Remembrances of Christmases Past, Part 5
Writing by treason on Friday, 30 of December , 2005 at 2:23 pm
…Two sisters, both in Chicago, came to California to investigate. Even my brother, who never showed an interest in any of us, was convinced that my mother was involved with a loser and he came out, too. Suddenly, we were all together again.
My mother didn’t want to get married, but we forced her into the smartest decision of her life. My stepfather had never been married, so my mother was determined to create a family life for him after years of singlehood. He suddenly had us kids. Sure, my siblings were all adults by then, but we were a made-to-order family. My mother filled the house with pets. He never had pets growing up with his mother and now he had dogs, cats, birds, and rabbits everywhere. She cooked. She baked. She gardened.
It was a time of fabulous Christmas memories. We were all together, we had decorations and trees again, and there was a fireplace. Growing up in a Chicago apartment I always wondered how Santa would deliver gifts when we had no chimney. I was older, knew the truth, but was still thrilled that we were in a house with a real fireplace.
We had an obscene amount of gifts each Christmas. My sister and I spent more on gift wrap than some people spend on gifts, but we loved the paper and decorations and each wrapped box was a gift in itself. (I live to wrap.) I shopped for wonderful items in my little college town and filled my car with them and headed home each Christmas. The winter weather in the news today reminds me of the endless rains in Northern California, the mudslides, the closed roads, the year the earthquake closed Hwy. 101, and the excuse it gave me to drive all my friends home for the holidays who lived in other parts of the state. I took Highways 299 and 5. There were winding mountain roads, snow, and something evil they call tulee fog. There was much screaming in the car. And then we college friends met up in San Francisco to do some last minute shopping. I remember the tree at The Cannery and the decorations at Ghiradelli Square. I drove a couple friends home to the Sacramento area and we stopped for coffee and pie at the Nut House.
I remember the year my mother went into the hospital after discovering an enormous tumor. My stepfather was so lonely and sick with worry that he’d call me long distance and ask me - again and again - about all my classes. I remember the year when my sister and mother kept calling me to ask me if I was coming home for Christmas and if I was I should wait to buy gifts. Something didn’t seem right. Of course I was coming home, and why were they telling me to postpone Christmas shopping? When I got home I found out why. My stepfather had taken my mother out to their favorite Chinese restaurant on her birthday, then they came home, he sat in his favorite chair with his favorite dog on his lap, and his heart exploded.
They didn’t tell me what had happened because they didn’t want it to affect my grades. My grades were fine; life was not.
I miss my sister and my stepfather, and I’m fully aware of how fortunate we were. How fortunate I am to have known them, how fortunate to have had that time together. To have all those memories. To have memory.
So many Christmas remembrances this year and so few, really, are about the presents. I think about those Christmases in California because that was where I was introduced to something called holiday guilt. The San Jose Mercury Newsand the San Francisco papers and newscasts reported every Thanksgiving and Christmas that thousands of people weren’t going to have happy holidays. They had little to celebrate. They were poor. They had drug addictions. They had gambled away their homes. They had lost loved ones. They were sick. Their kids were sick. Their cars didn’t run. Some had no cars. Story after story. Their holiday turkeys were stolen. The house was broken into and the few gifts they had were taken. They hadn’t paid their taxes and now the government wanted their houses. Reading the newspaper and watching TV have become oppressive during the holidays. Should I feel bad if my holiday is happy? YES!!!
This year was filled with stories of unhappiness. There are still Katrina victims out there. (Say, weren’t there also hurricane victims in Texas, Alabama, Mississippi, and Florida? NO!!! Just Nawlins, and don’t you forget it.) There are soldiers who are risking their lives in the desert. Reporters questioned one after another: Isn’t it awful not to be home for the holidays? Well, duh. And you people went to Columbia to study journalism?
And, despite a robust economy, some people won’t be having a Christmas this year. But it’s an offensive thought. You can be poor, you can be sick, you can be desperate, and you really can have a Christmas. Maybe I sound cold, but I’m not. I just know that Christmas exists and it can be celebrated, no matter how awful life happens to be on December 25. I wish the MSM could recognize that and stop this annual guilt trip. For over thirty years, we’ve been subjected to holiday horror stories. Enough is enough.
Terrible things happen this time each year. When I went up to visit my mother on her birthday, I found out that my friend’s mother who lives in the same place had just passed away. Last week I found out that the old man who had the little dog I’d visit with had died. I’m thinking about the people in Oklahoma and Texas, but the MSM is still stuck on Louisiana and Banda Aceh. I’m also thinking about the people in the Midwest who lost their homes to tornadoes. Maybe they’ll get a mention in the end-of-year TV news specials. The press carefully selects the stories they want us to feel bad about. There’s much to feel bad about this year, and I don’t need the media to rub what they want me to feel bad about in my face.
There are also things to feel good about. Some seem like small things. Like when someone in the assisted living community dies, another resident will adopt the pets. That little dog has a new parent now and they’re both so happy together.
So I will spend the rest of this year thinking about those small things. My wish is that you do the same.
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