Holiday Traditions- part 1

Another Christmas was looming on the horizon. We called the movers early to reserve a spot on their under-manned work order list. It was necessary at this time of year to move the larger part of our surplus household goods like my boat; my mounted deer trophy head with the prized nine-point rack; my favorite footstool that hid many cherished heirlooms like my squiggly pencils collection in its gut; a couple of phones we didn't use every day; any book that didn't have Christmas or Santa in its title; any figurine that didn't resemble Jesus, an angel, a shepherd or a snowman; any stuffed toy that didn't appear brand-spanking new or resemble some wintry, cuddly creature; anything that couldn't be categorized loosely as an ornament; any greeting card that didn't have a spectacular seasonal scene on ir or fold out into a diorama; any memorabilia that wasn't a fugitive from a White-elephant Christmas gift exchange; or any school paper or art class memento "drawn" by some angelic grandchild or child in our lifetimes.

All this emptied the house considerably but was replaced by seasonal knick knacks that also replaced the crocheted pumpkins, curled up and once typical fall leaves, witches and goblins once deserving of homage. Pretty post cards, pretty paper and lights twinkling incessantly (just the lights twinkling, the other stuff kept us busy re-tacking them up as they fell with every passing day). Santa took his rightful place on the front door with his annoying "Ho! Ho! Ho! Merry Christmas!" followed by a jangling rendition of Jingle Bells. Out came an assortment of red, white and green cookie dishes and objects for displaying fattening sweets proudly boasting 0 grams of trans-fat. For you probies, that's fat about to be transformed into blubber on your body.

Emails and frantic phone calls emitted from HQ, asking for wish-lists for the big exchange (between gift-givers, not stores). Every immediate family member angled for a coveted time-slot on Christmas Day: Poor kids and melded families were torn between new traditions trying to form and old ones trying to survive. Traditions were cherished by all, just not the same ones. My son would spend Christmas out of town for the crucial time slot for the first time in 38 years. The tangy taste it left was not due to being shot at in Iraq, being low man on the totem pole at a workplace or indigence/pennilessness, but merely a choice of doing something different. Such family gatherings had endured from the days of bright-eyed parents and cooing babies until the melee required uniformed crowd control and traffic cops mixed with parking attendants. The latter also required coordination with neighbors to avoid parking confrontations and lawn signs warning of dire consequences for blocking views of Youtubular lighting displays whose prerequisite audio renditions vied with revelers.

The kitchen was maintained at an uncomfortable 90 degrees as the perfume of real (cheap) vanilla extract from Mexico and sacrificial Pillsbury Dough-boys filled the air. Each batch was carefully saran-wrapped onto a special decorative plate. Oops, that one looks defective. Mmmmm!

stay tuned for continuation of this narrative of Christmas..