I lost my father 5 years ago on December 18th. We buried him on December 22nd and gathered for a family Christmas that was unusual to say the least. For those of us who lose someone during the holiday season, it brings a poignancy that will forever impact the season. Not to diminish the effect of losing a family member at any other time of year but there is something about the holiday season that really puts a clink in the armour when the Carols starting hitting the airwaves.
My mother passed away six months later, so by the second Christmas the reality of change was cemented. Gone were the traditions that I had come to love and loathe. The Fagan family Christmas sat somewhere between the Lawrence Welk show and an episode of All in the Family.
We gathered on Christmas Eve for my mother’s traditional dinner of bacon and eggs. Yup, you heard that right. I was than hustled off by my father to wrap all the gifts he had bought my mother- a task I disliked. Being the only daughter, he assumed I was genetically programmed to wrap presents . I wasn’t and to prove a point one year, I signed all her gifts as coming from me, expensive jewelry included.
I would linger over the tree ornaments. No matter how many years I saw them- they seemed like old friends who had been away - an assortment of multi-colored antique balls, plastic choir boys, angels and my mother’s crocheted elves. There was the familiar site of an old ornament of my grandmothers that used to give me nightmares. It was a baby’s head swathed in a hot pink foil skull- cap that surrounded the whole head. The clincher being it was missing an eye. Christmas wasn’t complete until I had located the one –eyed Christmas baby.
I then moved on to the display of Christmas cards taped to both sides of the glass panes of the front hall door. There was something about a door full of cards that was a testament of the good will they had spread throughout the year. I took a whiff of the plastic Christmas tree in the front window and sent a nod of recognition to the wooden snowman who waved to passerbys while wired to the tree on the front lawn.
After dinner we would get all gussied up and wait for the arrival of our neighbors the Sopers. My mother would serve an assortment of cheese balls ,pepperoni and homemade cookies that were actually made by Mrs. Soper.
After a couple hours of this, we would bundle into our winter gear and walk next door to the Soper’s house where Mrs. Soper would serve the exact same hor d’oeuvres. Why didn’t we just stay put you ask? Who knows, but we repeated this every year.
I tended to be freakishly shy around adults even if I had known them for 15 odd years, so this little ritual always threw me into a tailspin of anxiety. I would burn a hole through my Dad’s forehead silently chanting, “ Can we go yet? Can we go yet? For all that is sacred in this world can we please go now!!!!?”
When I became of legal age to drink, I found my tolerance for this tradition manageable.
On Christmas morning my father would be the first to rise - yelling up the stairs as if we were in the midst of a four alarm fire. His excitement rivaled any 3 year old and he wouldn’t stop until everyone was up and ready to open the gifts. We grabbed our coffee and sticky sweet coffee cake and took our positions for the mother lode.
This wasn’t a scene where we each took our turn to open a present and fawn appropriately over the Avon Men’s cologne that would sit in the upstairs bathroom until it congealed into glue.
This was an onslaught- every man for himself as we ripped into our gifts. If we didn’t like the gift, we told each other right then and there. You’d hear a disappointed, “ Well, that is going back tomorrow!” from yours truly or a “ Since when did I start wearing turtleneck sweaters?” from my Mother. A flat out “ Jesus, that’s not what I asked for” from my father as he tossed the gift back under the tree and pouted.
By the time the mountain of gifts had been opened and we had filled ourselves with caffeine and sugar, we retreated to pour over our stash and climb into one of our new Christmas outfits- itchy and crisp with the store smell still on it.
Then we waited for my other brothers and their families to arrive, or we would climb in the Chrysler Fifth Avenue to make the trip to one of their houses for the feast. Either way, within a few hours, my new clothes were driving me crazy and I just wanted to go back to bed.
We would snap open the Christmas crackers, put the ridiculous paper hats on our heads and dig in. I remember a year where I had a Courtney Love meltdown after one of my brother's many smart ass comments and the uncomfortable moments that followed as we all sat feeling foolish in our paper crowns .I would stare at my father during the after dessert lingering and chant silently, “ Can we go now? Can we go now? For all that is sacred in this world, can we please go now!!!? “
But make no mistake-I took great comfort in these traditions. I loved wandering the aisles of No Frills as my Dad loaded the cart with enough food to feed the whole street if they happened to drop by. I embraced the lukewarm vegetables and the 2 hours of dish washing that followed the meal. The feeling of being so full and tired that you didn’t know whether to pass out or puke. I loved hearing my father start to snore in his lazyboy chair in a room still full of people -like a kid that had just wore himself out. I took comfort in the sound of the wind rattling the window as I fell asleep in my childhood bedroom. I felt safe , warm and loved.
The third year after my parents were gone was particularly rough. I was still grieving the loss of tradition and as my family spread apart, I sat with my son, my ex-husband and my brother and wondered how it had all disappeared. It felt unbearably sad and wrong. How do you redefine traditions that are part of your DNA?
You don’t, but you keep showing up and with enough time it evolves. I love Christmas unabashedly and that has been the most difficult thing to accept. I refuse to give up on it. My new tradition for now seems to include Christmas with the ex, my son and one of my brothers. My kitchen is stocked with enough food to entertain a family of six if they happen to drop by. I make bacon and eggs on Christmas Eve but let people sleep in past 7:02 am. We rip open the presents but try not to lay blame before noon. The dress code for dinner is casual, you can wear pyjamas all day though I do insist on neutral colors.
I silently toast my parents as we crack open the paper hats. We whip through the dishes no problem, read, lounge, watch marathon reality tv shows and as the light fades on another Christmas day, I gaze adoringly at the one eyed baby with the hot pink foil skull-cap placed front and center on my fake Christmas tree.
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