Parting Shot
Ten Pounds of Christmas in a Five-Pound Bag
By Mark J. Lucas |
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I freakin' love Christmas.
Now, I'm probably one of the most cynical people in the world when it comes to holidays, but you stick me in front of a decorated fir tree, and I melt like a stick of butter. I can't help it. I know it's the most commercialized holiday of all time, but you know what?
I just don't care.
In order to understand my love of Christmas, you need to understand Christmas as I do. My mother is one of twelve children, all of whom had roughly three kids each. Some of the older ones now have children themselves, bringing the extended family total to about eighty or so. On Christmas Eve, we'd all go to Mass together. Our family occupied no less than four or five large pews. You could always tell which ones were with us, both because we all look about the same, and because, with very little exception, none of us can sing - but be damned if that was going to stop us. We couldn't even drone the Lord's Prayer in tune. Once, I saw a statue of Jesus wince at our rendition of the songs written in his name. We were quite the spectacle.
After that, it was off to my grandparents' German Village home in a massive gypsy-like caravan. The house wasn't large, by any standard. It would hold all of us . . . just not all at the same time. Looking back, it's amazing that the fire department was never called about the occupancy. Or if not for that, then for the old-school oversized Christmas light bulbs, so bright they melted the snow for three feet in every direction.
From left: sister Ashley, Santa (former Columbus mayor Greg Lashutka), and the author, Mark J. Lucas, 1985
The little kids were in the front room, opening presents around the first tree with my grandmother. The middle room was almost entirely filled with everyone's coats. The kitchen was equipped with a second tree and a full-sized dinner table, around which we would all crowd for feast and drink, asses to elbows all the way around, with another layer of people standing behind those sitting at the table, holding plates. At the head of this table sat my grandfather in a Santa hat, cracking jokes, usually with one of the smallest children holding onto his sleeve or sitting on his lap. I occupied this position for some time, until it fell to another, at which point I was relegated to scurrying around people's legs with a plate full of cheese cubes, like the rest of the young rabble.
These are not quiet people, mind you. Each of them was issued, from birth, a sense of humor and a wonderfully loud laugh, which they employ at every turn. There would be at least ten different conversations taking place at the same time. Some were isolated, and some would pool together and become a larger conversation, a mix of gossip and anecdotes and plans and goings-on from the week. It was a skill to be heard, and required expert timing, lest another jump in your place, and by the time there was another pause, the subject of conversation may have changed all together.
After the 'feast and drink' would come the 'drink.' The air would be thick with cigarette smoke, until someone would open the back door for another round of beers and clear it out. A number of my uncles and older cousins would take up permanent posts on the back patio, due to both to the heat inside and the proximity of the beverages. It was also the only place one could smoke a cigar. The conversation on the patio was not as festive, often centered on the prices of things, and complaints about driving back home, occasionally punctuated with a dirty joke or two. Every time I was sent to fetch something from out back, I would invariably have one of their arms thrown around me, followed by questions about my future, which at a young age, concerned my grades and presents I would open the next day. At this age, the smell of beer on someone's breath became known to me as 'uncle smell.'
Without fail, a number of the family members would make their way to the player piano in the middle room, and my grandfather would extract some dusty Christmas music rolls from the cabinet (none of us could play an instrument, either). My aunts would fawn over memories about hearing them on past Christmases, while trying to find a song everyone could 'sing.' (Again, no Whitney Houstons or Pavarottis among us.)
Only my uncle's boyfriend had had any musical training to speak of, but we'd all commence ringing out the lyrics as though we were in Madison Square Garden. Unlike church, there were none who were on key to provide contrast, so we all sang harmony. This music would be in stiff competition with elated squeals from the children, still somehow opening presents in the front room.
When someone would leave, they were sent off with hugs and complaints that they hadn't stayed long enough. When someone would arrive, there would be cheers and questions about the ride there, even if it had only been a few blocks.
Around midnight, we would all proceed to our individual domiciles, tired and happy. My sister and I would head upstairs, and drift off to bed, our radios playing Christmas carols that were being broadcast. The next day we'd open our presents, and the last would be bittersweet. It meant that the surprises were over for another year. 'Tis the nature of Christmas, to a child.
A lot of my friends have grown bitter about Christmas. They view it as a hassle and a burden that is just going to wind up costing them a lot of time and money.
Me, I'm gonna be dressed up in a cheesy sweater, with a hot cup of cocoa, watching It's a Wonderful Life, eating gingerbread cookies next to the fire. I'm gonna live on a diet of candy canes and eggnog. I'm gonna be skipping through shopping malls, staring at window displays, grinning like a damn mental patient.
Naysayers be damned... it's still cool to me.
Merry freakin' Christmas!
Originally Published: December 1, 2009
