So, a few weeks ago, my mother and I had a fight. We've had many, in our long history together. Whose fault, what about? Not important. It's not easy to live with either a middle-aged woman or "mature" one (as my mother insists on being called now, not liking "the O word" or "the E word"). It's really not easy for them to live together, especially if they're mother and daughter. More interesting was my mother's reaction: she decided not to celebrate Christmas this year.
Yes, you read that right -- no Christmas for Mother this year, to the extent that she decided to pull down all the Christmas decorations she had just spent the previous two days putting up. (Wow, Claudia, for real? Oh, yeah!!!)
So, in the days since Mother's Great Christmas Kibosh, I have been, as I always do anyway this time of year, revisiting Christmases Past, and ruminating upon my attitude toward Christmas.
You see, for the most part, I am, and have been, since age 15, somewhat of a Scrooge. But it didn't start out that way.
Like all kids, I loved Christmas. Of course, I loved the presents under the tree. Even in the middle of the adolescent growth spurt, when toys had been replaced by clothes, I was grateful and happy to replace the too-short and tight tops and "flood-pants" that had been the right size when purchased in August. I remember a certain cardigan sweater from my 14th Christmas with fondness, and wish I still had it. But for me, most of the happy Christmas memories from days gone by consist of traditions and occurrences that I could count on happening, year after year:
The scrumptious cookies my mum baked, especially the chocolate chips, with and without walnuts, and the enormous quantity she had to turn out to keep up with the gluttony of my stepfather and still have enough to share with others.
The brass "Joyeux Noel" horn that hung on the door. The living-room archway adorned with festive holiday cards, the likes of which I never see anymore, either quality or quantity. My stepfather going out to get the tree on the designated Saturday, with my mother admonishing, "Don't get too big a tree like you always do!" The way that, despite her best efforts, his trees were always humongous, requiring pruning if not surgery, as well as much shifting of furniture, arguing and cursing before the tree was set up in its stand and my stepfather making his escape to wisely spend the afternoon at the bar. My mother muttering darkly about husbands leaving the hard work for wives to do while she spent the afternoon decorating the tree.
All the Christmas carols we sang in music class and Scouts.
Getting to stay up late during vacation. What can I say? I'm a night owl, honey!
That lovely last day of school before vacation, just sitting around talking and playing, no classes, everyone happy, buoyant, eyes sparkling in anticipation of the big day. Walking home, slipping and sliding on the snow and ice, someone always firing a snowball, much hooting and hollering and many more snowballs before cries of "See ya after Christmas!" and "Call me and tell me what you got!" were heard.
Pap, excited as a kid, showing for our admiration his beautifully decorated tree.
Grandma's Christmas Eve "Feast of the Seven Fishes", well, in her case, two fishes: fried shrimp and oysters, with french fries, all done to a perfect golden-brown in her patented Presto Fry Daddy, and her noodle and walnut casserole. Then the next day, her turkey and stuffing with raisins or ham, yams, and pineapple.
And some Christmases were just awesome for reasons all their own:
In 6th grade I was one of the kids chosen to put up the Christmas bulletin board in our school's hallway, which made me feel important. Those of us chosen got out of alot of classes in order to put up the board. That same year I was included in the group chosen by our music teacher, to sing Christmas carols in the hallway. We would stop by each homeroom on the last day before Christmas vacation and sing, the homeroom teacher would open the door, and the kids would all get up, listen, and smile. Did any of you do that? Again, made me feel special and important.
The year that Grandma let me borrow (and wind up keeping, as I was the only one that read them) a Reader's Digest Condensed book which contained among others, The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, The Good Earth, and The Adventures of Robin Hood and His Merry Men. If it wasn't enough to have Christmas to look forward to, I had the excitement of something new to read on Christmas Eve. For me, books have always been among my best friends, and reading my greatest pleasure, so that was really huge. Also that same day, we were invited to a Christmas party being thrown by a friend of my stepfather, whose kids I went to school with. What a day! Especially after Grandma's Feast of the Fishes.
The year our Girl Scout leaders took us caroling all through the neighborhood. Getting to go out in the dark, with snow gently falling on us, and singing all the merry songs, the smiles on all the faces of all the folks who opened their doors to listen to us. Truly a special memory! And after we were done caroling, coming back to the fire hall where our troop held its meetings and finding steaming hot chocolate in a personalized mug for each of us, as well as a bag of candy and cookies. How warm and welcoming! Thank you, Mrs. Brosky and Mrs. Davis!
A bit of a corner was turned my 13th Christmas. My mother and stepfather, having heard horror stories of the drug use in our school district, and evidently not trusting my resistance to peer pressure, decided to move to a "safer" district in the town next door. The move occurred less than two weeks before Christmas, 1978. I was very unhappy, totally not in favor of the move, and filled with all the apprehension anyone faces in that situation. The poor teachers from my new school trying to deal with me right at the end of the semester! Amid all the stress, the first thing I did was get sick. A very bad ear/throat infection, temperature over 102 F. My mother gave me a dose of penicillin (the perks of being the daughter of a nurse), instructions for the rest of the day: rest, (yeah, like dizzy Claudia intended to move!) fluids, take antibiotic at such-and-so times, etc., and went to work. Well, then my stepfather came home, quickly ascertained how sick I was, and, very dismayed at seeing me not wanting to read, watch TV, or listen to music, called my mother to confer. She told him her treatment plan, but, not satisfied with that, he called the doctor, bulldozed him into squeezing me in for an office visit, and, lo and behold, I went and got a shot of penicillin. And let me tell you, there was hell for him to pay, in the form of cold shoulders and snippy asides from my mother for days after that, because Nurse Sylvia did not appreciate any whiff of having her nursing or her mothering called into question, but for me, the proof is in the pudding: With the shot, Claudia began feeling like a human being the day before Christmas; without the shot, definitely would've been a least a few days later. To this day, I defend my stepfather's call on that one. (Now taking me out after said doctor visit to Montgomery Wards to get a new coat, because "You got sick because you didn't have a warm enough coat," [!!!], through icy parking lots with me dizzy, that could've waited. But I digress). We had two more normal Christmases as a family, then came The Christmas From Hell.
As detailed in a previous post (The Sad End of One Era..."), in 1980, the summer I turned 15, I got fed up with my stepfather's abuse, verbal, physical, and sexual. One July day, after the umpteen zillionth time in our long history of his browbeating, culminating with him standing over me, literally poised to strike, a circuit finally blew in my brain and I faced him down, stating my intention to kill him if he ever put his hands on my mother or me again. After all those years of bowing, scraping, appeasing, cowering, and walking on eggshells, I was done. I knew it, and he knew it. His response to his slipped control over me was to drink even more, and about five weeks after our confrontation, to have an encounter with a woman that worked at the steel mill he and my mom worked at. The whole workplace knew about this assignation, (not his first) and since most of them hated my stepfather, ran to tell my mother. Surprisingly, she did not divorce him right away, but as his behavior continued to spin out, so did her stress level. It took about 16 months and a pretty attention-getting illness related to that stress, but she finally threw my stepfather out right before Thanksgiving, 1981.
Of course his parents, trying to get them back together, implored my mother to still come to their annual Thanksgiving feast. Left to her own devices, my mother probably wouldn't have gone, but I was close to Pap, and, while I was happy enough to lose a stepfascist, to lose the only person who, to this day, has ever spoiled me even a little bit, not so much. So we spent a very awkward Thanksgiving pretending everything was still the same. Oh, God, how horrible! Lesson learned: it's always best to make a clean break.
When Christmastime came, even I didn't want to go through that again, so my mother declared our independence from their holiday early on and determined to develop our own traditions. My stepfather decided to spend his Christmas in Atlantic City.
So Christmas Day, meal and gift-giving complete, my mother sat watching an old movie, and I repaired to the tub to let Calgon take me away. Assisting Calgon was a jar of Mauna Loa macadamia nuts and a multi-band radio on which I had managed to find a radio station playing a reggae/calypso program. Comfortably ensconced in a tropical Rastafarian fantasy, I didn't hear the phone ring, just my mother's subsequent reaction to what became a series of harassing and threatening phone calls from Atlantic City. These continued over the course of the next couple days, during which time my mother became convinced that my stepfather would come back and shoot us.
Calls to her divorce lawyer provided little sympathy -- or help. "Get a Protection From Abuse order," he suggested. "Will that stop a bullet?" was my mum's response. Which standoff continued until finally my frantic mother called my aunt and uncle and asked for asylum. We packed some clothes (and I packed up my precious Anne Murray and Gordon Lightfoot albums), and went to stay there for a few days, until the divorce lawyer convinced my mum she was making a big mistake: "What the hell are you doing?" he demanded of my mum. "You're paying me alot of money and I'm working very hard to win you that house in the divorce, and now you abandon it? You're gonna be damned lucky if you go back home, and he hasn't moved in! Do you know what a hassle it'll be to remove him? Sylvia, go back and claim the house as your own, before he does!"
Well, my mum quaked in her boots at the prospect, but with the lawyer, (and increasingly my aunt and uncle) not understanding the Battered-Wife Syndrome, nor fathoming the level of fear she was dealing with ("They think I'm a hysterical female," she wailed to me at one point), my mother decided to go home.
And when we got home, we were extremely lucky. Oh, my stepfather had been there, but for reasons of his own, decided not to attempt to occupy the house, and indeed even left a mea culpa letter. "Do we dare to believe it?" was my comment. "Probably still thinks he can get me back," was my mother's. Yes, an anti-climactic and relieved end to a drama. But still a ruined Christmas.
And my mother, God love her, during subsequent Christmases, she tried. She loves Christmas and attempted bravely to establish our own traditions but the true light and joy had gone out of it for me. We were not really that close to my aunt and uncle, and the one year we celebrated with them, the rest of the assembled family participated in a Secret Santa that we were excluded from. The experience left me realizing that though we shared common bloodlines, these people had no idea who we were and not much interest in learning. With no siblings, I just felt like alot of the family element had gone out of the festivities, and nothing my mother tried could replace it. I endeavoured (largely unsuccessfully) to communicate this to her, but not having had divorced parents, she just couldn't understand my new dim view of Christmas. After a few years I gave up the pretense of even trying to enjoy.
Then one year my mother hit on a novel idea: "Claudia, help me bake cookies this year." She reasoned that my Baklava was rather popular -- why didn't I make that to share with everyone, along with anything else the spirit might move me to bake? My vanity thus appealed to, I set about making Baklava, Pecan Sandies, Macadamia Snaps, Mexican Wedding Cookies, Linzers, and God-only-knows-what-else. Our cookies were a big hit and over the next several years we expanded our roster of people to share them with so much, the total we baked one year was a stunning 200 dozen.
Then came the year the bottom fell out: 1994, the year my mother became disabled. She had suffered a fall in the dark, icy parking lot of the VA Hospital where she worked in 1987. She received treatment over the next 6 1/2 years, but steadily experienced more and more pain until she could no longer do her Charge Nurse job there. This resulted in two unsuccessful attempts to win Worker's Compensation, and one equally futile stab at getting SSI Disability, before she finally won that in the fall of 1996. 1994 began as a year full of fear, commenced to an embarrassing but brief stint for us on Welfare while I built up a cleaning business, babysat (and I hate kids), sold Avon, and worked for a piano player. It was a very rough year, and near the end of it, my mother asked me if we could afford to do the cookies and if I had time -- and energy -- to make mine. I didn't have to think twice. We scaled back, cut our roster a bit. We also did not exchange presents that year, even with each other, deciding instead to budget for the cookies and our usual Christmas Eve and Day meals. I took a couple of extra holiday cleaning/babysitting jobs to help things along, and regretted it a bit when I got my sixth cold of the year right before Christmas. Rarely have I been so happy as when I finished my last cleaning job of '94, we delivered our last load of cookies, and I could come home, get into my jammies, eat and take medicine for my pounding head and raw throat.
The next Christmas for whatever reason, financial winds did not so much blow our way, and neither mother nor I wanted to spend another Christmas not exchanging gifts, so we made the difficult decision not to do cookies that year. In a way, I was glad -- two years doing four jobs had taken their toll -- but I knew the decision would not be popular, at least to some.
Sure enough, my mother went to get a trim the week before Christmas, and her hairdresser asked when we were bringing the cookies. My mother said we weren't doing cookies this year, due to finances. "Well, can't Claudia do them?" the hairdresser wondered. "Claudia's working seven days a week just to support us," my mother replied, "and I wouldn't ask her to do more than that." That quashed the matter temporarily, but, amazingly, it was brought up again mother's very next visit and boy, was she pissed! "Claudia is working seven days a week at four jobs and doing the best she can, but it's hard to make ends meet. Would you ask anyone to work that much, take care of a house, and then come home and bake cookies? And you know," this with fire in her eyes and acid in her voice, "the previous Christmas Claudia and I didn't even have gifts for each other, but you all still got your cookies!" This seemed to end the matter with these ones, but sadly, another business that we had been involved with for years that had always had appointments for us when we brought cookies, as petty as it sounds, suddenly were booked up and very cold in their manner for awhile when we didn't.
None of this brightened my attitude toward Christmas, and in the late 90's through the mid-00's my mum had three back surgeries, after which I took care of her for several weeks each. Two of the three surgeries were right before Christmas.
In recent years I have run hot and cold. Two years ago I really had no desire for Christmas, resented the carols piped over the airways at work, and other than baking baklava and buying presents for my mum, skipped the whole thing. But last year, I came home inspired by the Christmas music, and often put on more of it while I walked on the treadmill, singing all the way. And for the first time, I put a jacket on and toured the neighborhood, checking out the Christmas decorations, admiring the creativity (and the sheer bonanza being collected by Duquesne Light) and mentally awarding a prize for the best display. The downside was that although my mother and I had officially ceased baking cookies sometime early this millennium, I continued baking baklava and taking it into work for Christmas, but last year the plaza cut my hours and I couldn't afford to make baklava. Then, a week before Christmas, I wound up with some kind of throat infection, got well from that and promptly got the flu, and wasn't really back up to par till around the second week of January, so baking would've been impossible anyway.
So this year my mother and I squabbled and she nixed the Xmas. Anyone would bet that would wreck Christmas for me. Yet, ever the contrarian, I've watched all my usual Christmas faves -- Silent Night, Eight Is Enough Christmas, Auntie Mame, Always Remember I Love You, Brady Bunch Christmas, A Charlie Brown Christmas; took a turn two weeks ago checking out neighborhood decorations; and thanks to The Plaza giving out Christmas gift cards, I was able to afford to bake baklava, which I just finished doing. Last year, in the midst of my illness, I stopped off at Walgreens to get medicine, and they were selling little replica Charlie Brown Christmas Trees on clearance for $5. I bought one and put it up in my room. I joyfully put it up again this year right after Thanksgiving. And like last year, changed my iPod screen saver to different holiday themes. Bought presents for Mother and kitty. (Will Mother accept her presents? I'll keep you posted...)
With my mother in her seventies now, I wonder what my Christmases will be like when she's gone. Will I bake, decorate? Who will I exchange presents with? What will I cook? (A legitimate question, as my mother and I have each been, in recent years, on a single-minded crusade to lose weight. She's done such a good job, losing 166 lbs. to date, and now she's off insulin. Our fat- and carb-laden holidays have been replaced the past two years with Chinese food carefully chosen and conveniently delivered, but not traditional). As long as Mother lives and wants to stay off insulin, she must continue eating very carefully. And I'm not going to do anything radically different for the holidays or any other time till I lose another 19 lbs.
I remember going to church some time in the late 90's, and they needed bell-ringers for the Salvation Army. I volunteered, much to my mother's amazed bafflement, to a two-hour stint on a Saturday morning. (Claudia doesn't do mornings, as well as being hot/cold on Christmas). I went down to the local Giant Eagle to ring the bell on the appointed time and had a blast. Nearly everyone that passed dropped some money in the kettle. Spirits were high -- the joy was infectious. A lady came out with a can of Coca Cola for me -- "Honey, you looked thirsty..." Naturally, she wouldn't take any money from me, so heck, I donated to the kettle myself. My favorite Christmas memory from adulthood. Now I'm not condemning anybody's way of celebrating. I just think when my mother is no longer with us, I'm gonna be doing alot of thinking and weeding out of things that were her, and us, but not me. And I think I will be exploring some less commercialized ways to celebrate, more spiritual ones, 'cause that just resonates with me. Maybe making Christmas my own will help me to enjoy it completely again. 'Cause I'd really like to.
I do wholeheartedly wish all of you a Merry Christmas and lots of love and prosperity in your New Year. May you be blessed.
Claudia
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