At a very young age we were poor. It was just my Mother and I. We were on welfare, which meant that at the end of our food stamps, we survived the rest of the month on popcorn and apple juice. Every December, a member of the Salvation Army would arrive with a giant box of food and a big red sack. The box contained our Christmas dinner - a canned ham, boxed potato, two peas, cranberry can, and a Table Talk pie. The sack was always exposing its toy contents. I would beg to open one, and she would sternly reply, "You have to wait for Santa." Needless to say, the whole Kris Kringle charade wasn't believed for very long.
Despite writing lists at school to the big guy, asking for special and specific toys, I never got what I wished for. I know and believe the saying,"beggars can't be choosers," and I am the most selfless person that exists, but still, it would have been nice to get one special prize. To have that one treasured memento from the big orgasm.
You know the program "Toys For Tots," where you contribute the most boring and least expensive toy to a needy child, so that you can pat yourself on the back and feel good about yourself for one more year? These were my gifts year after year. A lot of Barbie Doll clothes, but no Barbie to put them on, baby toys, coloring books, and pint-sized rough stuffed animals.
After my mom married my stepdad, Christmas became money-driven - the exact opposite of what I was used to, and think she was used to as well. She was finally able to shop for presents, but at this point, she had no idea who I was or what I liked, so for years, I got cash, gift cards, expensive bed sets, gamer systems, and bath soaps.
Eventually, as I aged, this evolved into a strategically placed white envelope of money on the tree. Yes, money is nice and good and who the hell doesn't love cold hard cash? But where's the thought? The love? By this time we weren't even waking up together for Christmas morning.
Then came the dark years. Seven Christmases spent driving 3 plus hours, sometimes in very harsh winter weather, only to be confronted with anxiety-induced panic attacks, caused by my new family. I came to dread the holiday because it often came with fighting, general hostility, and a constant reminder that I didn't belong. I couldn't wait for it all to be over, because it meant it was the longest period of time before I had to endure it all again.
By age 25, Christmas and I were not simpatico. Images of the fat man in the velvet suit caused me to have fight or flight reactions. I needed a miracle, a Christmas angel to save me. Fortunately my savior just lived in Leominster. He swept me off my feet and gave me a new life.
Our first holiday together was Thanksgiving, and I insisted on cooking. My PTSD was so extreme, that the thought of close quarters with a lot of people made me feel physically ill. I cooked for us and his parents. It was lovely. It afforded us an opportunity to really get to know each other. We really talked and I liked them. As they were leaving, they insisted I take part in their family Christmas. I committed.
Going into December, the first thing I noticed with Paul was the Christmas music. And seriously, what the hell was that? Apparently, there was a whole catalogue of music devoted to the one special time of the year, that spanned decades, and included many famous musicians. The rules were to only listen to this kind of music until December 26th. A special tradition, and a crash course for me.
Then came the movies. Granted, I didn't live in a box, and was aware of some. Home Alone was my second movie theater experience. And I loved Die Hard and Die Hard 2. But there were so many more out there that I had never ever heard of, like, er, A Christmas Story. Yes I know. The marathon.
Halfway though the month, we made a small pilgrimage to Bennett Place, to meet with his family for list-making. This was so strange and novel. We all ordered Chinese food, passed around paper and pens, and wrote down everything we wanted, under the assumption that they would be purchased by everyone else. They all enjoyed each other's company, sang along to cheesy 80s songs, made fun of each other, and chain smoked around the table. They were so beautiful. Christmas Vacation blasted from the living room, and the audible disconnected jokes added a texture to the entire event. Before leaving we were invited to Christmas Eve at Auntie Shannyn's. I warmly agreed.
A real Christmas tree was very important to Paul. He salivated at its rich scent. He noticed on his drive to work that there were a group of kids selling roadside trees, adjacent to a Friendly's restaurant. We planned a special date. When we arrived these were the Boy Scouts of America, and all of their trees were small, like them. We picked our midget tree, had the toddlers tie it to our crappy roof, and celebrated with fries and bacon cheeseburgers. Just like a couple of kids.
When we got the tree home, I wanted to decorate right away, but he said "We have to let the tree fall and have a drink." Seven years of a cheap ass Walmart fake tree, and I was damn clueless. But the next day we adorned our stout little growth. All of his ornaments were precious and from his childhood. He spoke of every deep meaning with every branch he hung them from. By doing so, he included me into his pleasant memories. I felt a tingle.
Walking into Auntie Shannyn's upstairs apartment, I'm slapped in the face with a white brightly lit glowing tree, surrounded by people, all cramped together on dirty couches and chairs. Christmas Story is happening on an obscenely large TV, but no one is watching. And all at once, everyone leaps to their feet to hug and kiss us. We're lead into the kitchen/dining area, and are seated at a very long table with a festive plastic table cloth, and littered with boozy solo cups and cheeses.
Our meal for the evening is sandwiches and salads. You see this family works for a living and they are all gathering after a long days work ready for celebration. So no one wants to cook or do dishes. We conclude our feast with Uncle Jimmy's famous peanut butter fudge. It's made from scratch - its chalky goodness sits just right with me.
We rode home hand in hand, listening to a special holiday CD, as the Oldies 103.3 Christmas playlist was no more. Paul thoroughly educated me in this great tragedy of his life. Bedtime soon followed, but not before placing my thoughtful gifts for him under our tree.
Christmas mornings start early here, which took some getting used to. At this time of our lives, we typically slept past noon. Sometimes all damn day if we wanted to. Before dawn I felt a gentle arm on me and heard him whisper for me to wake up. Our tree was lit, the coffee was made, and presents poured out from under the tree. Paul hands me a stocking, which is full of candy and junk. Each gift after the other is more thoughtful and silly, and by dawn's early light, I felt something.
This something grew deeper as the morning went on as we cleaned up, got dressed, fooled around, and ate donuts. I felt safe. I was loved, wanted, and cherished above all things. And by the twinkle of the Christmas lights of our tiny ass tree, the spirit of Christmas moved in me.
I have this sensation yearly now and it's only grown deeper now that we have a young child to share it with. We can share good feelings with him and build traditions. Paul didn't just save Yule, he rescued me. And now, for all time, Santa Claus will forever have him on his nice list.
- Babes
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