Tag: Christmas

Living With What the Holidays Bring

A snow sculpture of a Buddha sits in meditation outside a clear church window, framed by falling snow and winter trees, while warm candlelight glows inside the sanctuary.
~ Linda Wright

My father defined himself as an agnostic, which I found frustrating, because as a child, I preferred simple yes and no answers. It had to be one way or the other. 

Dad had memorized large sections of the bible and when the door bell would ring he would invite in the Jehovah Witness, or the Seventh Day Adventist, or the Mormon missionaries. He was eager to discuss what they believed and how they interpreted the scripture, especially certain sections that perplexed him. 

My six-year-old brain longed for simple answers, while my father seemed to enjoy holding more than one idea at a time. 

“Dad!” I insisted, “Do you believe in God?” 

He looked at me for a long moment and gently replied, “I don’t know.” 

Nevertheless, we celebrated Christmas. It was a tradition. 

Father made our greeting cards. He started in the summer each year, learning a different method of print making. Then he prepared the fabric, metal, or wood he used to print the cards. Lastly, he drew the design. In November he began printing the cards. 

Mother steamed figgy pudding for gifts. While the scent of cinnamon and cloves filled the kitchen, I made snowmen out of hard sauce to place on top when the pudding was reheated and served. The snowman would melt into a sweet puddle.

My parents explained that Santa Claus was not a person, but “the spirit of giving.” It amused me that I could tell my eight-year-old friends I still believed in Santa when they felt their faith had been betrayed.

Outside the sanctuary of the church of my childhood, the minister built an enormous Buddha out of snow. He positioned it just outside the window looking into the sanctuary. The Buddha’s eyes were closed, and I wondered what he thought of us singing Christmas carols.

Now, I see Winter Solstice, Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, and “  for the rest of us” as a mix of secular and sacred holidays. This season carries both joy and weight. It is a time of celebration, but also of unrealistic expectations, stress, anxiety, and sorrow.

The first time I experienced grief was on December 24, 1964 when we learned my great-uncle Eustace had died. I still remember how sad I felt that Christmas Eve. Just the previous summer, he had shown me how to extend my fishing pole, holding the little fish dangling on the line close to the camera.

“Everyone will think you caught a big fish when they see this photo,” he winked.

During this time of year, sights, songs, or even quiet moments often bring me to tears. Each year, my arthritis and fatigue constrain me to do less and less to decorate the house with winter cheer. When I realize that I once had abilities that are now gone, I can slip into remorse. 

Even my friend’s challenges weigh on me. My neighbor died last June and while alive, he insisted that his family hold a Christmas party every year, although his widow strained to make all the preparations. This year she is hosting the party alone and I wonder how her heart is feeling as she does. 

A few weeks ago, the granddaughter of another neighbor died. She told me she is too distraught to celebrate this year. When she admits she isn’t even sure how her granddaughter died, because her son does not want to talk about it, I listen.

Grief cannot be denied. And when you live in a retirement community, it is a regular visitor. However loss enters our lives, it deserves to be acknowledged and affirmed.

Even though I once demanded my father take a stand, these days I believe life does not fit neatly into little boxes. It is not one way or another. Faith and doubt, joy and sorrow, hope and fear are fluid, shifting as we age.

So although I wish people well this time of year, I am mindful of the complicated emotions the season carries. For me, caring for one another matters more than our differences.

Sometimes it’s better to be kind than to be right. We do not need an intelligent mind that speaks, but a patient heart that listens.

 Gautama Buddha

Blue Christmas

~ Linda Wright

In my experience most holidays are not as advertised. The family gatherings are fraught with tension, exhaustion from preparation, and the ghosts of loved ones no longer alive.

It’s all about expectations.

The year we gave Roxy a forever home was one of those rare times when our expectations were exceeded. We saw her walking with her foster parents just before Thanksgiving in 2009. The adoption agency said they had already promised her to another person.

Disappointed we could not forget the happy little dog for weeks. Then we got a call to say that Roxy had escaped from her new home and run away several times. She had been placed back into foster care. The voice on the telephone said, “Do you still want her?”

“Yes,” we said without hesitation.

In early December, Roxy joined our family. When the foster parents came to introduce her to our home, they brought with them some doggie diapers. No one had told us about her lack of bladder control. I put the diapers in a drawer and never used them. “I’d rather have to scrub the carpet than put a diaper on a dog,” I proclaimed.

I swear, Roxy grinned at me. But, then she seemed to always have a happy face.

The shelter said she had been born five years earlier, but she looked much older. When we took her to the veterinarian for a check we discovered that her heart condition was much more serious than we had been told. If we had known I doubt that it would have changed our minds. It was love at first lick.

Roxy welcomed anyone who entered our home with a gentleness that extends equally to friends or strangers. I called her the watchdog because she liked to watch at a respectful distance any carpenter, electrician, or plumber. She didn’t bark unless we were preparing her dinner. Even the squirrels in our yard seemed to know she was harmless.

The two cats that share our home are attracted by the smell under her floppy ears. They try to cuddle up beside her as if trying to share her warmth. She isn’t sure they can be trusted, so without a growl or protest she simply moves to a different spot. The younger cat does not take the hint and tries again and again, despite Roxy’s subtle rejections.

She is like a bodhisattva, infinitely forgiving. As we scrub the carpet with pet stain and odor remover, barely containing our annoyance, I look into her confused brown eyes. She doesn’t understand anger.

She takes heart medications, pain medications, and a pill for incontinence. We purchased the special food for intestinal distress. None of these are a cure, but they do help.

She coughs when she drinks water and recently her cough wakes her up from a deep sleep. After several trips to the veterinarian we learned that her heart was so enlarged now that her trachea has collapsed. The vet prescribed several new medications that alternately make her restless and groggy.

“I’ve come to hate this holiday season,” the vet says. “Every year I euthanize more pets at this time of year than any other.”

Now her waggy tail droops down like a flag without a breeze. We are exhausted from trying to help her feel better. With some coaxing we can get her to eat little bits of food wrapped around her medications. Watching Roxy wheeze, cough and struggle to breathe makes the joy of the holiday season crumple like discarded gift-wrapping.

It’s all about expectations, I tell myself.

Plum Pudding

~ Linda Wright
Mom was grateful for many things; Christmas was not one of them. It was nearly impossible to give her a gift that she liked. My father had given up years before I was born. It was a lose/lose proposition. Mom did not like surprises and she did not like routine, she considered gifts that were not practical to be frivolous while presents that were ordinary she considered mundane.  Dad purchased her a dozen nylon stockings each Christmas from the most expensive department store in the city. Mom silently tucked them in her dresser drawer and wore them only for special occasions, but at least she did wear them. She would feign pleasure when neighbors or relatives sent her a gift and then grumble about the waste or inappropriateness when they were out of sight. Over the years, I gave her wallets and scarves and gloves that she stuffed in the very back of the closet and called “too good to use.”’
When at last I asked her why she didn’t like Christmas, she told me that when she was a little girl, she received a lump of coal in her stocking. “No!” I said truly shocked.
“Yes,” she replied. She never quite recovered from that disappointment. Silly as she knew that sounded, she looked embarrassed and changed the subject. I thought that lump of coal had settled in my mother’s heart as a reminder that she was not good enough.
Mom also did not like shopping for gifts. Each December just before Christmas, she would purchase the supplies for making steamed pudding. She would put the suet through the meat grinder and make a pot of strong tea. While the tea cooled, she mixed the eggs, sugar, and molasses, then added the chopped dried fruit. It was such a gooey dough that it required a strong arm to stir. I watched my mother through her weight into the wooden spoon. Even on the coldest day, there would be sweat on her forehead as her shoulder rotated. Throwing the weight of her whole body, she would thrust the reluctant batter into one mixture.
The aroma of cinnamon and allspice from the steaming pudding drifted through our house. While the puddings were cooking, Mom would mix the powdered sugar and butter for the hard sauce. It was my job to roll the stiff icing into balls, forming little snowmen with current eyes.
Mom would sit beside me at the kitchen table, writing out the instructions for re-heating the pudding in three by five cards. “They won’t take the time to warm it properly,” she mumbled, “they will ruin the pudding and people will think it is my fault.”
Its hard to give or receive a gift if you do not believe you are worthy.

Holiday Rush Job

~ Linda Wright

“Sure, just bring them over,” I heard Mom say.

It was two days before Christmas. I knew what the person on the other end had said because the same conversation happened each year before the holidays. Soon the doorbell rang and one of the city jewelers handed my mother a package bulging with several manila folders of pearls.

“I’ll be back to pick them up tomorrow,” he said and then he hurried off to his car.
During other weeks of the year, Mom took the bus downtown, filling her purse with the cultured pearls she picked up. She did this at least once each week. Each envelope also contained the selected clasp of silver or gold, and the specifications for the necklace. Each packet had a date indicating when the customer could pick up the completed necklace. Most were promised in a week and rush jobs cost the customer extra. Mom kept a tally sheet describing each job and the price she charged the jewelry store for her work. At the end of each month she would write out an invoice and drop it off for payment.

Before the holidays, and especially two days before Christmas, “rush jobs” were predictable. Mom would return from her trip to downtown and within a few hours the telephone would ring asking if she had the time to do just a few more.

Before I was born, my mother had worked in department stores. She still made fun of the desperate husbands who would come into the store on the afternoon of December 24th with no idea of what to purchase for their wife or lover.

Working from home, my Mom didn’t see the faces of the customers anymore. She would unload the satchel delivered to our door and begin work immediately at the jewelry table. The table faced one of the windows in my parents’ room. My father had constructed it of plywood to meet my mother’s specifications. There was a rim along each of the four sides to protect beads from rolling off and onto the floor. One at a time she would empty a packet, placing the beads in a row on the grooved hardwood sorting-board she used to organize the beads before stringing them. My Mom’s fingers and thumb would glide the thin wire-needle deftly through the hole in each pearl. Between each cultured gem, she formed a knot in the thread and slid it into place tightly. If the necklace broke no pearls would roll free and be lost.

Most days before Christmas, my mother sat at the jewelry table for five to seven hours each day. She would often be there when I got up in the morning and I would hear her return after she had tucked me into bed at night.

The jeweler would be back early the next morning, probably before his store would open for the day. Mom would hand him the pearls strung to the specified lengths and adorned with bejeweled clasps. He would graciously wish her a Merry Christmas and hand her a bottle of liqueur decorated with a bow.

It was Christmas Eve and too late for any more jobs except to bake cookies for Santa.