New Musings

Forgive me, reader, for I have sinned. It’s been more than four months since my last posting. Who knows where I’ve been–I don’t know myself half the time–but here I am just in time for the holidays.

First let me tell you I am a hard core traditionalist when it comes to the holidays. I love Thanksgiving and I love Christmas, and if you dare try to change the holidays on me, I will knock your block off. Good will toward men…as long as nothing has changed from last year, right down to the cranberry sauce (cooked with fresh cranberries and no orange bits or other weird stuff added to it, thank you very much). The only exception allowed is adding people to the table. My fondest memories are of Thanksgiving at my grandmother’s house where the 9 adults sat around a table that filled the small kitchen and 6 kids were at the kids’ table in the living room, and it was just boisterious enough to be festive without being overwhelming. 

Second, you need to know I have a religiously diverse family: one Catholic, one Eastern philosopher, a Jehovah’s Witness, two Jews, one agnostic (that’s me), two unlabeled believers in God, and one undeclared who actively dislikes the holidays. As you might imagine, this presents certain challenges. And the most people I can get to the Thanksgiving table is 7, which compared to my childhood memories is a pretty lame number. So I’m always trolling for Thanksgiving refugees. When people complain about having to deal with the family at Thanksgiving, I always invite them to my house like a holiday salesman: “Come to my house where Thanksgiving is fun!” Seven is the fairly steady number, although I manage to add a person every now and then. But I lust for 10 or, better yet, the perfect number of 12. After years of asking the Witness (they don’t celebrate any holidays except wedding anniversaries) and the undeclared to come visit the day after Thanksgiving and being turned down, last year I gave up. I said, know that you have an open invitation, but I’m not going to ask any more and start some weird guilt thing going on. You see, we started out as entirely Catholic family, and despite our various religious divergence, the guilt seems permanent.

The letting go worked like a charm, because this year turned out to be the bumber crop of Thanksgivings. On Thankgiving day, we not only had my mother-in-law who recently relocated to a nearby town, but I also snagged a friend I’d been trying to get for years. The undeclared and his wife said they’d come on Friday, and while I was busy making pies and wrestling with a 26 lb turkey, the Witness was making secret plans to surprise us all on Friday. So after a fabulous showing of 9 on Thanksgiving, we bumped our numbers to 11 on Friday. I can die happy now.

While Thanksgiving was a wild success, I’m facing a radical change in a Christmas tradition. Thankfully it’s not with my immediate family, and I would like to acknowledge right now the steadfast support of the Jews, who are great defenders of our family holiday traditions, thank goodness. No, this is about a tradition with dear friends. Every year they throw a Yankee Swap and we’ve been attending for years. It’s the kind of event that when you get your new calendar in January, you flip right to December, count to the second Saturday and write down “Yankee Swap.” Earlier this year, after many years together, the couple broke up, and in the range of emotions expended in grieving and supporting both of them during this difficult time, it took some months for me to realize my beloved Yankee Swap was not to be. Change was stalking me.

But what to do in its place? Part of the tradition was the ever- revolving people at the Swap. A few of us were hard core regulars, but the rest of the group was different year to year, sometimes a big group, sometimes small. It was clear the Swap could not be replicated at someone else’s house, but I knew we needed to do something. I mean that Saturday is blocked off in my calendar! I e-mailed two of the other core people and started to brainstorm. Maybe we could do an event, go to a restaurant, ride a hay wagon. The e-mail was light and funny and really meant to spark the creativity I knew we were capable of to come up with an event that would help us through this difficult year. I envisioned enthusiastic responses–”Yeah that’s cool, how about we have a snowball fight in the park,” or “I know a great little restaurant with a fireplace that would be perfect for a small gathering.” I was feeling virtuous and sure I would be hailed as the savior of the Sacred Yankee Swap. I could not have been more wrong. One e-mailed back, “Not really interested in those ideas. Thanks anyway.” and the other didn’t respond at all. That’s when it hit me: I was the one, true defender of the tradition. Good will toward men be darned! I claimed emergency executive powers and e-mailed back. “OK, guys, here’s the deal. I need a new tradition and I need to be with the two of you. So you’re coming over my house, and I don’t care what we do, but we’re going to be together and make some freakin’ holiday memories!”  They got on board after that. The “Not the Yankee Swap Holiday Event” will be held December 22, and a good time will be had by all, or else.

So this year I’ve taken Kenny Roger’s words to heart, you got to know when to hold them, know when to fold them, know when to stop inviting ‘em, and know when chase them down and make them drink eggnog and hot cider or else! Happy Holidays!