Wednesday, December 23, 2015

Christmas

Christmas and I have a complicated relationship. Certainly, I have great memories of Christmas when I was a child: my drum set which started me on my musical trajectory, all of those years of great childhood toys. There are those hideous silver Christmas trees that I remember, the revolving light that shone different colors on the tree, all of the family meals, casseroles and the family.  I remember Christmases with Mom, Dad, Aunt Jean, my grandparents, my great aunt and uncles...

Of course, they're all gone now. Part of the complicated relationship with Christmas is that it reminds me of all of those people who are no longer here to celebrate it with me. Even my mentor Frank, who wrapped all of his gifts to me over the years in aluminum foil (an endearing quirk that I recall fondly every time I seal a leftover dish), is seared in my Christmas memory.

In the early 90's, my ex and I bought some pieces of Dickens Village houses to decorate with. We ended up giving some even nicer pieces to my Aunt. A few years back, she gave me the last of her pieces, and she passed away three years ago. All that I had bought with my ex, either for us or for my aunt, now was back with me. For a year or two, I put the pieces up with hesitance. Too many memories. And that's part of the rub, too. Christmas is about great memories, but as you get older, the tough memories are intertwined with them.

The biggest part of the complicated relationship, though, is the work. I have worked at a church on Christmas Eve since 1985, by my recollection. Since church musicians start rehearsing Christmas music in October (I'll be charitable), that is 30 years times three months, or 90 months of singing Christmas music. It's exhausting. I'm sorry, folks, but I am definitely NOT one who gets excited at the first sound of carols. In fact, they make me groan. But I soldier on because, well, it's my job.

.........

This year Lynda wanted to replace the tree with a ladder. ...yes, a ladder. Her logic (which is correct) is that our new home has no place that we can put a tree. It's sort of true, although we could move the cat post or the plant stand in the corner to make it work if we really wanted to have a tree. But her imagination pictured an old stepladder with boards across the steps, covered in green carpet, with the Dickens Village pieces covering it. Wrap it in lights, and it looks like a tree! she says. Well, here it is.


I resisted. In fact, I was kind of a pain in the ass the night it went up. But I went along, knowing that the bulk of my resistance was because Christmas exhausts me because, ...you know, the whole job thing. So tonight, I'm looking at it again.

And realizing it is beautiful. And it is a perfect representation of what Christmas has become. It is not what it was supposed to be when I was a kid: a tree. But it's sort of like a tree; it kind of looks the same. And it has the trimmings that have memories: lights, Dickens Village pieces that have followed me around these many years, including some that my aunt held.

But the ladder is old. It is stained with paint, and a little weak in the joints. The wood is weathered and gray.

It is me.  And those lights and pieces from my memory make it beautiful, give it a sense of being something greater than itself. It's not a borrowed ladder; it's a beautiful Terraced Christmas Village, complete with lights and little Dickens carolers.

Today, Lynda's granddaughter and I played with the carolers on the ladder, visiting the houses, delivering "presents", and pretending that it was a Christmas village.

Merry Christmas, Andie. I hope one day this memory carries you through a Christmas that you need a little help through. You did it for me today.