Posts tagged ‘tradition’
Christmas Gets Harder
When you’re a kid, Christmas is the most wonderful time of the year. You live in a marshmallow world. You write a letter to a complete stranger, and, if you are good or mostly good or even just occasionally good, your wishes will be granted.
It was all so easy. Your energy never dwindled. Even at 7:00 a.m., you could greet the day with a whoop of joy and leap from your bed like a reindeer who has just been told he’s cute. After a quick scramble down the stairs, you’d see that cookies had been eaten and milk had been drunk; stockings were plumped; and marvelous things, like an Easy-Bake Oven or a pogo stick, awaited you.
Everything sparkled. Magic existed, and the proof was everywhere.
But Christmas gets harder.
We grow taller. Our world gets bigger, and secrets are harder to keep. I hope when you discovered the truth about K. Kringle that it wasn’t just three days before Christmas. I hope you were older than 7. (Hoo boy. My heart shattered like a mercury glass ornament dropped from a great height.)
Still. Your resiliency meter is full as a child, and Christmas continues to be pretty wonderful. You receive fun gifts; festive decorations pop up wherever you go; wonderful meals appear on the table when it’s time to eat. And you—you are a shining star, loved and cherished, ooh’ed and ahh’ed over by grandparents, aunts, uncles, great aunts, great uncles, neighbors, and family friends.
You have siblings and cousins, school friends and neighborhood playmates. At any point, you can simply walk outside and there will be other children to play with, to go sled riding or build a snowman. It is still a magical time. And you become, once again, a well-adjusted, happy soul on Christmas.
Then, a few years later, the next great holiday conspiracy kicks in: Christmas romance.
Ah yes. I stood there year after year, bright eyed and certain, all dressed up with no place to go, keeping a hopeful eye out, bolstering my disappointments with assurances of “next year,” believing in every platitude, navigating the season of dances and parties and diamond marketing, and surviving that awkward moment of having no place to put your lips at midnight on New Year’s Eve, but the traditions of love and marriage never happened for me.
Now, I have made peace with a solitary life and I am not trying to be maudlin, but, folks, it is a simple fact that some people are unlucky in love. Some never get the chance to be Santa. Some of us have to go it alone, and the sugar-coated, family-centric, Hallmarkian season can make even the most well-adjusted Old Maid flinch a bit.
Christmas gets harder.
On your own or with a partner, as you get older, Christmas becomes a lot of work. More pressure, more responsibilities, more problems. The kids have become the adults, and the reality of stepping into those shoes will make you stumble and limp. It’s our turn to shop and cook. To make the decisions and run the errands. To find a parking space at the mall. To face gladiatorial trials of amassing vacation days and surviving travel.
The to-do list gets longer. The days get shorter.
It’s a lot, to be an adult at Christmas. And it doesn’t matter how easy-breezy you try to be or how many times you check your list or how early you start or how many hours you spend, there is always something else that needs doing.
One day, you look around, and Christmas has changed so dramatically as to be almost unrecognizable. Part of that is the adult perspective and associated responsibilities, but the tragic thing is that, after 50-plus years on the planet, Christmas changes because you are missing some significant people. And that hurts. And you are reminded of them through every activity, every song, every smell; in the ornaments, the jokes, the snacks, the bows on boxes; even in the simple act of unwrapping 48 silver buds. Christmas is a prism for grief; strands of love and longing shine over everything.
I struggled this year. I got overwhelmed. I swore some. I sobbed a bit. I lost the plot. And then I got angry that I felt sad and stressed instead of “Christmassy.” About the middle of last week, I reached a point where it felt as if the only way out was to hate Christmas.
Sometimes giving up feels like the only answer. But, spoiler alert, that is never the only answer.
Amid the craziest of the craziness, a wise friend reminded me to be on the lookout for moments of joy. Oh, may the choirs of angels sing. And may a guardian angel kick my bottom if I ever want to give up on Christmas again.
I made an adjustment.
I kept going. I tidied the house and prepped the food, but I stopped rushing, and I stopped pushing. I tended to my Dad (who was ill the entire week before Christmas), and I did what I could. I told myself that no one coming to our house over the holidays would care about the messes, and I reminded myself that, even if they did, I did not.
Given that we were preparing to celebrate the birth of Christ, I acknowledged that it was rather silly of me to think any effort of mine is what would save the day.
I decided to ignore the Forest of Things To Do and just stare at a single tree, with a big ol’ glass of pinot grigio in my hand. I dropped the goal of an ideal holiday. I dropped the goal of an okay holiday. I minimized the to-do list, ignored the disarray, and took a few hours off. I stopped trying so hard to feel giddy and happy and young. And I surrendered.
I folded my arms across my heart, and I did a trust fall into Christmas.
I’m not going to tell you it was the best day ever. But, when I got up on December 25th, it was Christmas. It came. It came just the same.
The proof of magic these days may not be as obvious as flying reindeer or a fat man getting down a chimney, but it exists. Magic remains in the gathering of family, in the science of ancient recipes, in surprises hidden in boxes and bags. Magic lives on in the memories, the traditions, and the happiness we feel. Magic even exists in grief. In grief, at least, you can feel again the exquisite joy of those you have loved and who loved you, too.
As you get older, Christmas gets harder. But, of course, that’s when we need it the most.
There were a few tears this Christmas. There was clutter and dust. There was rain instead of snow. There was an artificial tree instead of a real one. But, yes, Virginia, there were moments of joy. It was a perfectly imperfect day, and, as night fell, I experienced the childlike hope that it would not end. It was Christmas, and I didn’t hate it.
Thanksgiving
If I had to pick a favorite holiday in the year, it would be Thanksgiving. As an adult, I like the sincerity of it. The lack of advertising-skewed priorities. The quiet days off. The unadulterated meaning: to simply give thanks.
As a kid, the appeal was a little different. Thanksgiving was the annual mega-gathering of my Dad’s side of the family. Thirty to forty people, with more than half of that crowd the funny, cool playmates called cousins. It was the one time of year that we all saw each other. And it was a big, loud, boisterous day. Hug lines forming as each new relative came in the front door. Food lines forming for dinner as we navigated around the kitchen buffet style and, with our well-laden plates, wandered to one of many tables set up around the house. And, of course, the well-worn lines of family jokes to make us giggle again and again. It was a day filled with story-telling, catching up, practical jokes, skits, live music, dancing, cards games, ping pong, and more.
I find it impossible to recall a single Thanksgiving. Rather all the years exist as a jumbled blur of all of these things, a constant whir of voices and laughter and tradition, punctuated by individual memories: Aunt Margie’s perfect green beans with bacon; Aunt Ann’s chocolate maple brownies; Grandma’s stuffing served in a great big cooker by ice cream scoop; listening to grandma and my dad and his brothers and sisters tell stories of their growing up; the year we hung underwear on Aunt Theresa’s car; the year Denny, Joel, and Tommy were missing for military duty; the year that Johnny, Denny, and Tommy mooned and took pictures on my unattended, undigital camera; the year(s) we oohed and awed over the arrival of the great-grandchildren; the time Uncle Tom sat in front of Aunt Marie and poured gravy on the angel food cake she’d made and ate it without saying a word as she spluttered and we all played along as if this were a perfectly normal way to eat angel food cake.
This mush of memories means that sometimes Thanksgiving includes time spent throwing a football out in the street without coats on as well as the adventure of battling treacherous snow and ice to arrive in time. It means that Thanksgiving includes the entire family all at once, whether they attended each year or not. It also means that Thanksgiving includes everybody, including the dear ones we have since said good-bye to.
My sentimental side yearns for a time machine for just one more chance to gather on Thanksgiving, to hug each one coming through the door. To hear Uncle John’s laugh. To see Grandma’s eyes mist up as she tells about the day she met her Oscar. To hear Aunt Marie describe her most recent recipe in complete detail. To pull up in front of that big house and know that both Aunt Pat and Uncle Tom would be there to greet me. To set up Uncle Joe with a “How are you?” so that he could grab someone’s butt and say, “Ah, I’ve been feeling bum all day.” Even, yes, to help wash the dishes after 30-40 people had snacked, dined, and had dessert.
In the looking back, my heart aches. And the feelings of loss are nearly unbearable.
But.
That is Life. As we get older—if we were lucky enough to be part of a big loving family—we must say a lot of good-byes. And Life does go on if we remember to be thankful for the big loving family part. And to balance the sadness of good-bye with the happiness of saying hello to new spouses, new babies. To understand that change isn’t always bad. And to realize that the Thanksgiving dinner tables, which used to sit in dining room, living room, family room, basement, and den of one house are simply a bit farther apart in homes in Pennsylvania, in Virginia, in Utah, in Colorado, in New Jersey.
I know that, at each of those tables, the traditions go on. The last name is handed down. Someone is still making perfect mashed potatoes. That smell of turkey still permeates the air. A sincere prayer is said. The tales of Anna and Oscar and their offspring are told. And the laughter rolls.
Tradition is one of the ultimate life preservers. But its magic lies not in tedious, unchanging repetition. The magic is in the oral history that tells us where we came from, in the people we learned to admire, in the activities that teach us what’s important and what’s to be forgiven, in the honoring of father and mother, in the joy of children, in the preservation of values, in the sacred knowledge of unconditional love.
So today, as I have a slice of my Mom’s pumpkin pie for breakfast, as I enjoy the break from my adult responsibilities, as I find a little time to reflect on more than chores to be done and deadlines to be met and the accumulation of failures and disappointments that can make us doubt who we are, I see clearly, above all, the blessing of being a granddaughter of Anna and Oscar. And I give thanks for my place in the world as daughter, sister, niece, cousin, and aunt.
What’s your favorite Thanksgiving tradition?
Overnight Fun Night
It’s Saturday and I’m preparing the house for the arrival of Alex and Hannah, my niece and nephew. (Two of my most favorite “life preservers.”)
I am neatening up. (Why is it exactly that we adults feel the need to portray ourselves as tidy? Why do we try to set a good example even though, we now know better?) I know the kids don’t care, and they will soon fill this house with messes of their own. Within minutes of their arrival, every surface in my house will be scattered with items unfamiliar to a childless woman’s life. Transformers, Lego, and Star Wars action figures sitting precariously near antique depression glass; stuffed animals among the Pier 1 throw pillows. Tiny shirts, tiny pants, tiny socks flung about. Craft kits. Board games. Model planes. Cars. DVDs. DSi.
The little suitcases they travel with are like Mary Poppins’ carpet bag.
They are 10 and 12 now, which is a very cool age. The moments when they talk, act, think like small adults come more often. But, they are still young enough to be giddy with excitement to come sleep on my floor.
I would like to point out that there is an extra bed and a couch for them, but they actually prefer to sleep on couch cushions on the floor around my bed. And I enjoy that, too, because we inevitably fall asleep giggling. And, in the morning, they climb up into the bed and we snuggle and giggle some more–and that’s a pretty darn fine way to start any day.)
Having them here is less like babysitting and more like a slumber party. With midgets.
We’ll play video games, rent a movie, and probably make snow angels. (I’ve been wanting to all week, and the kids are my cover.) We’ll eat stuff like pancakes and hamburgers (instead of Lean Cuisine, canned soup). And we’ll have Lorna Doones.
There will always be Lorna Doones when they come visit. (My grandparents once lived in this house. And when my brother, sister, and I would come visit, my gram would stand near the back door with a cookie jar. We’d file by and she’d hand each of us a couple of Lorna Doones, and we’d go out back and sit in the yard and eat them like chipmunks. Quickly gnawing the little squares of shortbread. )
So the first time that Alex and Hannah came to visit, I bought some Lorna Doone cookies. Their father, my brother, and I smiled at each other as I ceremoniously handed them each a Lorna Doone. I told the story of why they were important to me, why it was the first thing they received upon arrival. You don’t think kids get that stuff. But, about an hour later, Alex (who was probably about 5 at the time), walked up to me and inquired, “May I please have another of the special little cookies?”
They got it. And it is now a tradition for them as well.
Today’s question: What’s your favorite tradition to pass on to the kids in your life? Or. Have you ever had a slumber party with a midget?
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Life Preservers 