by David James
The alarm went out. A mob of campers formed and began banging on pots and pans while shouting and waving torches (that’s Brit for flashlights in this case). Jumping up to join the pack and add our lanterns to the posse, we drove the creature from our midst. It felt like the villagers in a cheesy old Frankenstein flick scaring the poor monster back into his lair. Happy Halloween.
In the safety of the morning light, and with November upon us, the time had come to continue south so as to partake of the Thanksgiving feast with Veronica’s kinfolk. We swung back over to the coast and moseyed along the scenic route.
The Pacific Coast Highway, through the central part of California known as Big Sur, is one remarkable stretch of road. It skirts along where the mountains meet the sea, with thirty-three bridges connecting one wickedly winding section of cliff-clinging roadway to the next. Often the landscape drops directly off from the edge of the roadside to the water hundreds of feet down.
Fully aware of how crucial it was to keep the old eyeballs glued to the blacktop, or else wind up in the ocean below, I did my best to ignore the scenic viewing opportunities off to either side.
More than once Veronica had to give me gentle reminders that certain death awaited if I didn’t focus. Okay, some not so gentle, depending on how many wheels were hanging over the side at any given moment. But we survived and made it down to Southern California in one piece, and in plenty of time for the impending holiday.
26
No Home for the Holidays
Thanksgiving has long been my favorite holiday. I love it all, the smell of the turkey in the oven, the din of football on the tube, the snacking on the obligatory relish tray, sneaking bites of searing-hot stuffing from the bird along the way, and the semi-disgusting thwauuuuuck sucking sound of the cranberry sauce coming out of the can that unmistakably signals it’s chow time.
We have, like most every family, fine-tuned our menu over the years. It evolved into a perfect starch-laden masterpiece consisting of Veronica’s mother’s stuffing, my mother’s twice-baked potatoes, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, crescent rolls, pumpkin pie, and of course, the turkey. For years we tried to introduce something green into the mix. Whether it was peas, broccoli, salad, zucchini, or even the classic green bean casserole, inevitably it would sit untouched upon the table. We quit trying.
Even as the chicks moved away, and short college breaks combined with long travel distances wouldn’t allow them to make it home for the holiday, we continued to lay out the same spread for our dwindling brood. But here we were with no brood at all, and no home either. It was enough to make me a little blue, and would probably have put my resident recovering helicopter mommy into a full-blown empty nest funk, if not for a perfect diversion.
Veronica hadn’t seen her brother Jeff since their mother’s funeral more than a decade prior. The multitude of miles that separate St. Croix from Southern California, plus kids and jobs, both his and ours, had pushed getting together into the realm of got to find a way to do it sometime soon. Sometime soon turned into years and years, so her excitement at their reunion trumped any melancholy feelings she may have been experiencing.
Veronica’s family has always amazed me. Coming from a traditional heartland upbringing, with Mom and Dad still together after nearly sixty years, a boatload of siblings, time-honored traditions, and guarded conventional appearances, I’m always genuinely astounded by the free-form concept of family that Veronica and her California clan practice. Cross-country moves, divorce, remarriage, and even deaths have not lessened the love that this tribe has for one another. This year they were all meeting up for a huge holiday family reunion, and we happened to be just in time.
This would be the mother of all Thanksgivings, over forty people, hosted by Veronica’s ex-step-sister-in-law, Tinker. Tinker is the wife of Veronica’s stepfather’s oldest child from the wife before Veronica’s mom . . . never mind, Veronica just calls Tinker her sister. Anyway, Veronica would be seeing all of her stepsiblings, many of whom now have families of their own, plus her brother’s family and stepfather’s new wife for the first time in over a decade. Some for the first time ever.
I was impressed. The congregation of relations, steprelations, in-laws, and exes sounded like a recipe for disaster to me, but it was nothing of the sort. Each relative, no matter how distant, was treated like the closest of kin.
It was brilliant how smoothly Veronica could breeze through a complex family connection for an introduction. Here’s how she presented herself to an ex-step-niece’s new boyfriend:
“Okay, you know Julie over there. Julie is your girlfriend’s grandma and Rowland’s first wife. You also know Barbara here. Barbara is Rowland’s beautiful new bride. Then Maryann, who died ten years ago in Rowland’s arms, was Rowland’s second wife and my mom.”
The boyfriend didn’t even blink, and with a nice-to-meet-you hug he was officially part of the family.
The old don’t talk with your mouth full rule was certainly suspended for the day. Everyone got filled in while filling up on the time-honored, potluck-style holiday offerings, including my mom’s twice-baked potatoes that we brought, just in case the starch content of the feast fell below 90 percent. We couldn’t have asked for a better first empty nest Thanksgiving.
The only lumps in the gravy—and our throats—came when the kids called to wish us what has become our customary family greeting for the holiday, “Happy Thanksgiving, Butthole!”
This must be delivered in a preposterously exaggerated Southern accent to be properly festive. Perhaps I should explain.
Many moons ago, back in Nashville, we took the young ’uns to the grocery store on the day before Thanksgiving for some last-minute starch reinforcements. Decibel was certain we needed a fourth tube of crescent rolls. Our quest was interrupted by a high-volume verbal altercation in the frozen food aisle. As the conflict escalated, every single shopper in the store became fully aware that this couple, who put the red in redneck, were not in full agreement as to what should be served for dessert at their holiday meal. I figured I’d been around the block a time or two, but I never heard adjectives like those used to describe pies before. Never will again, I hope. Plus, I’m pretty sure a bunch of those words aren’t even supposed to be used as adjectives.
Then the real airing of the grievances began in, shall we say, even more colorful language, and at a volume that ensured everyone all the way into the parking lot could share the holiday joy of being included in this feud. Methinks there may have been a tiny bit more behind the fracas than just picking between apple- or pumpkin-filled baked goods.
Since Veronica and I only had four hands to cover six innocent little ears, we made a mad dash for the checkout line. Our getaway didn’t pan out as planned though. The ever demure Mrs. R. Neck got fed up and catapulted her shopping cart, filled with unacceptable sweets, toward the love of her life, then stormed past us for the exit. Before stepping out, she delivered this classic top-of-the-lungs, take-that-you-bastard parting shot:
“Happy Thanksgiving, Butthole!”
A tradition was born.
By the end of our phone conversations, all three kids had asked, “Where are we going to have Christmas?”
The dilemma was reminiscent of Christmases past. When we first had children the holidays posed a problem for us, one no doubt most new parents face. Whose family would we visit? Both sides wanted to spoil their grandchildren and have a big family holiday, but none of the grandparents lived nearby, or near each other. We worked it out by explaining that we wanted to create our own Christmas traditions with our kids, in our own home. If extended family wanted to see us, they were more than welcome to come and join in. A few times they did, and a few times we traveled, but mostly we spent our yuletides at home, just the five of us.
This year we would not be home. The stockings would not be hung on BAMF’s tailpipe with care.
Luckily, we have discovered that it really doesn’t matter where we are, or what’s on the table. Having a
happy holiday is all about being together. One of our best family memories involved an ill-fated trip to Cleveland for a great-grandpa visit. All-day driving left us stuck in a hotel with three teenagers on Thanksgiving night, and not an open restaurant to be found. So we made a spread on the bed of tortilla chips and beef jerky from the mini mart next door. They didn’t have any pies, but we managed to hold our tongues, other than the requisite “Happy Thanksgiving” anatomical greetings, and have an unconventional holiday feast. One that all five of us look back on with fond feelings.
Warm memory or not, the girls were determined to avoid a replay, so they agreed to host Christmas in their New York City apartments. They even set it up for The Boy to fly in after his semester finals.
The only snag for us was distance. There was no way we were deadhead driving coast to coast. But Jeff was kind enough to offer his driveway as a BAMF parking spot, so off we flew to the Big Apple for our first empty nest Noel.
New York City is freaking magical at Christmastime. They really deck them halls. David and I went into full tourist mode and visited all of the famous holiday hot spots. We caught the bigger-than-expected Rockefeller Center Christmas tree and the surprisingly itty-bitty skating rink at the bottom of it, the lights along Fifth Avenue, and the Macy’s on Thirty-Fourth Street with the enchanting window displays and most perfect Santa ever. He’s the real one—we’ve seen proof of it in a movie. Even the Central Park carriages were all dolled up, but we couldn’t convince a single driver to put antlers or a red nose on his horse. That would’ve been wicked sweet.
After a few days of running around like maniacs, taking in all the city had to offer, we did slow down for the big day. We made a huge meal in The Piglet’s teeny studio apartment. With a miniature tree sparkling, the hide-a-bed festively extended for extra seating, Nat King Cole playing on the iPod, and the fireplace channel crackling on TV, we had our Christmas. Probably not a new tradition—the kids will no doubt form their own as the years go by—but it was just fine for our inaugural homeless holiday season.
Admittedly, it was quite a departure from previous years, but I have to say, it was much easier on me, stresswise.
I no longer had to find forgot-where-I-hid-them presents, then hurriedly wrap them while barricaded in a closet with a flashlight in my teeth and covered in packing tape. There was no racing from Christmas pageant to winter recital to endless Nutcracker rehearsals. Gone was the digging out of the boxes from the attic, the untangling of the strings of lights, and the setting up of the fake tree (real ones always ended up making us sad when they turned brown and we had to take them down around Valentine’s Day).
The best part of our first empty nest Christmas was the excitement on our kids’ faces as they gave gifts to one another. The love they shared and the happiness they wanted to give one another is what made the Most Wonderful Time of the Year, well, the most wonderful time of the year.
I sat back with a Cheshire cat grin on my face watching them relate to one another as young adults. The Piglet, who was five when The Boy was born, quickly reverted to her vice-Mommy persona. She still gets miffed if The Boy comes up with an opinion that differs from hers. She feels she has raised him better than that. Nothing less than pure adoration from him shall be tolerated.
They all have a tendency to revert back to being wild-eyed children when they get together. In no time at all Decibel and The Boy began bickering and poking each other. Before long The Piglet jumped in too. It felt like they were squabbling in an attempt to keep their childhoods alive. Being with Mom and Dad gave them a chance to escape the responsibilities of their new adult lives for a few days. Who was I to burst that bubble?
Then I heard the inevitable. “Mooooooooom! Tell The Boy to stop it!”
I turned around with a huge grin on my face, “Don’t make me come over there!”
I was in heaven. I couldn’t care less about any other presents, just give me mommy duty again.
27
Grandchildish Behavior
The night before we flew back to the West Coast, The Piglet and Decibel hit me with an unexpected going-away present.
“All of our friends’ mothers are on crazy grandma patrol. How come you aren’t nagging us about having babies?”
Seriously? I was fairly certain that they were just looking for an opening to inflict a little farewell jab. But during the course of the discourse I got the feeling that they might be getting miffed by my lack of interest. Even though I knew—good and well—that neither of the girls was even remotely at a procreating place in life. In fact, one of them says she finds the birthing process so totally repulsive that she wants to be “knocked out like the good old days” should the event ever occur.
But I hadn’t really pondered the subject before, except in the abstract, so just the asking of the question got me thinking.
If I were to have a grandbaby, I think I would be the best grandma ever. That child would be the most loved and cherished little one on the face of the earth. I think David would be even nuttier; he’s crazy about kids, and kids love him right back. It would be a battle just to pry the tot off of his aching horsey-ridden back.
But, if I never have grandkids, that’s all right, too. I’m not one of those passing-along-the-genes/carrying-on-the-family-name kinda gals. There’s no inherent longing in my breast—I actually view that stuff as sort of archaic. Maybe this is a backlash from the incessant hints my mother-in-law dropped as soon as David and I got hitched.
In her defense, David is the fourth of five children, and was the first to marry—she had waited a long time by then. All of her girlfriends were winning the Grandma Game back in a time when that baby tally really meant something.
Baby begging doesn’t seem to be as much a part of our generation’s psyche, but grandma pride seems to have survived in full force. Facebook has opened my eyes to that. Once one of my friends becomes a grandparent, their profile becomes a never-ending barrage of baby pictures. They’re worse than the new mothers. I understand it though, and I’ll probably be a photo-posting maniac myself should the time ever come.
To be honest, one of the reasons for my lack of longing is unabashed selfishness. I like having my kids all to myself when we visit. No husbands, wives, or diaper changes to disrupt my time with them. I feel I’m just getting to know them as adults, and I am loving the process. I don’t want to share.
Genetics may play into my thinking as well. My mother-in-law, as one might imagine, was truly excited when I announced my first upcoming bundle of joy. My side of the family reacted a bit differently. My mother was properly excited, but you would have thought I purposefully dropped an anvil on my dad. He was dismayed. He had to know that I was at an age where this type of thing could happen, he just couldn’t believe that he was.
“I’m too young to be a grandfather!”
Like my goal had been to put the final nail in the coffin of his fading youth. Grandfatherdom seemed to be a direct affront to the vernal image he had of himself.
As taken aback as I was at the time, I have to admit that I get it today. Personality is something I’ve inherited from my dad, and—honestly—the idea of me being a grandma stings a bit.
I also wonder how influenced by outside factors I might be. In our society, we are past the point where we need to quickly pump out babies to help out on the farm, carry on the family name, or populate the Wild West. There are an awful lot of people on this little planet of ours, and I have to say I’m glad we’re slowing down with the baby birthing bit.
Prior to my generation, most women sought status in marrying well, having children, and keeping a nice home. Even if it took a secret stash of Valium to keep many of them on the “meet hubby at the door in pumps and pearls holding a martini” track. Ladies were faced with an either/or proposition; marriage and kids, or be an old maid with a career. Society hardly embraced women who did things on their own, and mixing parenthood and profession was barely an option.
During the course of my
childbearing years, modern womanhood was faced with new realities. Our mothers expected us to marry young and start a family, as was customary in their day. Some of us did, many did not. For most though, married, single, parent or not, working became a more widely accepted route. This created a divide that grew wider as the years passed. Before we knew what hit us, women were being denounced for not entering the workforce and opting to stay at home.
In the midst of this reversal, we women could be our own worst enemies. Having had friends in both camps, I heard the rumblings, “What does she do all day long sitting at home with kids? That would drive me crazy,” or, “Bless her heart, she just doesn’t understand how fulfilling motherhood is,” or, the worst, “Those poor kids, their mother cares more about her job than she cares about them.” We had more choices, and with those choices came a multitude of opinions.
Modern young women like my daughters are of a different mindset than their predecessors. They’ve evolved into what I believe many women of my generation were hoping for themselves. At least in New York City, society freely allows them to be single until they decide not to be. Their status doesn’t rise or fall on the decision to marry or have children. They won’t be called old maids. They can be working women without being labeled “working women.” I’m fairly certain that they are blissfully unaware of the cruel connotation that lovely little double entendre used to carry.
I feel pride and awe when I observe my daughters and their friends in their natural habitat. They are comfortable in their own skins in a way I’ve never been. They conquer their fears head-on—and the world they live in allows it. If folks disapprove, they don’t give a damn. It’s beautiful to watch.