The Five Strands of A Sedentary Empress

Sugarplums, Stuffed Celery and Flannel

It used to be that the festive get-togethers went along the lines of this: scallions in a glass, lonely fruitcake on a poinsettia paper plate (freak that I am, I always went for it, especially if it had icing), celery with cheese spread filling, devilled eggs, a plate loaded with olives and sweet pickles, store-bought butter cookies and paper cups for root beer or orange pop. The dinner was always turkey, with potatoes and mashed turnips and all of us kids would fight over the stuffing, saying no to the gravy until half way through dinner when we realized it was necessary, summoning our beleaguered mothers who were exhausted from helping with the meal, slightly drunk from an afternoon of rum and egg nog. My mother also favoured Tia Maria with cream. How she is not three hundred pounds is a medical marvel.

It was me, my sisters and the small group of cousins, year after year, until we reached our teens and the step-cousins stopped showing up, opting for their 'real' families in lieu of the married-into variety. Then, it was just the five of us: myself, Paula, Kerry and my cousins, Dawn'nLeah. We'd sit at the kids table, wearing paper crowns from the crackers on our plates, reading the really horrible jokes from the fortune cookie slips of paper from inside of them. We made ridiculous conversation, I played with my mashed potatoes telling them all that they 'made my head go funny', which was true and still is. Mashed potatoes do indeed make my forehead feel strange, like sand under the skin, rubbing on the bone. I don't understand it either, but it did provide tons of merriment at the table.

The gifts were usually simple, always flannel pajamas one would find at a bargain department store, and in later years, I was the one who would wrap them for my grandmother, selecting my favourite pair before wrapping it for myself, her telling me to keep it a secret as she signed off the tags. She would pour me a tall glass of Coke, or root beer which was my favourite during the holidays, and give me some chocolate from her secret cache in the dining room cabinet, and after I'd finish with trimming her tree and fastening the bows, we'd sit on her couch, the room filled with blue smoke and perfume, and we'd chat about easy things, like her love of Tom Selleck, while my grandfather smiled and shook his head. Her door would have one of those late-sixties ornaments, the kind with the glittery tinsel and three wooden elves, and it had bells, so that every time you'd open it, you'd be reminded of what month it was. The tree was trimmed with plastic apples and gold garland, and she would hang candy canes from the light fixture over top her dining table.

Most of what I remember is the laughter. My father always baiting my grandmother so that she'd become dramatic and explosive, while the rest of us laughed and giggled at how well his plan always worked. He used to antagonize her out of affection and amusement, and what it took me some years to realize was that she had always been in on it. My mother would usually be her most comfortable on these occasions, less trouble to deal with, and it wasn't just the alcohol or the mountainous bowls of potato chips she consumed that did it. She was home, in a world she found familiar and safe, and she could be as childish as she wanted because her parents were there.

Now, things are different, but not just in a sad way. Yes, I miss those days terribly and I will admit to feeling a wee bit weepy at the moment as I let myself revisit them. Now, though, I have my daughter and M. to share it with, and I am grateful for it. My parents are in good health, as is the rest of my family, and as far as I know, there is no real drama going on in the lives of those who mean the most to me. It's just that I miss the feeling I had back then, the gentle contentment which wanted for nothing more. I was happy with the fruitcake and the celery with cheese. I loved my flannel pajamas. As long as I had my grandparents around me, as well as the boisterous nonsense of my cousins, sisters and various other adults, it was an actual holiday. The stress of the season did not materialize until much later when I would be responsible for setting the table, cooking the meal and buying the presents. Being a child, and then, a petulant teenager was the best possible way to experience Christmas in my view. What I cared about was where the chocolate was, where my toys were and later, when I'd see my friends.

When I was with R., we shared the holiday between our parents, before we ended up celebrating all together with his family coming to stay at our house. As my parents lived in the basement apartment, this meant I had to cook Christmas dinner for anywhere between nine and eleven people, sometimes more depending on who was around. While it was a bit of an undertaking, since I was working full-time in retail and always had to work the day before and after Christmas, the sight of all those presents, glittering under the twinkling tree lights was one which always soothed me. I didn't care what was under the paper, it was merely sight the of the glamourous colour of the bows and patterns of the gift wrap which reeled me back to the days of Dickens and Clement Moore.

Now, I feel like Christmas is a time for the world to stop. I want to hear each snowflake land and want every channel on the television to be airing some old-time standard, like 'It's A Wonderful Life' or 'White Christmas'. These never get old for me. I know that not everyone believes, many don't subscribe to idea of a Christ-child or a God, even. This is not important in my view. For me, it's a time for stillness as well as giving. It's a time set aside for magic and for all the petty brutalities of the world to give it a rest. There is so much colour in it. It is a reason to have a drink and hug someone close. It's a reason to get up early and look out the window, seeing what's really out there.

I hate that things have changed as much as I love the present situation. I miss those great big dinners, even the one where we sat around a ping pong table which was covered with three different tablecloths. I miss the sound of the snow whirling outside as I lay warm in my bed with a stack of new books and a cup of tea or hot chocolate on the table next to me. I miss the ridiculous repartee with my mad cousins, neither of whom I'm particularly close with anymore. I miss believing that poinsettias were toxic to cats, that fruit cake was delicious, that Santa would opt for a snowmobile when the snow was too heavy. I pine for those animated Christmas specials, especially the ones with the puppets, which are still on between 7 and 9 p.m on certain weeknights, but are no longer spellbinding for me. I watch them with my wee one, and find myself daydreaming from the moment they begin, peeling a clementine from the bowl on the table, holding the segments up to the light, searching for incubating seeds. I miss waking up in my parent's house, which on any other day was tense and frustrating, but never on a Christmas morning, never when the carols were being played.

I miss my grandmother and grandfather the most. She, on her side of the sofa, smoking a cigarette gracefully while a glass of whiskey and Seven-Up rested next to her and he, in his armchair, puffing on his pipe, grinning mischievously as he lifted his empty glass, save for the ice cubes which tinkled woefully, telling me a refill was in order. They were happy, I think. They had everything they seemed to want in a table laden with storebought food and plastic apples on the tree in the corner.

They never appeared to want more than this.