My children have never celebrated Christmas in Canada with grandparents, aunts, uncle, and cousins. We were either down at my parent’s home in Grenada keeping the fires warm for my parents’ return from Montreal, or at home in Luebeck. All of our Christmases have been simple ones. No fuss, just a few chosen gifts, good food, and time in between to go beachcombing in Grenada, or playing the newest computer game in Luebeck, or sit on the couch reading anywhere. Nothing particularly spectacular, but very much Ours; to do with as we wish.
The Christmases from my childhood can only be described as a horse-drawn wagon gone out of control. One of those old Western movies, where the pioneering family wagon barrels wildly down a hilly path after the horses have shied away from a rattlesnake or some other wild beast.
To do the above-mentioned analogy justice, you must imagine that our Christmases (wagon) were weighed down with a huge load of traditions, expectations, predictable choreography of behaviour, well-meaning intentions, shopping lists, last minute errands, unpredictable weather fronts, unavoidable bouts of flu, pre-arranged topics of conversation to be avoided, sibling jealousies, and a massive amount of work and preparation on my mother’s side.
Once the relatives arrived, we children were aware that some unforseen Incident loomed underneath the surface of the joyous glittery Christmas Day celebrations. And we knew that, eventually, when it burst forth, it would transport us all in another direction than was intended or wanted.
And burst it did. Tears. Quick retreats behind closed bedroom doors. Dismal disappointments. Hysterics. Loudly whispered critique.
You might say that it was all Nothing. And you are absolutely right. I wouldn’t change those Christmases one bit. They were as they were, and thus, they were perfect in their special way.
The ghosts of my Christmas Past are bright and colourful, with a lot of laughter and tears. They are not at all like the memories some friends have to tell: the one friend whose father bought everything on an overdrawn credit card and they had to give the presents back, or another friend who really did get coal in her stocking because she was having trouble with wetting her bed whenever her parents had drunken fights at night, or even the complete chaotic loud festivities of my dear Limpet’s large Italian family. How easy it is to forget that many people do not celebrate Christmas, but endure it. For all of you who have experienced such disasters, may you find a grandness of spirit to forgive.
Yes, looking back, the best of my Christmases were those spent quietly. Those, whose end was not accompanied with tears and exhaustion, or built up resentment, or forced elation. They were ones, like today*, spent in the company of family and friends in pursuit of simple pleasures. How thankful I am this evening: for the tender mercies of this day.
I send you all my very best and warmest wishes that you may have merry festivities. For those of you, who are not able to be with your loved ones, I send you my loving thoughts. For those of you who are ill and suffering, may the gods be with you.
*In Germany, Christmas Eve is the big day of celebration and gift giving and feasting.
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