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Little cabin in the woods
By ELB | December 26, 2003
Unlike others, the Christmas spirit has never really moved me. Perhaps it’s that whole “heathen-never-going-to-church” thing. I heard a rumor that that was the reason for the season, but I�ve yet to see proof. Ever since I got married I’ve seen bits of season reason creeping in around the edges. Real trees? Check. Traditional Christmas morning snacky-meal? Check? Genuine goodwill? Check. A mother-in-law who can manage to locate my stocking unlike my real mother who just buys new ones every three years? Check. It’s pretty crazy and, I’ll let you know, a little uncomfortable at times.
The Christmas of my youth is a far cry from the storybook. With six grandkids trapped in a rural lake house, Christmas was a little heavier on the screaming, running around, gift-grubbing side. A veritable sugar frenzy fueled by my very own Gramma and her never ending supply of Dr. Pepper, Smarties, and Brach’s Pick-A-Mix. Put that on top of all the pecan divinity, Martha Washingtons, and peanut brittle we’d spent the day making, it’s a deadly cocktail. Her promises to give a quarter to the grandchild who was first asleep rarely worked. We paid no attention, despite the fact that we all got our beds ready at 6:00. ‘Cause, you know, the sooner you go to sleep, the sooner Santa Claus comes. When we finally settled down around two in the morning no one ever slept, it was due in small part to the WWII era army cots we were allotted, but mostly it was constant Santa vigilance. And the keening sounds of my ADD cousins begging for more Dr. Pepper. We counted the chimes on the cuckoo clock until it was time to get up. Eventually we lost count, but that was ok. We knew it was time to get up when one of us would run through the house with a “come-n-get- it” triangle, screaming “SANTA CLAUS CAME! SANTA CLAUS CAME!” Trying to describe what happened Christmas morning is like trying to describe the Bataan death march. You have an idea of the horror, but you will never know the truth.
Things have mellowed considerably. The grandkids are scattered, some have children of their own. This year it was a quiet affair. Ham, ambrosia salad, The Scorpion King, a Christmas ornament that wouldn’t stop playing Boomer Sooner, and a box full of slutty underwear from my mom. Holidays really do get sweeter with age.
Topics: good times., Hoo!, Unnatural History | Comments Off
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