As I write this, Christmas has come and gone, we have crossed the threshold to another year and I’m a little sad. Not that the proverbial “holiday season” is over but that in recent years the hustle and bustle have held little appeal to me. Why, you might ask? I’ve seen it as yet more tasks added to my increasingly long to-do list, all of which interfere with two things that I want to make space for in my daily life: reading and writing, mostly writing. Do all grown-ups go through this or do they still retain that rose-colored view of a winter-time tradition full of sugar plums, candy canes, and tinsel? Certainly I can remember times in my life that the magic of Christmas created anticipation and excitement for me. Specifically, there are three eras that stand out as particularly golden: as a child, my first real Christmas with my husband, and when our own son was young and believed so much in Santa Claus.
As a child, we would gather every Christmas Eve at my paternal grandparents’ tiny home where the kiddos would open presents while my dad, his four siblings, and their spouses mingled, catching up on each other’s lives and my grandmother would serve her famous chicken and dressing casserole. I can still smell the scotch tape and hear the merriment around me. On Christmas Day we would open our gifts, often early, like four in the morning early, due to my Dad’s work schedule. My sister and I would typically go back to sleep for a little while before heading off to my maternal grandparents home. My mother was the eldest of four brothers and they were a rowdy bunch. I can remember my maternal grandmother would always make a coconut cake from scratch and my grandfather would make his famous fruit salad. I can still picture him standing in the kitchen using a hand chopper to crush the pecans. As the eldest grandchild, he would always ask me to be his taste tester. As we got older, we began drawing names to get each other gifts. When I was around 12 or 13, one of my uncles presented me with a telescope. I was so surprised that I cried because, to me, it represented that someone loved me enough to give me the universe. Odd how the young mind works, isn’t it? In total transparency, while I have fond memories of Christmas, my childhood was less than ideal and we often struggled financially as well as emotionally, none of us really equipped well with the tools to overcome conflict easily. However, despite our inherent generational dysfunction, we were loved and in the end, I suppose that is what really mattered.
Fast forward to the Christmas of 2003, my husband asked for my hand in marriage. We had been seeing each other on and off for about a year and a half when he presented me with his mother’s diamond studded wedding band. Our enthusiasm abounded that year wrapped up in the promise of a future together. The following year came our son. Naturally, his first Christmas was more for his parents than for him, being only 6-months old at the time. However, the years that followed are where some of my very favorite Christmas memories live. His enthusiasm was infectious to say the least and given our own tumultuous childhoods, my husband and I went to great pains to ensure that our son’s Christmas memories were protected. As I was often quoted, “You get one shot as a parent, I don’t want to screw this up. There are no do-overs”.
The last two years have had added unwelcomed layers as the COVID-19 pandemic has raged on with one variant or another and all with the invariably same implications to take cover, don’t gather, be cautious, get vaccinated, get boosted, wear masks, get tested…the ever present portent of doom and despair lingering around dark corners and on the handles of shopping carts and gas pumps. Don’t get me wrong, I’m an emphatic supporter of getting vaccinated and do believe that this is the primary way that we will defeat this global enemy. The science seems to be proving that logic out as new information makes its way into the ethos of the conscious, subconscious and sometimes, the unconscious. Time will tell, it usually does…
I think of my life in terms of pre-COVID and post-COVID these days. Pre-COVID Christmases were filled with the usual hustle and bustle including a smorgasbord of gatherings culminating in my in-laws flying in from San Francisco to spend some time with us and a quiet period where I would take time off from work to replenish my energy stores. Post-COVID Christmases, while hallmarked with hustle and bustle, it is of a remote kind including on-line shopping, Zoom, and FaceTime. It certainly lacks the interpersonal aspects of long ago Christmases and New Years’ celebrations. Unlike 2020, this year we were able to gather safely with my sister, her family, and my mother. My great niece and nephew, both young children, still have the bright-eyed enthusiasm of childhood. As for our Christmas Day tradition(s), we are forging new ones. We, of course, were unable to be with my in-laws in person given the Omicron situation but we were able to have a very small gathering of friends (new, old, and all vaccinated) over for a non-traditional Christmas dinner. We opted for a Cajun Christmas this year complete with chicken and sausage gumbo, shrimp and grits, and bananas foster. I haven’t enjoyed myself that much in some time.
The Wednesday before Christmas this year, I had a nightmare of sorts. It was so intense that I’m surprised that I didn’t wake my husband. My dad, who passed away several years ago, was in the dream. He was so vivid. I dreamt that my husband had suddenly passed away and it was like one of my limbs had been severed such was the heartache I felt. It was a tangible thing, this pain…one that splinters a person’s soul. That must have been how my mother felt when my father took his last breath, having suffered with lung cancer for some time. In the dream my father was saying to me, “Don’t wait until it is too late. Live life and let them know you love them.” This dream has stayed with me. When I do look back on all of my favorite Christmases, the one thing they have in common is people. The experience of connecting with others: family, old friends and new ones. One day the pandemic will be over but in the meantime, reach out to your people and in my dad’s words, “let them know…” As for me, I plan to dream, write, and love my tribe fiercely and make sure that they know it!
R.A. Grando 