“Maybe Christmas, he thought, doesn’t come from a store. Maybe Christmas, perhaps, means a little bit more“.

– How the Grinch Stole Christmas by Dr. Seuss

For some, we have entered one of the holiest months of the Christian calendar as Advent candles are lit around the world to mark the birth of Jesus Christ.   I’m not sure how a humble virgin birth turned into such a commercialized, dizzying mess of decorations, bright lights, fatty food, expensive presents and overspending, but here we are. 

The holiday season was always a mixture of excitement and trepidation in my youth.  I was aware pretty early on that it was not all jingle bells and winter wonderlands when it came to preparing for Santa’s arrival.  I’ve joked that the illumination of the annual family Christmas tree might have been when I first learned my best swear words. The fresh tree, while filling the room with a beautiful evergreen scent, did not always fill our home with those Polaroid memories you see on television.  At the risk of sounding really ancient, artificial trees weren’t an option in those days.  At least, not in my circle.

My mother would stand back and yell out directions “more to the left…no, to the right” while Dad was sprawled out under the tree holding the pitch covered trunk and trying to guide the 7 foot evergreen to its perfect position.  “Is that the best side?” he’d yell from under the tree. “Make up your mind because I’m not moving it again”, he’d say. Mom would still be waffling about the best side and perfect location in the corner of the room. Sometimes, I got called in to settle any disagreement that ensued.

Then there was the required daily watering, usually a job assigned to me, because I was stealth enough to maneuver over, under and around the presents under the tree. The evergreen was always thirsty and drank up water in a matter of minutes.  And those needles.  How they appeared from out of nowhere the following July is still a mystery.

The yearly battle with strings of lights is a family legend or a curse. As cheerful as those twinkling lights can be, they are a bitch to deal with.  I’ve inherited the challenge of fighting with lights that refuse to stay on, or blink on and off, or individual bulbs or sections that just don’t work.  And my Dad’s vocabulary of words not appropriate for a dictionary have also continued, an annual tradition, it seems.   I’ll always remember the year when, just minutes before guests were to arrive at a party, a whole section of the lights on the tree went out, leaving the middle section in darkness.  I probably swore as much as my father did that year.  But life continued as it does and no one left because the tree wasn’t perfect.  In fact, it was something to laugh about and a great time was had by all.

Year after year, I watched my mother prepare tin after tin of homemade baking in the days leading up to Christmas: shortbreads, mocha cakes, pecan fingers, and homemade fruitcake…..  She passed her love of baking on to me in those moments and I learned a lot from observing or producing depending on the complexity of the bake.  As I matured, my contribution became cherry balls – my grandmother’s favourite. 

It seemed easy to prepare a blend of icing sugar, butter, coconut and flavouring rolled around a Maraschino cherry and then rolled in crumbs of some kind. I used graham cracker crumbs. I haven’t made those in years but I was always proud that my creation made their way on to any holiday tray my Mother was preparing. It’s probably the reason why peanut butter, rum or date balls are my favorites to make today. There’s something about rolling ingredients in your hand and creating a bite of magic that feels good. 

When I was growing up, the lyrics to “It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year” rang true.  In those days, family and friends came to call.  My mother treated those who visited with baked goodies from her kitchen.  She was a wonderful cook and I know everyone enjoyed her treats. The week between Christmas and New Year’s was full of visitors stopping by to say hello.  No one called in advance – they just dropped in. It was nice – a fond memory.

My mother had a notorious sweet tooth and it was a family tradition for Dad to hide the large box of chocolates from Mom or it would disappear in a sitting.  She also was notorious for biting into caramel chocolates and leaving them on the plate with  teeth marks on display. I’m not sure why she thought that was acceptable. But I still think of that silver tray filled with half eaten chocolates and chuckle to myself.

My paternal grandfather was a Jehovah’s Witness. He didn’t believe in Christmas.  I’m not sure what my Dad believed, but religion was a contentious issue in our household.  I do know he didn’t buy into the Christmas commercialism of the day. He’d be appalled at what it’s become now.  I’m with him on that.  I suppose the idea of gift giving stemmed from the Wise Men bringing gifts of frankincense, myrrh and gold to the newborn Baby Jesus.  Did the Wise Men leave the manger broke and exhausted? I’m pretty sure gift giving isn’t meant to break the bank.

Every Christmas Eve, my mother worked frantically, long into the night, as she readied for the big event – wrapping presents, preparing the turkey and the rest of the meal, decorating the table with her finest china, giving the house a final clean before guests arrive. My job was to polish the silverware only used on this special occasion and otherwise stored out of sight until Christmas rolled around again. She wanted things to be perfect. But her exhausted face told me it came with a price. 

I still remember the Christmas Eve I awoke with one eye open and one eye shut (just in case) and even in my sleepy state, I saw something red in the corner of my bedroom! I was SO excited. My stocking was hung on the post of my bed and to this day, I’m convinced I saw the man himself – Santa Claus – filling my sock with goodies.

It’s fair to say I was probably spoiled as a child. My sibling is over a decade older than I am so we grew up independently.  While I was really looking for love (hugs, being told “I love you”), my parents showed their affection the best way they knew how, and that was mostly through gifts.  

I always got one big gift from Santa and the others were from my parents.  My Dad and I always had a special bond and he usually surprised me with a meaningful gift like a gold watch or a piece of jewelry.  A highlight from my teen years was a record player.   Other than the surprise gift, I got board games or ice skates and some books.  I remember getting a toboggan one year and a Crazy Carpet another. Remember those?  Regardless of the weather, my friends and I were outside sliding or building forts.  Of course, that’s harder to do now with climate change but the idea of sitting inside all day staring at a screen was unheard of.  

I also received practical items like clothing, hats, or boots. depending on my growth spurt.  Was I excited to get the necessary stuff?  Probably not but it ensured I was warm in the cold winter months.

My mother was always cognizant of the fact that not everyone was as fortunate as our family.  The small town I grew up in had a lot of families that weren’t that well off and my mother always told me to button up about Santa gifts because Santa didn’t make it to everyone’s house.  That stuck with me and I’m still conscious of the fact that not every family can afford to keep up with the Jones’ at Christmas or anytime for that matter.

The idea of a jolly man riding a sleigh around the world to distribute gifts to every child is wonderful.  And the spirit of Christmas is nothing short of magical.  If only we could keep that spirit alive all year: our willingness to share, to help those less fortunate, to be kind to one another.  Imagine what our world would be like.

My mother and paternal grandmother had a longstanding hatred for each other that put the most cheerful spirit on edge.  After my grandfather died, Gram would visit with us for several days over the holidays and sometimes you could cut the tension with a knife.  I wasn’t very old when I picked up on that and I remember trying to be the peacemaker even at the age of 7 or 8 years old. I don’t think my Dad knew how to deal with either strong female personality and was probably tinkering on a “make work” project somewhere. You know, a project that doesn’t really need to be completed but it’s a convenient escape.

Other guests would arrive on Christmas Day including my great aunt, aunt and uncle on my mother’s side. Have you watched the 1980’s movie “Christmas Vacation”? It summarizes many Christmas experiences for me. My great aunt was very hard of hearing and it was a shouting match to communicate with her. My aunt and uncle were lots of fun and always brought laughter. However, all of those personalities under one roof if only for a few hours, with routines out of whack and an immense amount of tiring preparation, takes a lot of energy. And everything in this world is energy.

The faces around the Christmas table changed over the years. The most devastating loss for me was my father, who died a few weeks before Christmas in my teen years. He lost his battle with depression and ended his own life. For me, life and Christmas was forever changed.  Decades have passed and the grief remains.  Suicide is complex and the sorrow never really goes away. In fact, I’d say the loss is greater the older I get. My mother also died in December, just before Covid.  Our relationship was challenging but she was still my mother and I do miss her.

I have to mention the first turkey I cooked on my own. An uncooked turkey carcass getting stuffed full of potato, onion and breadcrumbs was never that appealing to me so I avoided being a spectator while Mom was preparing. Nobody talks about the bag of organs found inside a turkey and I’d never heard anyone mention removing them prior to cooking so….needless to say, I discovered the half melted plastic bag containing the heart, gizzard and other parts after the required 3 hours of cooking. Yuck. I can’t remember what happened after that. I may have borrowed more words from my Dad’s dictionary following the grisly discovery.

We tend to model what we’ve learned, the good and the bad, and the childhood years are very formative. For as far back as I can remember, I’ve sacrificed myself for the sake of others when it comes to gift-giving, baking, entertaining, hosting family parties and dinners.  I’m usually the one to do all or most of the work, or at least I was prior to my experience with burnout.  I guess it’s easier to sit back and let someone else do it all?  It might have been different if there had been a shred of appreciation but in most cases, there wasn’t.  That leads to a build-up of resentment.

Over the years, I’ve let many of those traditions go.  I start my list in late October or early November with all the “would be nice” ideas but it gets pared down as I realize the expense, energy or time, just isn’t worth it. And this year, we were supposed to do a neighborhood potluck on Christmas Day and you know what?  I just can’t do it.  The idea is lovely and perhaps we’ll tackle it another time but this year, with energy levels still fluctuating and burnout recovery still underway, I knew it was more than I could take on. I had a heart-to-heart talk with the host.  I wasn’t sure how the conversation would go but I knew I had to honour myself. The host is a beautiful soul and was so gracious and understanding.  They are dealing with their own stuff this year (I think many of us are) and they were incredibly supportive.  In fact, I got a nice hug and we just carried on like nothing was wrong.  That’s the sign of a person who’s done the hard work on themselves.

This year and going forward, I intend to focus on the parts of Christmas I enjoy.  I love the magic of the season where people are generous and hearts are filled with love.  I enjoy the music (all types from opera, traditional Christmas hymns, to rock songs). And of course, I absolutely love the delicious food and the time spent making traditional recipes or trying new ones.  I like the idea of giving gifts to someone deserving – not out of obligation – but because I want to. I enjoy being with the people I love.  That doesn’t just mean blood relatives – it’s people who love and support me in good and bad times.

Thank you for joining me as I recalled Christmases from my past.  As we age, our family and friend list grow smaller, and we realize what’s important in life.   I enjoyed reminiscing about the happier and sometimes sad times of Christmas.  Christmas can never be perfect despite what marketers would have us believe.  It can be stressful, financially draining, and exhausting but it doesn’t have to be. It’s your choice in what you make it.

What are some of your Christmas memories?  Do you have any humorous stories? Cooking misadventures? I’d love to hear them!

Thank you for being a part of my journey this year.  I thought the blog might be coming to an end but I still have lots to talk about. Does the healing ever end?  Life is one big classroom after all. 

Your readership means so much to me.  I know several of you read my blog in many different countries and have not yet subscribed – I’d love for you to become part of the Disentanglement.ca family. I’ve got some fresh ideas for Disentanglement in 2025. Stay tuned. For now, please follow me on Facebook and Instagram at Disentanglement.ca. 

Oh, one last thing.  Can we just stop getting our knickers in a knot about whether we say “Merry Christmas or Happy Holidays?”  We’ve got far bigger problems than that in this world.  Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays to one and all however you say it in your part of the world! Apologies if my google search didn’t get this quite right.

Shènɡdànjié kuàilè

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