It's Game Time

There are a lot of Christmas traditions. These are mine.

Week 1 tree goes up. Week 2 window lights on. Week 3 cards get mailed. Week 4 post the Rudolph story. 

That’s about all the spirit I can muster as part of a tiny, aging family whose biggest gift is that they survived to see one more Christmas. There is no gift shopping, no turkey in the oven, no kids working themselves into a frenzy, no dog wandering around with a bow stuck to its head.

As Bill Belichick would say; it is what it is.

So I continue working through my festive ‘to do’ list until I hit task number four, which should be the easiest. Just say a few hopeful words, cut and paste the Rudolph story, and everyone will ‘like’ it on Facebook and wish us a happy holiday.

But that’s where things become derailed and the skis fall off the sled, because the hopeful words are hard to muster up on this 15^th anniversary of Stephen’s death.  For the past week I’ve gotten up each morning and stared at my blank computer page, telling myself to just jot down a few merry words and not give the gift of depression this year.

But like a season-weary, injured NFL player, I’m a game time decision. I’ve had a little red X next to my name for the past week, and although I’m trying hard to rally I’m just not sure if I can dig deep enough to find any Merry in this Christmas.

Well, it’s Christmas Eve, and it’s game time.

I can almost hear the Fantasy Festivus players cheer as I put my headset on and line up to the computer. I make a few key plays, score high points for extra-long sentences and get hit with a few penalties for ‘non-excessive celebration’ as I type these words onto the screen.

These imperfect, heartful words that will be sent out into the Universe, just in case there is someone out there who feels like me and needs a cheerleader on the sidelines. Someone to say “I know it’s hard, but you can do this. Don’t think too far ahead, just think one day at a time, and on this one day, you can do this.”

For me, that cheerleader is my brother Stephen. And Rudolph.

Read it and rally my friends, it’s game time.

The Night We Saw Rudolph.

Twas the night before Christmas on Webb Street in Salem. Stephen is five years old and trying desperately to fall asleep amidst the holiday excitement and anticipation of Christmas morning.

I tell him that if Santa comes and he is still awake, he will fly right by and not bring him any toys. Just then, someone drove into the driveway of the liquor store that use to be our neighbor and put their brake lights on, causing the bedroom to glow in a bright, red light.

His eyes grew as big as saucers as he looked at the window, then at me, and muttered “Rudolph…!” just before falling asleep.

From that year forth, every Christmas Eve Stephen would turn to me and say, “Remember the night we saw Rudolph?” and we’d laugh at the memory. But as we grew to adults, I began to respond, “That wasn’t Rudolph, it was….” and before I could finish the statement he would give a little smirk and say, “SShhhh, it was Rudolph” and we’d just smile.

My brother has been gone 15 Christmases now, but I still tell this story to anyone who will listen.

Because looking back, Stephen was right.

It was indeed Rudolph.

Fixing Christmas

 I am not a professional handyman, but I know when something is broken.

Including my Christmas spirit.

Each year I make some attempt to imagine we are the perfect family that lives in Lifetime movies (but not the one from the Christmas Shoes please). I buy my Charlie Brown Christmas tree in the reject pile and bring it to life with a blankie and some love. I tune into the 24/7 holiday music channel on my way to work to try to alleviate my stress filled commute. I even eliminated shopping for the perfect presents that are never, ever perfect in exchange for quality time, including an annual December trip that is our gift to each other.

Coming home from this year’s trip, I was determined to rally over the next two weeks to bring back that lovin’ feeling I’d lost for Christmas.

But the morning after we landed, my fingertips turned white with frostbite as I shoveled water laden snow and ice chunks at three houses.
Back to work Monday, I pitied the poor driver who lost their muffler over the holidays as I changed lanes to get away from the booming sound, only to realize the poor driver with the muffler issue was me.

That’s Ok, it’s just a muffler, I’ve got this.

Day three at home I awoke at 4:30 a.m. to “get lots of stuff done” before I drop my car at the shop, only to find the heat was out. After an hour off and on the phone and trying to restart the burner myself so I wouldn’t incur massive after-hour fees, I succeeded for a moment, quickly finding out that I could still take a hot shower, albeit in my bathrobe down the cellar, as every pipe seemed to explode with steaming water because our pipes had frozen in the 3 degree temps overnight when the burner ceased.

Which brings me to this moment, typing fast before something else bad happens, wearing my $1, one size fits all Target mittens, which are about all I’ll be able to afford after we pay for the Christmas trip, muffler and oil burner fees to come. Ho, ho… oh no.

But this is not the least of my or your problems, and I know that.

Bills will be paid, snow will get shoveled, and mufflers and oil burners will get fixed.

But those we have loved and lost are still sorely and sadly missed every day. And while it is life’s little aggravations that we lament about to anyone who will listen, it is the underlying feeling of loss that can break us, little by little.

Yes my holiday spirit is broken, perhaps beyond repair, but there is a band aid I use every year to get me through the season. It’s the memory of the night my brother Stephen and I saw Rudolph.

It’s a reminder of the beauty of the season, youthful innocence and faith that anything is possible if you just believe. It’s a memory I’m blessed to have, and share each year.

I call it The Night We Saw Rudolph.

Twas the night before Christmas on Webb Street in Salem. Stephen is five years old and trying desperately to fall asleep amidst the holiday excitement and anticipation of Christmas morning.
I tell him that if Santa comes and he is still awake, he will fly right by and not bring him any toys. Just then, someone drove into the driveway of the liquor store that use to be our neighbor and put their brake lights on, causing the bedroom to glow in a bright, red light.

His eyes grew as big as saucers as he looked at the window, then at me, and muttered “Rudolph…!” just before falling asleep.
From that year forth, every Christmas Eve Stephen would turn to me and say,“Remember the night we saw Rudolph?” and we’d laugh at the memory. But as we grew to adults, I began to respond, “That wasn’t Rudolph, it was….” and before I could finish the statement he would give a little smirk and say, “SShhhh, it was Rudolph” and we’d just smile.

My brother has been gone 14 Christmases now, but I still tell this story to anyone who will listen. Because looking back, Stephen was right.

It was indeed Rudolph.

The Stuff of Holidays

2012 was the year of moving. Moving on and moving out, professionally and personally. One move was forced, and one move was chosen, but both were equally difficult.

Not because of the physical labor of moving, although it was more working out than I’d do in an entire year of my gym membership. And not because of the enormous amount of time it takes to move, as the process of two simultaneous moves was like taking on a 2nd full time job.

It was difficult because of all the “stuff”. There was stuff in my desk, stuff in my cellar and stuff in my closets. There was stuff in the attic and stuff in the yard. There was stuff in the supply cabinets and even stuff stuffed inside of stuff. Some of it was overused, some of it was never used and some of it had outgrown its usefulness entirely.

In the aftermath of the move, there is now a lot of missing stuff. Especially holiday stuff, like my ho-ho-ho-ing Santa Clause door knocker, ornaments that never once saw a Christmas tree and more holiday plates and platters than you could eat off of in a lifetime of dinners.

But it’s all good, because Christmas shouldn’t be about ‘stuff’ anyhow. It should be about making memories that will last a lifetime.  

Memories don’t cost anything. They don’t ask you if you want an extended warrantee in case they break. They don’t require you to find an oddly shaped box to fit them in. And you don’t have to wrap up the receipt with the memory just in case someone doesn’t like it.

Because if you make a memory just right, it will stay with you forever- transporting you back to that moment each time it comes to mind, so vividly that your senses come alive at the very thought of it.

My everlasting merry memory is the night my brother Stephen and I saw Rudolph. It’s a reminder of the beauty of the season, youthful innocence and faith that anything is possible if you just believe. It’s a memory I’m blessed to have, and share.

I call it The Night We Saw Rudolph.

Twas the night before Christmas on Webb Street in Salem. Stephen is five years old and trying desperately to fall asleep amidst the holiday excitement and anticipation of Christmas morning.

I tell him that if Santa comes and he is still awake, he will fly right by and not bring him any toys. Just then, someone drove into the driveway of the liquor store that use to be our neighbor and put their brake lights on, causing the bedroom to glow in a bright, red light.

His eyes grew as big as saucers as he looked at the window, then at me, and muttered “Rudolph…!” just before falling asleep.

From that year forth, every Christmas Eve Stephen would turn to me and say, “Remember the night we saw Rudolph?” and we’d laugh at the memory. But as we grew to adults, I began to respond, “That wasn’t Rudolph, it was….” and before I could finish the statement he would give a little smirk and say, “SShhhh, it was Rudolph” and we’d just smile.

 

My brother has been gone 13 Christmases now, but I still tell this story to anyone who will listen. Because looking back, Stephen was right. It was indeed Rudolph.

 

Becoming Scrooge

I have yet to get around to trading out my swimsuit drawer for my hat and mitten drawer, and its Christmas again. Didn’t we just celebrate that, and can’t it wait a few more months? My schedule is too full for festivities right now. Bah humbug!

I’m not sure when time started moving faster for me, but I estimate I’ve lost about a day a year since I turned 21, which adds up to 30 days, or pretty much the whole month of December. That might explain why my holiday spirit has been lacking.

Or perhaps it is because the heralding of the holidays that once started with the Bing Crosby Christmas special now proceeds with protests of whether the public tree with lights on it should be called a holiday tree or a Christmas tree. How about if we just call it “pretty” and leave it at that? And lately I noticed the jolly Santa sledding on an electric razor (a great gift for Dad!) has been replaced by Give a Lexus for Christmas ads, sending me into an anti-Santa spiral as I envy all the people who might really be getting a Lexus for Christmas, while I estimate my recent car repair bill to be paid off sometime in early 2013.

Over the years, my Christmas list has changed from ‘things I would love and can’t live without’to ‘things I need but can’t afford to buy’, to this year’s festive lament ‘please don’t buy me anything as I have no time to shop for you’. Needless to say, it has become painfully obvious that whether by choice or natural evolution, I am in danger of Scrooging myself, and turning into the cranky, joyless, workaholic I swore I’d never be.

But all is not lost, because those who know me know I can’t do anything half way, including this Scrooging myself thing. And if you recall the story, the ghost of Christmas’yet to come gave Scrooge the opportunity to change and re-capture the true meaning of the season before it was too late; which is not about carrying heavy burdens of shopping bags from the mall to the car, but about lightening the load for others we can help along the way with positive thoughts, words and actions and appreciating the same thoughtful gestures shown to us by others. And while I haven’t gone as far as screaming Merry Christmas out of my 2ndfloor window to passer bys, I have taken a deep breath and realized that I still have much to be grateful for, including memories of Christmas’ past.

Which leads me to my annual holiday story about my brother Stephen and me, retold every year as a reminder of the beauty of the season, youthful innocence and faith that anything is possible if you just believe.

I call it The Night We Saw Rudolph.

Twas the night before Christmas on Webb Street in Salem. Stephen is five years old and trying desperately to fall asleep amidst the holiday excitement and anticipation of Christmas morning.

I tell him that if Santa comes and he is still awake, he will fly right by and not bring him any toys. Just then, someone drove into the driveway of the liquor store that use to be our neighbor and put their brake lights on, causing the bedroom to glow in a bright, red light.

His eyes grew as big as saucers as he looked at the window, then at me, and muttered “Rudolph…!” just before falling asleep.

From that year forth, every Christmas Eve Stephen would turn to me and say,“Remember the night we saw Rudolph?” and we’d laugh at the memory. But as we grew to adults, I began to respond, “That wasn’t Rudolph, it was….” and before I could finish the statement he would give a little smirk and say, “SShhhh, it was Rudolph” and we’d just smile.

My brother has been gone 12 Christmases now, but I still tell this story to anyone who will listen. Because looking back, Stephen was right. It was indeed Rudolph.