So far I've mentioned about ten things my depressed and alcoholic mother detested. Good cheer and thinking about others were never her strong points. Despite having the most over-privileged life you can imagine, she was mad at God and called herself an atheist - so there went Christian traditions out the window. My father would occasionally go to church on Christmas Eve, and she would mock him.
My mother resented any kind of Joy and would wage war to make sure everyone was as miserable as she was. She was dead set against any lights or decorations. Even a wreath given to us by a neighbor was unacceptable.
My father, a civil engineer, had one set of heavy-duty colored lights with replaceable bulbs that he would put outside year after year. The bulbs would get so old their paint would chip off. I thought they were stunning.
He also apparently negotiated a compromise with Mrs. Anti-Claus by buying a small, live evergreen each year, with painfully spiky branches and a ball of earth wrapped in burlap around its roots. The tree had to stay outside until the last minute because it was used to being cold. Once it came inside - which involved a lot of swearing because it was unbelievably heavy - it smelled like farm, dirt, and worms. Immediately after Christmas, my father had to take it outside again and plant it, as if planting trees in the middle of winter made any sense at all. Of course every year the tree would die - dried-up, brown symbols of folly dotting the yard.
My mother would have nothing to do with decorating the tree, but my father had bought some shiny globes and a packet of tinsel. Back in those days it was real tinsel - not made of Mylar but of lead. It was heavy, and crinkled in a fascinating way. I adored it. To me it did not resemble icicles at all, but it was a nice, shiny silver and looked vaguely liquid.
Once my father came home from work in the evening with six brightly-colored mercury glass bird decorations in a plastic box. This was such a seismic event I still remember them clearly. I thought they were AMAZING. They had beady eyes, and clips on their feet, and sprouted stiff fiber tails of different colors.
The fallout was immediate and severe. My mother pitched a fit that included drama of Shakespearean proportions - seething rage, bitter accusations, gnashing of teeth, and total incomprehension over the fact that my father could be such a fool. I disappeared into my room and listened to the gin-soaked battle rage for hour after hour. That woman had stamina - and an incredible liver. It was hard to believe the unstoppable raging and weeping was about fake birds.
The next day I came downstairs and the birds were still there. And they stayed for years. But the Joy had been taken out of them. My mother may have lost the battle, but she'd won the war.
She considered herself above common music, like "Silent Night" or "Frosty the Snowman." But not everyone considers Handel's Messiah or Johann Sebastian Bach's Messe in h-moll appropriate for Christmas activities like, say, wrapping presents, or light holiday conversation.
I clearly remember the anticipation of Christmas Eve, and the idea of waking up to stockings and gifts. I usually didn't get toys during the year, so the thrill would keep me wide awake. I remember being alone in my bed, too excited to sleep, wishing there really was a Santa Claus with a sleigh full of toys looking for me.
Then I would hear my parents arguing downstairs while they put presents under the tree. They made no attempt to do this late at night in secret. My giant balloon of excitement would lose a little air, and I would fall asleep.
On Christmas morning my brothers and I would wake up independently. Without waking my parents, we would each find our Christmas "stocking" - actual black socks that belonged to my father - and take it back to our bed. The stockings were always identical, despite the fact that my brothers were six and seven years older, and I was the only girl.
Invariably there was at least one orange in the toe to take up space, as well as some Brazil nuts from the bowl on the coffee table in the living room. There might be a toothbrush and toothpaste. One year the theme was clearly Hardware Store, and I excitedly ripped the wrapping paper off Scotch tape, a box of small nails, and a cheap flashlight. The message did not escape me. My mother had unlimited funds and virtually nothing to do all day. I knew how much effort had gone into this stocking, and how much empathy for what a little girl might like for Christmas.
Invariably there was at least one orange in the toe to take up space, as well as some Brazil nuts from the bowl on the coffee table in the living room. There might be a toothbrush and toothpaste. One year the theme was clearly Hardware Store, and I excitedly ripped the wrapping paper off Scotch tape, a box of small nails, and a cheap flashlight. The message did not escape me. My mother had unlimited funds and virtually nothing to do all day. I knew how much effort had gone into this stocking, and how much empathy for what a little girl might like for Christmas.
Fortunately there were some fairly normal presents under the tree because my father's brother - my Uncle Ted - and his wife made an effort to be friendly. The presents were not expensive or extraordinary, but they were there, year after year.
I have wracked my brain and I cannot remember one single Christmas gift I ever received from my parents, except a set of Cray Pas drawing crayons, and a mechanical toy that allowed you to draw patterns. Everything else is a total blank. My brothers got plastic models and chemistry sets.
My mother hated cooking, and would not dream of buying a Christmas cookie. There would be no candy canes on our tree, no Christmas treats in our house! But on Christmas morning, my father would make scrambled eggs, which was a huge deal. I have no memory of the presents, but the eggs I remember.
Today, I just do the opposite of whatever my mother did. We celebrate Treemas, with the biggest Christmas Tree we can fit into the house, covered with an excessive number of blinking lights and a zillion ornaments of different shapes, sizes, and colors. And it stays there for weeks.
When the kids were little, I sewed giant stockings out of red and green felt with snowy-white tops that, when filled, were too heavy to hang anywhere. I still look at the pretty mantelpiece stocking hooks in the Pottery Barn catalogue and think, "What could you possibly hang from THAT tiny thing?"
And I loved playing holiday music so much that my children made a rule: No Christmas carols until after Thanksgiving!
The kids received an enormous number of presents and tried to open them as slowly as possible. After that we prepared the Christmas turkey and got it into the oven, then called friends and played with the new toys until Christmas Dinner was ready. The living room would be filled with an explosion of wrapping paper and boxes.
If anyone wants to criticize me for this (and I know someone who does)... Well, I have a nice box of nails I'll wrap up for you.
Please let me hear about your Christmases Past in the comments.
12/3/2013
I received a Spriograph also as a kid - loved to look at all the symmetry.
ReplyDeleteThat's it! The Spirograph! I loved shifting gears, so to speak. Recently I got a pendulum that draws patterns in sand - kinda similar. Thanks for reading!
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