

Look, if you’ve never seen a moose up close, imagine a horse, but make it 1) angrier, 2) taller, and 3) shaped like someone assembled it from leftover IKEA parts.

This majestic creature strolled up to our stranded RV, stuck its head through the window, and ate my bag of trail mix—including the plastic bag.

I’m still traumatized.

A few weeks later, completely unrelated to the moose incident (or so they claimed), two very official government-looking people showed up at our door.

Apparently, Travis—the wilderness expert—was not who he claimed to be.
He was, in fact, a member of a rogue feral chicken trafficking ring.

(Yes, that’s a real thing. I Googled it. I regret Googling it.)

And because we had followed him into the woods, albeit out what we thought was necessity, the government feared we might be targeted by “persons of interest.”

So, guess what? Yup.

But this time they upgraded us from a one-room Allagash cabin.

We were placed in…
…wait for it…
…a “rustic eco-living pod” in Frenchville.

Translation:
A giant compostable yurt that smelled like kale and old flip-flops.

This pod had:

• No locks
• No heat
• A compost toilet I can only describe as punishment from the Old Testament

But they assured us it was safe.

Until the raccoons found us.

I won’t go into detail, but let’s just say raccoons are startlingly organized and have opposable thumbs they should not be trusted with.

Thankfully, the chicken traffickers were arrested after a sting operation involving decoy eggs and a very confused park ranger named Arnold.

We were released from witness protection (again), and allowed to return home, this time swearing on a stack of Dunkin’ napkins that we would stop befriending suspicious strangers.

We have not succeeded in this effort.

So, we survived yet another year.
The hubster didn’t join any criminal enterprises (to our knowledge).
I only cried in public seven times, which is a personal record.
And best of all, I’m back to writing Rafe Ryder and the Mystery of the Moonstone.

If you’d like to support two weary souls trying to rebuild their life after multiple federal interventions, please consider buying:

• Rafe Ryder and the Well of Wisdom
• Rafe Ryder and the Brushstroke of Time

Or leave a review! Because nothing says “holiday spirit” like boosting an author’s visibility on Amazon.

Much love to you and yours.
May your days be merry, your nights be peaceful, and your family members be only mildly eccentric.

Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, Happy Diwali, Happy Kwanzaa, and Happy Whatever-Else-You-Beautiful-Humans-Celebrate!

Sincerely,
L. L. Reynolds and the hubster
(Who is no longer allowed to speak to strangers carrying mysterious duffel bags)