Since we have the younguns, I’ve been thinking about Christmas traditions we can start and share with them. This should be a surprise to absolutely no one. I’m a creature who thrives on routine and loves nothing more than a sentimental endeavor to reenact year after year, and if it’s holiday-related, well, more the better. Bake every single person’s favorite Christmas cookie (even my brother, who routinely finds something to complain about)? Check. Sigh and fawn over the memories and stories associated with each and every ornament as it’s hung on the tree? Check. Attempt to force children to share in the holiday cheer of a seasonal special night after night (and failing miserably as they wander off within 2 minutes)? Check and check.
So far, we’ve managed to incorporate the expensive tradition of Santa pictures for the past 5 years. Sammy is finally cottoning to the idea of the big man, and Sabrina’s got him all figured out already. Each year, it’s a different story, and that’s the best part for me. As I watched Sabrina happily watch up to the jolly old elf, plop down in his lap, and slowly freak completely out, I thought back to the year I had to make 5 drive-by attempts to even get Sammy in the same city block as Santa, and only then did the photograph take place with the aid of a magically produced cookie. Every year, I ask myself why in the world I put myself through this. Which is as much a tradition as the rest of it.
I’ve also been remembering a special tradition we no longer have the privilege to uphold. For years, decades, my grandmother lived across the street from Joanne. Joanne was tall and lively and stylish and a sight to behold for this little kid. She, my grandma, and my mom worked together selling fancy accessories to fancy stores and it was all very glamorous. Then, multiple sclerosis started to rob Joanne of so many physical abilities. Eventually, she wouldn’t be able to move anything below her neck. But her vitality just seemed to grow. She always had a smile on her face and a singsong lilt to her voice that told you she wasn’t going to let anything get her down, not really. Sure, she must have had her bad days (who wouldn’t?), but she didn’t let us see them.
Somewhere along the line, we – my mom, sister, and I, along with other part time family elves – started decorating her house for the holidays on Black Friday (in hindsight, an excellent excuse for ignoring the mayhem of the shopping bacchanalia). Every item of Christmas joy had a particular place, and Joanne would direct our traffic from her bed. My sister and I particularly enjoyed trimming the little tree on the kitchen table because of the unusual assortment of ornaments Joanne had collected. Seriously – she had an elephant made out of old balloons filled with sand. Who wouldn’t fight to hang that on a tree? (Also, her house was decorated in 70s era Elvis – awesome!)
Sure, we groused about having to work the day after Thanksgiving (we were teenagers – it was a requirement). But we always got the job done and had a good time talking it over after we finished. Joanne passed away a few years ago, and I find myself missing my standing date these days. One of the last times we visited with Joanne was Christmas, when our entire family donned ratty old Santa hats and sang carols with her.
Sometimes, traditions come from the oddest places. And those are usually the best. I’m sure my kids will drag me headlong into something crazy that we’ll eventually look back and remember with a laugh. And I’ll tell them about Joanne and how we had to make sure the 4 building Christmas village was arranged just perfectly on her dining room table.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some gingerbread men to glaze (not frost), by specific request.
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