Merry happy, Blogbots. An inch and a half of snow has shut down the city and trapped me (well, my car) on this hill. What else is there to do but whine, I mean, blog? Are you weary of Christmas music yet? I am currently suffering from a Mariah Carey earworm. The only known cure is to replace it with another earworm, preferably something I can sing, or at least hum. I'm cranking up some old Emerson, Lake, and Palmer. (Oh, what a lucky man he was!) Fortunately, my neighbors seem to be absent.
With my feet ensconced in my dry rice microwaveable foot warmer and wearing four layers of fleece, a hat, and fingerless gloves, I'm ready for the day. I'm a little concerned, though: I'm down to my last pair of fleece pants, the ones that stink. I suffer the relentless thrift store stench that never seems to shake out of the acrylic fibers because the plaid is so darn cute. Nobody sees me, why I care I can't say. I washed them in white vinegar and that helped for a while. I don't understand the dynamic of thrift store odor; I suspect it has something to do with chemistry.
Last night I braved the snow, freezing rain, and wind to shuffle two blocks to the house of some my father's relatives. My family has spent every Christmas eve with them since I was a child. I won't say all the memories are great, families being what they are. I'm closer to my mother's side of the family than I am to my father's. Plus I went away to L.A. for twenty years, which took me off their radar. I doubt I was missed by any of these relatives, although to their credit, last night they welcomed me into their home with open arms.
In her latest incarnation as a decrepit, demented, fleece-wrapped elf, my mother opted to stay in. Home. Whatever we call it for a person who lives temporarily in a retirement place before moving on to that great all-you-can-eat Christmas buffet in the sky. Not that I could have fetched her, given the snowy roads. If the buses are not braving this hill, I'm sure not. I could get my car down, no doubt, considering the undeniable force of gravity, but getting back up would be problematic. I wasn't willing to risk it. My relatives' house was only two blocks away, though, and I was pretty sure I could trudge that far on my own power, if the streets weren't too slippery with ice.
I found no ice, just lovely virgin snow crunching underfoot. The wind was cold. Freezing rain pellets stung my cheeks. I started to hustle. Huffing along the snowy sidewalk, I marveled at the brightness of the streetlights. Who needs a moon when you have streetlights on a blanket of new snow?
This portion of my father's family centers on two sisters. I've blogged about them before, I believe. They share a split-level duplex. They both have husbands, children, and grandchildren. They both have health issues. When Amy (not her real name) and her husband lived in a big house around the corner from me, we came together every year in one big family celebration. Then Amy and her husband sold that house and moved to the duplex, next door to her sister, Nan. Christmas celebrations got split down the middle. For the past few years, my mother and I have navigated both celebrations via the shared garage.
This year was rough for both families. Amy survived some serious health issues. I wasn't surprised that she and her husband broke with tradition this year and opted to visit a son who lived elsewhere. Last year Nan's oldest son died in a tragic accident involving police and guns. After such a crappy year, I didn't know what to expect when I entered Nan's house and went up the steps to the living room. I was ready for anything from a melancholy dirge to a drunken brawl.
Besides Nan and her husband Drake, Nan's 40-something daughter Joyce was there with her husband Ed the Vegetarian and their two pubescent girls whose forgettable names both start with K. Three people I did not know were sitting on the couch. I assume they were family friends, not family, else someone would have explained our connection. Nan introduced me to Bob, his wife Marlene, and someone named Charlie, who may or may not have been a son, a round-faced middle-aged man wearing a red sweater and cowboy boots. Bob was a tall, thin cancer survivor who went outside to smoke three times in one hour. His wife was built like an apple on stick legs and sported an impressive set of dentures and a deep loud voice. She and I secretly competed for ruffled potato chips.
Nan sat solidly in an easy chair by the front window sipping frequently from a glass of red wine. Drake was hiding out in the kitchen, cooking hot dogs and baked beans with a glass of whiskey in his hand. After awkward greetings, I grazed the buffet table, trying to get my share of ruffled potato chips while avoiding two small dogs who lolled on the floor. One was Gunter, an old fat black-and-brown dachshund who pestered anyone with a paper plate in hand; the other was a white short-haired poodle-like thing named Paige, who skulked morosely under the table, waiting for crumbs to fall.
Everyone looked and sounded cheerful enough, considering the year's calamities, with the possible exception of Drake, who I suspected was somewhat sloshed. Nan and Drake collected antiques earlier in their lives. Besides a six-foot Christmas tree, the place was cluttered with old-fashioned holiday decorations. A huge nativity scene occupied a coffee table. I sat carefully on the couch between Bob and Charlie, hoping my butt wouldn't accidentally sweep some priceless wise man onto the floor, wondering at what point it would be acceptable to leave.
Then someone mentioned the NFL football players.
“If I were those owners, I would fire those a-holes,” shouted Bob, obviously forgetting (or not caring) that there were two children in the room.
“It's disgusting how they are disrespecting the flag,” agreed my cousin Joyce.
Nan, Charlie, and Marlene concurred loudly. Drake sat silently in his chair, frowning and fiddling with a smart phone. I also sat silently, observing how a rising tide in my body was compelling me to object. What would I say? How would I say it? I quickly filled my mouth with potato chips and prayed to the higher power of dysfunctional family gatherings to deliver me. Visions of Christmases (and other holidays) past welled up in my shredded memory: Dad yelling at NFL players on TV (for completely innocent reasons). Mom arguing with Grandma over how to cook a turkey. My siblings and I hiding out in books and bickering.
I realized that my relatives were most likely Republican, Trump-supporting, conservative Christians. Here I was, the blue misfit, surrounded by a sea of red, wondering how this was possible. Then I remembered, hey, my father was adopted! I'm not related to these people at all. For a second that made me feel better. However, I suspect my genes are very similar to theirs, no matter who was adopted. We are all so very white. The main difference between them and me, I suspect, is that I am not proud of it.
Nobody asked me my opinion, and I did not offer it. Shortly after, someone suggested it was time to open presents. Even though the dessert had not yet appeared, I knew that was my cue. I slipped into the bedroom to get my sweater, looking forward to getting back to the Love Shack.
Even then, I couldn't escape. Charlie offered to walk me out. I thought he would leave me at the bottom of the stairs, but he shuffled along next to me, all the way back to my apartment, in his red sweater and cowboy boots. Partway along the walk, even though he must have been freezing, he stopped and exclaimed how beautiful the snow looked in the light. I had a moment of wonder at that, but the pelting rain had picked up, the snow was crunchy with a layer of ice, and I wanted to be alone. I waved vaguely to indicate we had arrived my place and he could abandon me with honor. Charlie grabbed me in a hug, smelling of aftershave and alcohol. I extricated myself gently, trying to maintain my holiday cheer, and hurried toward my back porch, retracing the footprints I'd left earlier in the evening. I assume he found his way back to the party.
