There was a time when I looked upon the winter holidays with excitement and anticipation. That was back when presents really mattered because I didn't have an independent income so I couldn't buy the things I wanted. You know, the early years.
Even the decade or so after my unseemly early marriage, at the tender age of eighteen, there were college and baby and low wage jobs, but Christmas was still pretty magical. It was when I could justify spending a little more than we could afford and figure out a way to make it up later. It was often a time when my parents swooped in from Europe, bearing good cheer, good beer, and interesting gifts.
It wasn't until I was well into the second marriage, and sober, that I started taking responsibility for creating magic myself. I was a late bloomer; for decades I thought Santa Claus was real, and I was still awaiting his arrival. There comes a time, though, when you have to start making your own Christmas or it'll sneak up on about the 24th of December and bite you on the ass. Having little kids around helps.
During my forties, I was so busy creating Christmas Memories for the world at large, that I sometimes had trouble finding the time to be with my own family. When you are in the living history biz, in whatever capacity, the holidays are a busy time of year. People who wouldn't dream of cooking over a fireplace themselves, or hanging out in an unheated log house, will pay good money to watch someone else do it. Nostalgia reigns.
The teaching decade, in my fifties, was interesting when it came to Christmas. I finally had a little something extra leftover at the end of every month --- kids grown, steady work, actual paychecks, an employed spouse, ---- and that took a lot of the fun out of getting presents, but increased the fun of giving them. I also met my match when it came to creating magic. You can hardly imagine what it's like in December, to live with someone who used to own a Christmas store. Really. Have you ever wondered where that merchandise goes when it's not in season?
By the time I retired, at sixty, I was ready to dial it back to cookies baked by someone else, decorations put in place by someone else (thank you, Jill), and dispense with the presents, already. This house is full up, and don't tip off the folks at Hoarders. No, it's not that bad, but it is hard to think of things besides food and underwear that we actually need to shop for.
So here I am in the kitchen, December 1, the first Sunday in Advent, ready for company. As per 55-year family tradition, those of us who are still in an upright position will gather around the Advent Wreath with the well worn volume of "A Christmas Carol" and whoever draws the short straw will read the first stave aloud. We used to do it in the evenings, but now night driving is much more difficult for some of us. We used to gorge on the traditional foods ---- pearl tapioca pudding made from scratch, party mix made from scratch, popcorn, sodas or cider, and whatever cookies anybody had been baking for the holidays. Now, everyone needs to lose the pounds, some don't eat gluten, some avoid dairy, nobody drinks sodas and the coffee is decaf. Temperance applies (except to the pudding!).
Change happens. We four were little kids when our parents devised this amalgam of traditions from each of their families, and applied it to the family they had created. We, in turn, have spread it to our own spouses, children and some to grandchildren as well. Older generations have passed on, crucial people are passionately missed, but this afternoon the candles will be lit, the popcorn popped, the pudding dished up and along about 3:30, as the sun begins to sink lower into the afternoon sky, a shiver will run down my spine as the familiar words are read:
"Marley was dead: to begin with."
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