Why I stopped celebrating Christmas.

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Christmas, family, friends, gift-giving, gifts, holidays, music

Sometime in the month of December 1998, I was standing in a very long, slowly-moving line at Borders in South Portland, ME.   I was clutching a couple of books in my hands — one for my mom and another for my boyfriend Scott — that I intended to give as Christmas gifts.

I’ll never forget how severely depressed I was in that moment.  My father had just died of cancer in November.  My mother was, of course, a wreck, and my job of consoling her was impossible.  And in those days, I was living on my own (mostly) in a rathole of an apartment in Lewiston, working in retail (which meant, in December, working nearly every waking moment of every day), and struggling to pay my bills.

I could barely afford the books I was holding in my hand.  I could barely stand there and endure the holiday music that blared incessantly from the wall-mounted speakers.  I did, however, manage to gaze around me at the dozens of tables of last-minute impulse buys and brightly colored bargain books around which we in line were all snaking our way toward the registers, and I did also manage to notice the looks on the faces of nearly everyone else in that line — unsmiling, unfriendly, exhausted.  “Let’s just get this over with,” we all seemed to be thinking.

And then, I had an idea.  I will get this over with.  I stepped out of my place in line, placed the two books back where I found them, and walked out of the store with an incredible sense of relief.

It was at that moment that I pretty much dropped out of Christmas.

The one thing I wanted — and that my mother wanted — more than anything was to have my father back.   How was a stupid book about cats going to assuage that?

She and I didn’t exchange gifts that year.  It seemed pointless.  It was pointless.

There have been a few exceptions over the last fifteen years — including a gift or two for my mother before her death in 2007 — but very few.

As the old cliche goes, the best things in life aren’t things.  Yes, things are nice.  Some things are even necessary.  But I find the idea of compulsory gift-giving to be a grotesque one.  The giving of gifts should be a joy in and of itself, not a stress-filled obligation.

Many do agree with this sentiment.  Others point to the religious origins of the holiday as a respite.  I am not a religious person, so I find no consolation in these various myths.

But there is music.

For the last four Christmas seasons, I’ve been a part of a tradition of sharing the music of Vince Guaraldi’s Charlie Brown Christmas in a live concert setting.   The message of the original TV special was that of that same exasperation that I felt standing in that long line at Borders all those years ago — commercialism run amok.  I’ve heard many folks say to me that it has made their whole holiday season, that it has brought the true spirit of Christmas back into their lives.  Music has the power — and, indeed, the tendency — to do just that.

So, I won’t be giving any store-bought gifts tomorrow.  Hopefully, I won’t be receiving any either.  The only gift I want — tomorrow and every day — is the loving presence of dear friends and loved ones.  That should be enough for anyone!  It’s certainly more than enough for me.

Saturday Morning Musings – Once more around the sun.

Tags

Christmas, hindsight, holidays, looking back, New Year's, New Year's resolutions

Every year without fail, I have resolved quietly to not make any New Year’s resolutions.  By doing so, of course, I’ve already broken that promise before even getting out of the gate.  I’ve long thought that the marking of the passage of time in this way is a bit banal, at least for me.

I don’t even really observe my birthday anymore.  To put it plainly, my birthday was, for my parents, a pain in the ass, falling as it does just three weeks after Christmas.  For this reason, I would always get everything at one occasion or the other, or just a little bit at each – which brings to mind the musing of an old co-worker of mine, whose own birthday of June 25 was, he declared, the best one to have because it meant “I get a bunch of gifts exactly every six months!”

I even dropped out of traditional Christmas gift giving years ago, not because I don’t enjoying giving gifts – I really do – but I don’t like the idea of a religiously-annexed Pagan celebration being used by a consumerist culture to guilt me into buying things for people.  I think gift-giving should be spontaneous, for the sake of the giving itself, for the joy and the surprise that appears on the recipient’s face when they accept the token of friendship and love.

One ritual I always enjoyed was traipsing around the big drafty house in which I grew up and plugging in the decorative, electric white candles that my mother placed in nearly all of its thirty-two windows every December.  As I did so I would also think, “What a waste of electricity!”

Looking back now, I know why my mother clung to those white candles.  Not to say that she was phony – she wasn’t – but she was deeply concerned about appearances.  While the interior of the house – and her happiness – slowly crumbled, both strangers and neighbors passing by around Christmastime every year could see our beautiful old gray house as she wanted it to be seen – as a beacon on a dark and dangerous corner.  That meant a lot to my mom, and so every year those candles would go up.

If only I could get my hands on my family photos again – there is an image in particular that is tugging at my memory right now.  In that first year that my mother decided to put up those candles, she decided also to take a photo of the house from across the street.  In those days, the hobby photographer without the benefit of his or her own dark room had to bring a completed roll of film to Rite Aid, fill out the correct envelope (35 mm or disc film?  Black and white or color?  Singles or doubles?), drop the package in the bin and wait for days – sometimes over a week – before putting his or her hands on the prints.

What resulted from my mother’s hope for a lovely Christmas card was an image of a house set on fire from within, yellowish flame bursting from each window.

Luckily, my mother laughed off her disappointment at this particular turn and at her clumsiness with the camera.  The photo did end up in the family album as a joke, where it remained for years and was forever a source of amusement and laughter.

Every year, my mother promised that she would quit smoking.  “I promise ye, hen, fir yir birthd’y.”

And every year she broke her promise.

This year, in an odd fit of nostalgia, I bought a string of white lights to hang in our apartment.  No tree, no ornaments, just some soft white lights that have remained plugged in since the day I brought them home from the hardware store.  They bathe the kitchen in a soft light that reminds me very much of that same light that shone in my bedroom windows in Hebron as I drifted off to sleep.

I’ve even thought about honest-to-goodness New Year’s… maybe not resolutions, but I’ve toyed with a few fancies.  I’d like to learn a new instrument – the fiddle maybe?  I have small hands for something like that.  I’d like to read more, like I used to.  I’d also really like to volunteer for an abused women’s project – I’ve already put in an inquiry with a local agency.  “What can I do?” I sincerely asked, being a survivor of domestic abuse myself.

Well, we’ve nearly made it once more around the sun.  What things does the number 2014 have in store?  How will we mark the days?  A new year coming really does feel like a clean slate, doesn’t it?  Let’s resolve to fill it with honesty and beauty.