By Jane Flanagan
Christmas is over and Thank God for that. I just can’t take the pressure of that holiday. And it isn’t just that the shopping and the endless “to do” list sure as overwhelming as they are. It’s worse. It’s that primal feeling that comes over me where I think everyone is sitting around having a Norman Rockwell type of holiday. Everyone except me that is. I envision huge families in red and white ski sweaters hugging each other in front of the fire with Christmas lights twinkling in the background.
I know it stems from my childhood when all the magic, mystery and hoopla of that holiday (much of it from TV commercials!) seeped into my bones, before my brain was mature enough to say “Whoa, Rudolph , this can’t possibly be.”
But because these feelings are primal, I’m stuck with them to a certain degree. Every Dec. 24th, I get overcome by a melancholy as I walk the streets (I always seem to need long walks at the holidays) convinced that everyone behind the doors has massive, extended families who are harmonious and unquestioningly loving and sit around engrossed in stimulating, engaging conversation.
In my case, there just isn’t that extension. Many of my relatives – some of the closest – are on the opposite political spectrum from me and with this crazy administration and this unfathomable war, we would not get past – “well the weather outside is frightful.”
It’s a lot of work to clean, cook and shop for 15 people with whom you can’t converse beyond the afternoon’s temperature. Okay, I suppose politics shouldn’t be everything – but I don’t know, these days I can’t imagine nodding to someone who said “I really support George Bush!” and in my case, I don’t want to think about how many people that might be.
By the way, I don’t think I’m the only person who has a hard time separating politics from Christmas right now. As everyone surely has heard, there is a movement afoot to replace the greeting, “Happy Holidays” with “Merry Christmas.” I assumed this crusade lived only in the imaginations and pocketbooks of a few crazy radio talk show guys. But then I came up to this small town in Connecticut for the holidays. We are in the country here where a “Cut your own Christmas Tree” farm is actually closer than the nearest deli. So we went over to cut one down. I greeted the otherwise friendly lady of the manor by saying, “Happy Holidays,” to which she returned a rather hostile “Merry Christmas!!!” Now I suppose what with the tree farm and all she’s one of the few people who can get away with a carte blanche “Merry Christmas!” but still, I felt oddly rebuked. A first for me with a holiday greeting.
Last year my husband, son and I stayed home on Christmas and never got out of our pajamas. I remember telling this to a few people and saw their startled expression. This year my bachelor brother (with friendly politics) joined us, and I showered and cooked a turkey, but we stayed home and watched my son play with his new remote control car.
And it was just fine. Speaking of my son, it occurred to me that if I’d had a girl instead of a boy, I might not be able to do this. I have friends who report that their daughters insist on big gatherings no matter what. And I think that to some extent the Christmas hoopla may be mostly a girl thing. I don’t know too many men who get compulsive about baking cookies and hanging tinsel.
This sense was confirmed for me Christmas night as I was putting my son to bed and I asked him if he enjoyed the day. “It was my best Christmas ever,” he said. Since, in years past I’d taken him to a couple of extended family Christmas gatherings, I was surprised. But apparently they paled in comparison to being able to play unhindered with his very own remote control car all day.
Speaking of males, there is one guy that seems to have had a vested interest in the picture perfect family holiday – Norman Rockwell. Only, did you know Rockwell had an unhappy childhood and did not benefit from such gatherings? Don’t ask me how I know this, I just do. This was too important a fact for me not to have uncovered by now. No, Rockwell didn’t live the life he painted. He painted the life he wanted to live.
Now that’s a guy I wouldn’t mind having over for Christmas dinner.
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