Notes from Below Sea Level
“Ah! It’s a Party”
Last night was the annual Christmas Party at the construction company where I work. This year it was held it at the local country club. The food was quite good, the DJ better than passable, the bar top notch, and the mood festive. Still, I’m not fond of these events. I’m not antisocial, just jealous of my personal time and my patience for small talk is (like my hair) getting thinner by the year. I see these people four-to-five days a week, some of them six days a week in the busy season. I like catching up with their partners and see a few select guests, but after an hour I’m done. My boss (the business is family-owned) loves these parties—and, given they are scaled back to bare bones in lean years, in good years (like the last several) they will go all out for the employees.
I was a little late getting there (okay an hour) dealing with a bit of drama at the house involving my son and his anxiety about a meeting he has today and just general moodiness. And I lasted an hour. I had planned to stay longer but I just couldn’t get comfortable, the indoor rooms were so bright, and the outside fire pits were all lighted but exposed by the shift in wind direction from the cold front moving in last night. I will catch a bit of flack for leaving before the speeches, but my boss knows how I am so won’t make too big a deal of the lapse; I’ll get a bit of leeway (having to deal with my sister’s funeral tomorrow) but I’m also not the type to take advantage of that sort of tragedy. I’ll take my short lecture on why I need to be at these parties with grace and humility—at least I hope it appears that way.
Growing up, though, Christmas Parties were fun and even a bit lavish. I think in my small town on the coast people generally had less disposable income back then and a holiday party was really the big social event they would throw each year. My parents would go to a couple of these in the neighborhood (for a very brief “thank you for the invitation” sort of way) but we were pretty poor even among the lower middle class and mostly entertained ourselves with family events (which were huge given the Catholic-sized families involved over multiple generations). For my family it was the annual tree decorating that represented the climax of the yule season before the dénouement of Christmas itself.
In my family, it was Christmas Eve. The day before Christmas—when we all were much younger and my parents alive—was a time of expectation and wonder, spiced with a bit of anxiety and chaos. At the appointed time just before sundown, my father would gather his keys and that would be the signal. All but my mom (and an infant or two, depending) would load into the battered Volkswagen van and we would ride through the ancient tunnel under the canal to the local A&P Grocery where my father shopped every day after work. At the time of closing on the night before Christmas, the trees were a dollar apiece. Anyone on the lot you wanted.
We would run wild through the roped-off section of blacktop to the half dozen or so trees left and each make our case for why the one we chose would be the best ever Christmas tree and look perfect with a few lights, ornaments, and plenty of tinsel. Though lively—or maybe just raucous—my father would play arbiter and seem to randomly chose the best among our choices: always the largest, the one, I came to understand, which had bulk enough to shape with a few well-measured snips here and there to approximate the shape of a Christmas tree. He would get the tree on top the van and tie it down, with each of us responsible for watching the ropes that ran through the open windows, binding our precious find for the five-minute trip back through the tunnel.
He would trim the bottom with his crosscut saw and hammer the green and red stand’s small crown into the stump. The sofa was shifted toward the front door and the wooden chairs pushed against the wall; the tree took center stage in the main corner of the living room, just opposite the kitchen. And then came the lights. Stretched out and plugged in we would each tap on dead bulbs as he would take spares and replace those broken or burned. Even those that worked—reds and blues and greens and orange—were slightly scratched and had tiny stars of white light breaking out. My father would string them (close to the trunk) as we rummaged through the cardboard boxes and took out the bulbs and set to untangling the thin, tin wire hangers.
We sang carols and tried to follow my father’s lead (though he alone among us could carry a tune), struggling to find the verses in the green print of the broad sheet our local paper published and gave out free each Christmas. “Deck The Halls,” “Angels We Have Heard On High,” “Rudolph The Red Nosed Reindeer,” “Silent Night,” “Deck The Halls,” and “Santa Clause Is Coming To Town.” All those and more. We sang and scampered while my mother sat near the fire and smoked. She was always so beautiful. Long coal-black hair, prominent lips, defined cheekbones, and arched eyebrows over the darkest brown eyes. She watched and we labored to transform the mundane, to bend that tree to our will and demand its inner light shine for us. By the time I was seven there were ten of us kids, eleven by the time I was nine.
Once the lights were strung, we could hang the glass bulbs according to our height, with helpful hints from my mother about bare areas that could use some color. We scampered like wild mice in feet pajamas whose tiny plastic tabs slid on the hardwood floors at the slightest change of pace or direction. And, of course, inevitably, it would happen. That thing that happened nearly every year and defined the evening and the day, even the season, as it were. That one mistake, that ever so minuscule miscalculation from one of us and the gasp of a child as we all froze in horror. As if in slow motion, we would find the momentarily-suspended bulb in the chaos of shapes and colors and watch it fall, ever so slowly, to the floor, shattering to pieces with a sound like a leather belt on flesh.
We stilled and a quiet would descend on the house. My father, in the kitchen putting the finishing touches on the gumbo, would start to collect the broom and dustpan. My mother, though, would be our focus. Most of us could only manage questioning glances her way, to see her left eye partly close, her lips slightly purse, and the color flood her ivory skin. Like the crowds awaiting the answer to Pilot’s question, “Quid est veritas?” Before wrath could take hold, before the snap of the tender branch under the weight of fallen snow, my father would appear and laughingly announce the first sacrifice of the season. Sweeping the sherds into the pan, he would announce, “and his name shall be called Wonderful, Counselor, Prince of Peace” as he cleared the air and announced time for tinsel.
That was, inevitably, the moment, though. The one that could have (and had on occasion) resulted in an unholy rage and a battle of angels over the sake of the world. Those moments would mostly pass as my father and older sisters soothed my mother and worked quickly to push our misfit choir toward the sonorous lamentations of “Silent Night.” But there was always the chance; and we all learned young to turn quickly to the shiny strands of plastic that still, I am sure, inhabit some part of a landfill and will for centuries to come. Each of us had our own method of tinseling—throwing several strands in the air to the higher reaches of the tree, carefully placing one strand at a time on the already-drying needles, giving up and globing on the handful we had.
We, each in our individual way, handled the glittery, light-filled parts of our lives as best we could. Taking a tree left for the last—so nearly not claimed at all—and transforming it into a memorable (almost-beautiful) symbol of our lives together. There is an exegetical quality to these sorts of memories; they are benchmarks portending our future selves and, perhaps, preparing us for this very moment in time. As we approach Christmas, I can’t help but think that once again, the wolves of despair and hopelessness have been driven from our door and this morning’s first light will shine new on a world that prays for peace.
Happy Holidays everyone. May your days be filled with joy and your heart with love.
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Cheers everyone and here’s to having a day worth remembering.
Be well, be kind, and appreciate the love you have in your life.
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Grab your coffee or tea and join us, please.
What's on your mind this morning?