The Great Takedown

     If you ask 100 people the question, “What do you find to be the biggest pain in the butt?”, you will undoubtedly received 100 different answers.  For my best friend, Pocahontas, it would be anything remotely connected, related to, or dealing with cooking.  For my fellow “old soul”, Georgia, it would be organizing the basement she has lovingly christened the “Dungeon of Doom”.  For me, it’s taking down Christmas decorations.  It’s not that I feel depressed or let down after the holiday season of cheerful festivities; far from it.  I see Christmas as the culmination of a year’s worth of planning and see December 26 as the first day of planning for next year.  I just find the task of un-decorating to be daunting at best.

      You see, The Yankee keeps the boxes in his garage. 

      I don’t go in the garage unless it is an absolute dire necessity.  Don’t misunderstand me.  The garage is not messy, cluttered, or dangerous in any way.  Au contraire.  It is a well-organized, neatly arranged, modern marvel of order and symmetry.  It is orderly, neat, pristine, untouched, undisturbed, clean, and sterile ... and it drives me crazy.  Every tool has its place and is neatly aligned in size order on a pegboard wall.  All implements are neatly sorted in color-coded bins ready for the next project.  (Since he is averaging one project every 27.46 months, those implements will be stewing in their color-coded loneliness for a while.)  The upper cavern of the garage is a haven of boxes.  Every box that ever housed a tool is neatly arranged in alphabetical order with the warranty and original receipt enclosed in a plastic bag and affixed to said box.  It is among this maddening maze of order that the Christmas decoration boxes are housed. 

      I would go looking for them on my own, but something growled at me one time. 

      Last year, I removed a hundred yards of garland that The Yankee had wound around every fixed fixture in our yard during the mindless haze of his yearly “Christmas fog”.  I took down the lights from the windows, the giant red bows from the curtains, and the stockings from the mantle.  I was ready to put Christmas to rest for another year so I said, “Could you go get the boxes from that horrible attic of yours?”  He looked offended.  “Horrible?  How can organization be horrible?”  I rolled my eyes, “Organization doesn’t bother me.  Super-duper-I’m-a-nut-job-with-color-coded-bins-for-the-tools-I-rarely-use organization bothers me.  I’m not going in there so if you want this Christmas crap out of the house, you must be the one to make the trek to the garage and pull the boxes in the house.”  He says, “I’ll do it when I get home from work.” 

      Well, work got busy, overtime racked up, and our Christmas ornaments began gathering dust.  We invited Tip and Georgia over for a late-January dinner party and I cringed when they walked past the Christmas tree to get to the dining room.  “Well, Bertha,” Georgia said in her Southern drawl, “do y’all still have your Christmas tree up, darling’?”  I was mortified.  “No,” I said, trying to maintain a sense of humor.  “We just put ours up early this year.”  After they left, I looked at The Yankee with eyes of flaming irritation.  “You will get those boxes out of that horrible attic, or I’m picking up the Christmas tree and laying it under the covers on your side of the bed.”  He just smiled.  “I’ll do it when I get home from work.”

      Valentine’s Day came and went.  President’s Day came and went.   St. Patrick’s Day came and went.  I served him candy canes for dinner.  I started blasting “Jingle Bells” over the stereo every time he came home from work.  I finally said, “All I want for our anniversary is a Christmas-free house.” 

      Finally, one glorious Saturday, I was spring-cleaning while Christmas cookies baked in the oven when I heard a happy noise.  The garage door opening.  Rustling through the attic.  Thuds as boxes hit the floor.  Dragging as boxes entered our living room.  Jingles and twinkles as ornaments and bells found their place in each box.  I cried tears of joy as my flip-flops slapped the deck while I helped him haul boxes to the garage.  “You know,” I sniffed back tears as I fingered a beautifully blooming rose in the yard, “I think this is probably the nicest Easter I’ve ever had.”      

© Bertha Grizzly 2011.  All Rights Reserved.  No duplication or distribution.

Have a Good Christmas

     It’s finally quiet in the house.  Buttercup is fast asleep and The Yankee went to bed early claiming some sort of middle-aged ailment.  (From the blue light I see flickering under the door, I know he’s really watching that science fiction show that makes my eyes quiver and my teeth itch.)  I’m sitting on the couch, watching the twinkling lights on the Christmas tree, listening to Bing Crosby on the stereo.  I open an e-mail and see that someone wishes me, “Have a good Christmas”.  In my current state of quiet reflection, that phrase strikes me in an unusual way. 

     What makes a “good” Christmas?

     I’ve been hearing, “Christmas is so commercial” since I was a little kid.  Christmas trees go up for sale before Thanksgiving is even here.  Wrapping paper is on the half-off clearance table by December 10th.  By December 18th, the Christmas ornaments and wreaths are being cleared out to make room for pool chemicals and beach towels.  I’ve often imagined some poor woman opening her gift from her procrastinating husband, finding a pair of flip flops and a bottle of sunblock and looking at him with a questioning frown.  “You waited until the last minute again, didn’t you.”  He’ll look sheepishly at her at say, “But it’s SPF 45!”  (But don’t be too hard on my poor dad.)

     I hear of people setting aside a $5,000 budget for their Christmas celebrations and it sends shockwaves through my heart.  I don’t spend $5,000 on my entire family, all my friends, my coworkers, and the Christmas dinner spread out over 5 years!  I’ve had friends who received cars and diamonds from their husbands and tried not to sneer when I happily showed them my new loaf pan I got from The Yankee.  My girlfriends threatened to send a posse after him when I received a box of kitchen items on our first Christmas.  I threw my hands up and yelled, “But I gave him a list and he actually listened to me!  How many of you can say the same for your husbands, huh?!  Some people paint, some people shop, I cook.  You should know that by now!”  They called off the posse, but they thought I was weirder than ever. 

     I think back to the Christmases of my childhood and the years we spent with practically nothing.  The year I was 16, I got a CD and a discounted, framed picture from the clearance bin to go in my hope chest.  Our Christmas dinner was a small, roasted chicken and a few side items from a food pantry.  We watched Christmas movies on our old VHS player and drank hot chocolate.  From what I remember, THAT was a good Christmas.  Our gifts were meager, our dinner was less than a feast, and our entertainment was lame by many accounts, but it was a warm environment.  I think the reason was that we loved each other.  And no, I don’t mean in that cheesy, Hollywood way where too skinny, too wealthy, too beautiful people solve their problems by the end of the script.  I mean people who truly care about the welfare and happiness of another individual.  Our circumstances were uncertain and our future was a question mark, but for that day, for those precious hours, we had each other.       

     I think about the Christmas when Buttercup was a toddler.  We had just moved into our first house three days before Christmas and she was not feeling well.  While we unpacked boxes and tried to make the house look more like a home than a war zone, she looked worse and worse.  Finally, her lips blue and her breathing shallow, we rushed her to the emergency room where she was admitted for pneumonia.  A phone call later that evening revealed that The Yankee’s uncle had died during Christmas dinner.  Our checking account was overdrawn, my parents had the flu, and our insurance company was asking if it was really necessary for a 4 year old to receive so much oxygen for a little bout of pneumonia.  Needless to say, there was no Christmas tree, no gifts, and not a smile to be seen, and yet, it still was not a bad Christmas.  This particular hospital has some surprisingly astute and kind nurses, a doctor whose opinion of himself was not of deity proportions, and a benevolent soul brought gifts to the children in the pediatric unit.  The Yankee managed to smuggle a tiny bottle of bourbon into the room, poured it into tiny paper cups he pilfered from the water cooler, and we drank a toast to health and love by the light of Buttercup’s oxygen monitor as she peacefully slept for the first time in days.  We had survived, we had managed to support each other, and we refused to forget it was Christmas. 

     Many Christmases have come and gone since those years that I was an impoverished teenager and a worried mother in a hospital unit.  The Yankee and I have been granted the health and love we toasted so long ago.  Each Christmas is a reminder of the love of family, the loyalty of friends, and the true meaning of a Gift so perfect even a stable couldn’t tarnish His glow. 

     Have a good Christmas?  Oh, I will. 

© Bertha Grizzly 2011.  All Rights Reserved.  No duplication or distribution.

The Perfect Tree

     When I was growing up, I always thought our Christmas tree was beautiful.  Twinkling colored lights, red velvet bows, a serene, holy angel gracing the highest peak - it was the epitome of Christmas wonder.  There was just one problem.

     Our ornaments were dumb.

     I dreaded having people admire our tree because I knew they would inevitably move in for a closer look.  Mom would proudly answer questions and show off her most special mementos.  As I cringed in the corner, Mom would exclaim, “Now this one is so sweet.  Bertha cut a lopsided little circle out of a cereal box and then wrapped some yarn scraps around it to make a wreath.  Isn’t it adorable?  She used one of her hair ribbons as the bow!  I just love it.”  I grimaced with every re-telling. 

      This went on for years.  Slowly, Moose, Wolverine, and I all moved away but the Christmas tree has remained unchanged, frozen in time.  I never understood how on earth Mom could become so attached to my efforts with cardboard and aluminum foil, which ended up looking more like the ruins of Sputnik than the Star of Bethlehem.  It, and countless other atrocities of elementary art class, seemed to be the highlight of her Christmas decoration bin.  Could she not see how horrible they looked?  How their garish colors and sloppy splotches of streaky glitter paint clashed with, well, everything?  It was just pitiful. 

      As I started my own household, I made a point to collect the most beautiful, the most heartwarming ornaments the store or my craft stock could produce.  Mine would be a tree of unparalleled perfection.  My friends, my family members, my children would marvel at this gleaming, sparkling tribute to the glory of Christmas, and no “ruins of Sputnik” would ever spoil the view. 

      Until Buttercup started preschool. 

      She has always been very small for her age, thanks to her birth status as a micro-preemie, so my heart is very protective of my precious, petite, steel magnolia.  As she bounced in from preschool at four years old, her eyes shining and her size 24-months dress emphasizing her tiny frame, she proudly handed me a wreath she had made. It was a paper plate (yes, the cheap picnic variety) that had been relieved of its middle, sponge painted a streaky green, and decorated with construction paper “holly” leaves and berries.  A bit of yarn at the top served as a hanger and a dash of glitter haphazardly sprinkled in two small spots served as a decorator’s flourish.  It was gaudy.  It was streaky.  It was just the kind of thing I had criticized my mother for loving. 

     It was the most beautiful wreath I had ever seen.

     Over the years, my tree has slowly given way to the crafty creations of a petite steel magnolia with a flair for all things artsy.  I no longer scour stores for the most beautiful, the most heartwarming ornaments, and I suddenly understand my mother’s tree and the dumb ornaments she treasures.  Where I see the ruins of Sputnik, she sees a 5 year old mini-Bertha hiding behind her bed in secret, working at a furious pace with blunt-tip scissors and library paste to finish a gift for her mother.  Where I see a crooked, butchered cereal box covered in stupid yarn scraps, she sees a treasured hair ribbon, sacrificed for a wreath no catalog could ever match.  She sees living memories of her children, now grown with homes of their own.  She still feels the love, the pride, the immense effort of unskilled, clumsy hands trying so hard to create beauty.  I think of Buttercup and how she’ll react to the paper plate wreath when she gets older.  “Oh, Mom,” she’ll sigh, rolling her eyes, “That stupid wreath is so tacky.  Let me buy you a real one.”  I gasp at the horror of my own daydream.

      If she so much as touches my paper plate wreath …

© Bertha Grizzly 2011.  All Rights Reserved.  No duplication or distribution.

Christmas, 50% Off

     I read a new article this week that left me speechless, scratching my head, sad.  Blaming the economy, more and more people are “postponing Christmas” in order to take advantage of After-Christmas/New Year’s bargains.  A silent Christmas Day.  Barren, empty trees.  Cold ovens.  A day like any other.  My heart sank as I read of people using the day to catch up on e-mails and television programs. 

      Whatever happened to a collective celebration of peace, goodwill, and the best birthday on earth?

      Maybe it’s the creative genes of my DNA.  Maybe it’s because Christmas is my favorite holiday and, like Bob Cratchit, the joy of the season is in the forefront of my mind all year long.  Maybe it’s my unshakeable belief that Christmas is and always will be a birthday celebration.  Whatever the root cause, I cannot fathom the reasoning that Christmas is about gifts.  After a quick search on the Internet, I have understood the meaning of the word “gift” to be “something one person voluntarily gives to another”.  Nowhere in my search for the definition of “gift” did I see the phrase, “The true meaning of Christmas”.  Nowhere did I find that a gift is, “That which is demanded by the recipient and accepted only if the name brand, color, features, and manufacturer are deemed worthy and acceptable by said recipient.”  I don’t remember seeing any wording that a gift can be described as, “A pacifier begrudgingly shuffled to the custody of a screaming, demanding individual to avoid disappointment and possible verbal abuse”.

      It’s appalling, really.

      This year is a difficult year for a lot of people, and I am no exception.  Job loss, unrelenting bad luck, and cars I can’t wait to shove over a cliff have rendered this year one of the toughest I’ve known in a long time.  The Yankee and I have no money to shower our friends and family members with gifts as we would love to do, but I’ll be darned if I’m going to wait until January.  I’ll be darned if I’m going to look my family members in the eye and say, “Thank you for the lovely gift.  So sorry I have nothing for you.”  No.  I refuse to be that person.  I am using my brain, my creative genes, and the bits I have around the house to make sure everyone has something special. 

      Don’t misunderstand me.  I am not saying for a moment that gift giving is a shallow exercise; far from it.  I thoroughly enjoy the entire process and would miss it if it were not a part of our celebration.  I am, however, emphasizing that Christmas is not about what packages are under the tree.  It is, first and foremost, a celebration of those we love and the reasons we love them.  It is a time for us to shower our loved ones with our affection and gratitude.  If this means lovingly handmade paper dolls for little Shannon, a newspaper kite for Billy, and a cup of hot tea under the Christmas night sky with your sweetie, then so be it.  I am merely questioning what priorities we have allowed ourselves to worship when a handmade gift or a meaningful conversation is “not good enough”.  So what if your Christmas dinner is a tuna-noodle casserole?  What if the only gift you can offer your children is a day of your undivided attention?  What if the diamonds you wanted to give your wife have now been replaced by a heartfelt love letter outlining every reason you can think of why you love her?  Throw in a soft, slow dance in front of the fire and she’ll brag about you to her friends.  What if the surround sound system you wanted to give your husband is now a handmade candy from his childhood?  Bald head and crows feet or not, he’ll have that look of a happy little kid that somehow makes the winter seem a little less frozen.

      For me, Christmas is a celebration of a birthday.  It is the joyous remembrance of the greatest Gift the world has ever received.  It is a day to put aside our differences and relish the time we have with each other.  It is the opportunity to solemnly vow to improve the world around us a little bit each day.  It is a time to cherish those we still have with us and remember those who have gone on before us.  It is a sacred, holy, honorable holiday full of love and gratitude.  It is a holiday of epic, eternal significance.  

      It is Christmas.  And I defiantly refuse to wait until it goes on sale.

© Bertha Grizzly 2011.  All Rights Reserved.  No duplication or distribution.

The 12 Fails of Christmas

     (Sing to the tune of “The Twelve Days of Christmas”) 

On the first day of Christmas, my in-laws gave to me, a sweater that’s 3 sizes too small.

On the second day of Christmas, my in-laws gave to me, a coat ’cause I’m hot-natured, and a sweater that’s 3 sizes too small.

On the third day of Christmas, my in-laws gave to me, rooster-printed dish towels, a coat ’cause I’m hot-natured, and a sweater that’s 3 sizes too small.

On the fourth day of Christmas, my in-laws gave to me, some books I’ve never heard of, rooster printed dish towels, a coat ’cause I’m hot-natured, and a sweater that’s 3 sizes too small.

On the fifth day of Christmas, my in-laws gave to me, YARD SALE UNDERWEAR, some books I’ve never heard of, rooster printed dish towels, a coat ’cause I’m hot-natured, and a sweater that’s 3 sizes too small.

On the sixth day of Christmas, my in-laws gave to me, used unscented candles, YARD SALE UNDERWEAR, some books I’ve never heard of, rooster printed dish towels, a coat ’cause I’m hot-natured, and a sweater that’s 3 sizes too small.

On the seventh day of Christmas, my in-laws gave to me, Zamfir pan flute 8-tracks, used unscented candles, YARD SALE UNDERWEAR, some books I’ve never heard of, rooster printed dish towels, a coat ’cause I’m hot-natured, and a sweater that’s 3 sizes too small.

On the eighth day of Christmas, my in-laws gave to me, psyllium fiber capsules, Zamfir pan flute 8-tracks, used unscented candles, YARD SALE UNDERWEAR, some books I’ve never heard of, rooster printed dish towels, a coat ’cause I’m hot-natured, and a sweater that’s 3 sizes too small.

On the ninth day of Christmas, my in-laws gave to me, orthopaedic sandals, psyllium fiber capsules, Zamfir pan flute 8-tracks, used unscented candles, YARD SALE UNDERWEAR, some books I’ve never heard of, rooster printed dish towels, a coat ’cause I’m hot-natured, and a sweater that’s 3 sizes too small.

On the tenth day of Christmas, my in-laws gave to me, hot pink lawn flamingos, orthopaedic sandals, psyllium fiber capsules, Zamfir pan flute 8-tracks, used unscented candles, YARD SALE UNDERWEAR, some books I’ve never heard of, rooster printed dish towels, a coat ’cause I’m hot-natured, and a sweater that’s 3 sizes too small.

On the eleventh day of Christmas, my in-laws gave to me, advice from Bernie Madoff, hot pink lawn flamingos, orthopaedic sandals, psyllium fiber capsules, Zamfir pan flute 8-tracks, used unscented candles, YARD SALE UNDERWEAR, some books I’ve never heard of, rooster printed dish towels, a coat ’cause I’m hot-natured, and a sweater that’s 3 sizes too small.

On the twelfth day of Christmas, my in-laws gave to me, a Peace Corps application, advice from Bernie Madoff, hot pink lawn flamingos, orthopaedic sandals, psyllium fiber capsules, Zamfir pan flute 8-tracks, used unscented candles, YARD SALE UNDERWEAR, some books I’ve never heard of, rooster printed dish towels, a coat ’cause I’m hot-natured, and a sweater that’s 3 sizes too small.

© Bertha Grizzly 2011.  All Rights Reserved.  No duplication or distribution.

Ho-Ho-Huh?

     It’s the beginning of December.  Thanksgiving is over, Christmas music is floating out of every store, and it’s time to put up the Christmas tree.  I like this time of year.  Dragging out the decorations and remembering where each family ornament came from give us a chance to reconnect with the past while dreaming of the future.  It’s magic.  It’s wonderful.  Except for one thing.

      The Yankee loses his mind. 

      I’m not sure why it happens, or even when it started, but Christmas decorating does something to him and this year is no exception.  After discussing the general layout of the decorations, he went to the garage to retrieve the requisite boxes, carefully packed and waiting since last year.  I shifted furniture as he hauled the boxes in one at a time, loading up the dining room table and floor.  It was a glorious sight and I was feeling the Christmas spirit already. 

      That’s when it started. 

      I unpacked a few boxes and wondered which job would be best to accomplish first, so I posed my query to the resident electrician, “Would you like me to start untangling lights or assembling the tree?”  Not looking up from his tool box, he muttered, “Sure.”  Sure? I asked a multiple choice question, not a yes or no question.  What kind of an answer is sure?  Painful experience has taught me not to press the issue when his head is buried in the tool box, so I just started assembling the tree.  And on a side note, yes, my tree is fake.  Proudly, loudly, unapologetically fake as George Hamilton’s tan.  I grew up with real trees and they are a nightmare.  No store-bought product, folksy wives-tale remedy, or “expert” cure can salvage a tree that is on its way to becoming firewood.  Humidifiers, more water, less water, no water, “Magic Tree Moisturizer”, moist toilettes, woodland fairy incantations … it doesn’t matter.  NOTHING works.  Within four days, that tree is a crispy, crunchy, rocket shaped fire hazard with ornaments.  One misplaced candle and KABOOM … Christmas gives way to the Fourth of July. 

      Anyway, I went about assembling my fake tree with strains of Bing Crosby’s golden voice filling the air.  I finally finished arranging the fake branches on the fake stump and stood back to admire my work as Buttercup declared it “beautiful”.  The Yankee came around the corner, eyebrows furrowed, and grunted slightly as I showed him the finished tree.  I decided even he could not dampen my holiday cheer, so I offered to help with the jobs he usually take upon himself.  “Would you like me to untangle lights now? Or should I work on decorating the windows?”  Without making any eye contact, he grunted, “Yeah.”  Grrr.  I hate it when he does that.  Well, it was starting to get darker outside so I decided to decorate the windows.  He drags the ladder out of the garage to hang lights on the house.  I tried to tell him that it was getting dark outside, but he kept walking.  Two hours, five boxes of icicle lights, and a tripped breaker later, he had the roof outlined in lights. 

      He walked back into the house, his mental fog barely lifted.  I saw his hand and gently touched his shoulder, “Umm,” I began, “Where did the blood come from?”  He shook his head a little as if clearing the remainder of the fog away, “Gee, I don’t know!  Hmm, son-of-a-gun, wonder how that happened?”  I gently smiled.  “You’ve been in your Christmas fog, so ripping flesh probably didn’t phase you.”  He looked up at me with a puzzled expression.  “Huh?  It’s not foggy, Bert.  Geez.  Wake up a little.” 

      Taking a deep breath, I look at my lovingly hung wreaths, my fully decorated tree, and the little drop of blood on the floor from The Yankee’s hand wound.  It’s Christmas.  I’ve decided to let him live to see another one. 

 

© Bertha Grizzly 2011.  All Rights Reserved.  No duplication or distribution.