Whether it’s fancy holiday dinner parties, quiet family time, or Die Hard drinking games, most of us have some sort of holiday tradition we look forward to as the year nears its end. However, when going through transitional periods In life, traditions can become difficult to maintain. For my husband and I, with our unexpected move to Las Vegas, this has been one of those periods. He works in retail management so there is no traveling for us during the holidays; and whereas we used to live near my family, we are now without family nearby. Alas, we haven’t even bothered to put up a tree this year; and like the rebels we fancy ourselves to be, we have enacted a no gift rule too. Our plan for tomorrow is simple – coffee at one of our favorite joints (they are open! Score!), maybe an early walk, a simple salmon dinner, and UK The Office (UK) Christmas special. That’s right, we will be spending our day grimacing at the awkwardness of poor David Brent. Such a blasé everyday Christmas would have been inconceivable to 8-year-old me.
As a child, I couldn’t wait for early Christmas morning present opening to be over, because once we were done, we hit the road for the two hour trek to my grandparents house; and boy did my Grandma know how to do Christmas. As we pulled up to the front of the house, where a giant and exquisitely decorated tree anchored by what seemed to be hundreds of perfectly wrapped presents was partially framed by the front bay window, my excitement would grow to a rolling boil. Just past that front door threshold was American holiday traditionalism with all its fixings: family, food, laughter, and occasional adult discomfort that went mostly unrecognized by us kids.
This was my mom’s family and she had 5 brothers and sisters – all of whom were present at least some of those years. Extended family members would often come too. For grandma, with her family all in one place, Christmas was her chance to outpace Betty Crocker in mid-century homemaker meal preparation. Her Christmas dinners were some of the best meals of my life – and not just because of all the seasonal hygge either. My grandma could cook her ass off. Some years it was perfectly prepared prime rib. Some years it was delicately prepared Cornish game hens. Always perfectly dressed salads and vegetables. And always the best mashed potatoes I’ve ever tasted. Such a simple dish – but neither my mom nor I has been able to crack the butter – salt – milk – or was it whipping cream – balance.
Once the savory was done, out came the sweet. There were cakes and pies and cookies. Sometimes these desserts were too sophisticated for my childhood palate which then (and now too) prefers chocolate and candy to cheesecake and tiramisu. Still, the effort was obvious even if under-appreciated by me.
As the women worked on cleanup, my grandpa might take my brother and I into the basement where to distract us from present focus. There, he kept a host of oddities and interesting items attached to his “office” wall – or what might now be termed his “man-cave.” There was a collection of license plates, pictures of political figures, newspaper clippings from The Chicago Tribune, and his computer. That’s right – my grandpa had a personal computer in the early 80s when hardly anyone had such things. He used it largely to type and print letters, which he composed and sent to his kids and to us grandkids regularly – a simple use to be sure. But still, he was never one who feared technological advance. Rather, he seemed to embrace with fascination the potential for the future. A WWII veteran who had been given an administrative job because he could type, he made sure all his kids could also type because “it might just save your life like it probably did mine,” he would say. And so he would fire up his computer and let us type – and listen to our stories with interest. He too welcomed the break from all that drama to which we kids were oblivious; those stories in their simple mundanity were a momentary relief.
Only after all the eating was done and a dent in the cleaning made, and only after the adults had been served their post feast coffees and cocktails could attention be turned to the presents. Un-wrapping them all would take over an hour – and it was an hour of such warmth and joy that a mild depression would set in as we neared the last present. Soon we would have to leave for the 2 hour drive back home. My parents, never mind my grandparents, probably felt relieved to be done with the day. But all I could think about was how long it might be before I would see my beloved grandparents and my uncles and aunts again.
It has been over 20 years since Christmas looked like the above for me. I now have nieces and nephews who are nearly grown and both my grandparents are now dead. This year, even my parents flew the Midwestern coup for their winter home in Georgia, where they will be hanging out much like my husband and I. And while I reflect back on those memories my grandparents created for all of us with great joy, I’m looking forward to my very little, very non-traditional Christmas tomorrow – just me and my husband and our cats – not a flake of snow in sight – no presents – and no Christmas tree to undress after.
Penny Goes Vegas 