Holiday Crazies
By Sally Marshall
According to Merriam-Webster, a holiday is a day set aside to commemorate an event or a religious observation. So, when did Thanksgiving and Christmas become a consumer frenzy? The true significance of these holidays has been buried under mountains of consumer goods, all made in China, all brightly packaged and waiting for the stores to open on the first official day of holiday shopping – strangely called Black Friday (?).
I won’t go into Wal Mart on Black Friday. The store actually puts up special barricades to the entrance as if preparing for an invasion of Huns. The parking lot is filled with garage-size SUV’s and monster trucks on steroids, all volleying for parking space – not for me and my little truck. The other thing – and this is important – I hate shopping!! I am evidently missing the “shopping gene” in my DNA, because I would rather have a root canal than have to go holiday shopping. I am not thrilled to enter a store bathed in red and green holiday cheer, and I get nervous and irritable in crowds; I have absolutely no talent for finding “just the right gift” for anyone, and I am successful only at buying gifts for little children. One year I bought a little farm set for my niece, complete with farm animals, a fence, tractor, truck, and a barn that folded into a carrying case – just because I would have liked that when I was a kid. She loved it. She dragged that farm set around with her everywhere. So, I handle the problem of gifts for family by baking cookies. I’m really good at this because my grandma, who was an excellent baker, taught me the art of baking.
During my childhood (1940’s-50’s), our family lived together in grandma’s big house overlooking Lake Michigan, where the holidays were a grand event. The large dining room would be opened, revealing an elaborate chandelier, heavy wine-colored drapery and a huge table that was only used for special occasions. The legs of this table had claw feet and, as a little kid, I imagined it prowling around at night when everyone was asleep. Grandma worked from early morning to make Thanksgiving dinner. As she did the baking, I would hover near her to watch the magic unfold as her hands deftly kneaded the dough, humming to herself while she worked. When dinner was ready and all the relatives had arrived, we would settle down around the table and say a blessing. The best part for us kids was getting to sample the sweet red Mogan David wine in little cut crystal sherry glasses. The wine warmed our tummies and settled us down so we behaved ourselves. The only other time we got to sample alcohol was when we were sick and grandma made us a “hot toddy” which was a combination of honey, lemon, and a bit of whiskey in hot water. This actually worked as a cure because it made us sleep; so, we grew up with the firm conviction that alcohol should be used for “medicinal purposes”.
My older sister was one of those people, like my grandma, who could pull off a holiday dinner perfectly without getting a hair out of place. I am not one of those people, although my mom secretly wished I could be more like her instead of the train wreck I turned out to be. I still remember my one and only Thanksgiving dinner I attempted when I was first married, inviting the in-laws from both sides of our families (I can do this – right?). I started the turkey roast very early and then set out on a mission to create Thanksgiving dinner. At about 11:00 a.m., I was losing control of my sanity: every time I opened the oven, the turkey yelled “I’m not done yet”; the potatoes nesting in a bowl taunted me with whispers and giggling; the green beans kept reminding me to add those fried onions they like so much; and the pies just regarded me with disdain. I eyed the bottle of wine that was to be set out for dinner, opened it and had several generous “medicinal” slugs to settle my nerves. Then I called my mother and she came over to help me out, bringing another bottle of wine-Yes! By the time the guests arrived, the wine was half gone, I was quite “shnockered” and mom had pretty much taken over the dinner, albeit slightly inebriated herself – but she saved the day.
Then, guess what? We get to do this all over again – Christmas!! When I was a child, the big event was getting the Christmas tree. Grandma’s house had very large rooms and high ceilings, so my dad and two uncles would come home with an enormous tree, which we all helped decorate with an assortment of ornaments that were handed down from past generations and were uniquely beautiful and fragile. After the ornaments were carefully arranged on the tree (with grandma’s stern supervision), the lights installed and the tinsel hung, dad would do the “plug in ceremony” and the tree would glow in brilliant yellow, green, red and blue bulbs. Then, grandma would go up to her room for a well-earned “rest” and a couple of shots from her stash of whiskey, and I would lay down under the tree and imagine I was a tiny fairy flitting among the lights and ornaments.
On Christmas Eve, as kids usually are, we were so wound up waiting for Santa we couldn’t sleep, so we would sneak over to the staircase landing and watch the grownups talking in the living room. They were so elegant and sophisticated, drinking cocktails, the smoke from their cigarettes rising up from the lighted lampshades. Mom in her blue velvet dress, grandma in her black suit and pearls, and everyone enjoying a pleasant evening, unaware of the mischievous pairs of eyes from above.
Even as a little kid I was a bit suspicious of the Santa story, where a very fat man in a fuzzy red suit, carrying a large sack of presents, is supposed to slide down the inside of our chimney. I remember looking up the chimney of our big fireplace and thinking “this is not going to work”. Then, there was visiting Santa Claus at the department store. We all got into dad’s big old Buick sedan and went downtown to Gimbels to pay a visit to Santa. There I was, sitting on Santa’s lap, my hands folded in supplication, as I studied his long, white beard and thinking “that doesn’t look like a real beard”. We were supposed to tell Santa what we wanted for Christmas, but I was busy examining his beard, so Santa finally said “how about a little dolly?” This brought me back to attention because what I really wanted was a tray of Prang watercolor paints and some drawing paper. But I was too late - that Christmas I got a doll. The only doll I ever got that I really bonded with was a Raggedy Ann, which had such a look of docile stupidity on its face that I felt the need to protect it with my life. I kept that doll for years until I decided I wanted a cat – a real cat; but, this wasn’t going to happen until years later, when I was on my own, and could finally enjoy the company of these unusual, creative and mischievous little pets.
Then, there is Louise’s house. Going to Louise’s is like stepping back to that time when the holidays were filled with romance and elegance. My friend, Louise has been 73 for quite a number of years now, and her delight in having people over for the holidays is quite evident as soon as she opens her front door. Entering the foyer of her house is like walking into a big hug. There are Christmas decorations everywhere, a big decorated tree, numerous candles, all lit, and a fire in the fireplace, creating a warm glow. She is wearing her holiday attire: a pair of sparkly snowflake earrings and her red sweatshirt with the big inebriated Santa on it. On the back, it says “Out of Wine Again, Damn”. Louise was a strawberry blond in her younger days, and she keeps that tradition alive with the help of henna dye. Add penciled eyebrows, fire engine red lipstick, a generous spot of rouge on each cheek and some wildly blue eye shadow, and she is quite a delight to behold. Louise likes to serve a rather potent cocktail she makes with Vodka and fruit juice; which she has obviously been sampling as evidenced by the red nose and flushed cheeks, not to mention a slight balance problem. I love going there, especially for the holidays – she is so uniquely charming! I commented once about how amazing her house is – every room is decorated to the ceiling. She looked at me with that wry little smile and said, “I’m old and I have a lot of shit.”
So, the holiday season finally ends once again, as evidenced by all the Christmas trees thrown out on front lawns. The pine needles are vacuumed up, the house is put back in order, and some of us breathe a sigh of relief and look to the new year. When we were kids at my grandma’s house, the tree stayed in place well into January, being kept alive with care, so we could enjoy playing around it for a long time. Gradually, the ornaments were removed and packed away, the tinsel taken off, and then dad would remove the lights and drag the monster tree, leaving a trail of needles, off to the back yard to cut it up for firewood. This left a large gap in the space where the tree was enthroned and also in our little hearts.
The holidays back then were a moment in time that was special because of how we lived, when life was filled with simple pleasures and homemade love. I will always remember my grandma baking in the kitchen: the wonderful smells and the magic she created; the big enamel mixing bowls she always used, and the big rolling pin for pie crust and sugar cookie cut outs. Over the years, I acquired all these things from her, and continue the tradition, contentedly baking in my kitchen and humming to myself, while the world outside rushes by and occasionally catches a whiff of something wonderful.
