Christmas

Christmas roars in like a lion. It is snowing. A lot.

It’s a long drive to Castle Rock south of Denver, where the family is already gathering. I am dithering. Can I get out of it?

If I were sociable or weather-savvy, I would have gone down on Christmas Eve night, joined the family pajama party. It’s one of our family traditions.

My family is rich with traditions. When we get tired of the old ones, we make up new ones. Some new traditions spring up: I instigated the Tacky Gift Contest when traditional gift-giving became boring. Other traditions morph. For example:

Sibling Five-of-Six and her little boy always spend the night at my parents’ house on Christmas Eve. He is 2, 3, 4, 5… 24. Now my parents have moved into an apartment. Now Six-of-Six and his partner have bought a house made for entertaining. Now Sibling Five-of-Six and Son--and my parents--all spend the night at Six-of-Six’s house. Last month the Son got married. Last night, his New Bride joined the pajama party.

Here’s another:

Sibling Two-of-Six also spends Christmas Eve with her two daughters. Like mother, like daughter: they would rather clean toilets than cook. I imagine they have pizza or fun snacks. They watch movies, they laugh as much as they talk. At midnight they open their presents.

A few years ago, Daughter One brought a man along. He liked to cook. Two-of-Six knew at once he was The One. He spent the night. She bought him a stockpot. Not being a cook, she was nervous about this. Being The One, he knew just what to do.

“Ah,” he said, turning the pot in his hands. “This is not just a stockpot. This is the Quintessential Stockpot.”

We love big words. We all say it now. It is part of our family lexicon, our ritual language.

Since joining the family, The One has taken Thanksgiving dinner in hand. Every year he uses the Quintessential Stockpot to make his Italian grandmother’s chicken soup. His mother died young, his grandmother raised him. Every year we tell him it is the Quintessential chicken soup. Welcome to the family, The One. Welcome to the family, His Granny.

We like to fold people in. On her first Christmas in Denver, 1982, my mother told my father that she was going to cook as if she were back home in Michigan with the whole clan. She cooked for 30, as usual. A blizzard hit--the snow was up to the eaves of the house. None of the neighbors could get out of their driveways. They all walked to my mom's for dinner. She still glows.

This year at Thanksgiving, the New Bride brought five family friends with her—surprise! Family emergency, stranded in town, etc. Nephew, never one to plan ahead, called from the car: We’re on our way! We worried over the food, the number of chairs. They arrived with a feast of their own, put their food alongside ours on the table. We stuffed ourselves and afterward took bags of food home: turkey and tamales, potatoes and gravy and rice and green chile.

My family gets together frequently. Every holiday is a command appearance. That goes for all the official holidays and all the birthdays too. The more people that come into the family, the more often we gather.

I am not a sociable person. I crave solitude the way others crave love. Family gatherings are a joy in theory and memory, a trial in the moment. They are huge pandemonium. Everyone talks at once, and they play rowdy party games, like Pictionary.

I do not want to go today. It is snowing, and I would rather be writing.

But I am the one bringing the vegetables. “You are the only one bringing the vegetables,” Six-of-Six’s partner told me yesterday on the phone. I heard what she meant: Make it good. She is a veggie lover, and she counts on me.

Duty calls.

Soon I will get dressed. I will get in my car. I will take the veggies I promised to make. I will grab a dozen tamales out of the freezer, to fold New Bride’s traditions into ours.

It will be pandemonium. Also great fun! We will laugh more than talk. We will catch up. I will sit on the sidelines, and join in, and then sit on the sidelines again. I will refuse to play Pictionary, but I will guess the answers in my head as they play. My family is used to me now; antisocial One Heart is part of the family tradition.

It will be exhausting. We will grow tired of one another, particularly those who have been pajama partying. Some of us will snipe at each other; some will get bossy; some will turn studiously to the TV. Someone's feelings will be hurt. Sooner or later, there might be someone crying in the bathroom and someone soothing the teary-eyed one. There will be a period of uncomfortable quiet. There will be a gradual loosening, then an offer of coffee. This is how we do it.

I will resolve to eat nothing so I can tango tonight. I will eat too much anyway.

(I will go to tango after the family party. This is a new tradition, starting this year.)

Passing the Baby will be the Quintessential party game.

When we name the winner of Tacky Gift Contest, someone will say: That is the Quintessential tacky gift!

People will fight over the tamales. We will have to cut them in half.

I will refuse the after-dinner coffee in solidarity with my dad, who has had to give it up. Instead I will have port, a tradition Six-of-Six introduced.

When my parents open their gift from me, they will find only a note. In response to their annual request for gifts to charity, I have written my annual big, fat check to the Salvation Army, because they took Barbara in when her parents would not. This isn’t grief, this is gratitude--and maintaining a tendril of attachment.

My mother insists on these gatherings. She had a lousy childhood. She decided early on that when she had a chance, she would do family right. This is what she learned along the way: Family doesn't happen, we make it so. So she issues these marching orders: Show up. Yes, it's a pain in the ass, yes we get sick of each other. Do it anyway.

So… off I go into the snow, to join the pandemonium, serve up the veggies, stuff myself, beg to hold the baby, greet the New Bride, and get my hands on that Tacky Gift trophy!