THE FIRST HOLIDAY
Great Uncle Macon was a newspaper editor, the kind seen in the black and white movies, a cigar-smoking, whiskey-drinking man. He lived big as his laugh. After imbibing too much, he would get serious. Questions chewed at his soul. Then one day, he was no more.
Much to my father’s dismay, the dress I had brought to the funeral had a stain on it. In the 80s, dress shorts were fashionable, but not at a funeral. On that rainy day, I attempted to blend into the family, as we walked the aisle. The bewilderment on my cousins’ faces pointed to the sorry state of my dress. Something told me Great Uncle Macon would have liked my houndstooth shorts, at a church no less.
As Christmas neared, I was troubled by Great Aunt Letty and my cousin spending the holiday alone, without their husband and dad.
“You two come spend Christmas with us,” I asked Aunt Letty on the phone.
“I couldn’t do that.” Her Georgia accent twanged extra-twangy.
“Do you want to spend Christmas there?”
She did not answer, a bona fide oddity in her case. She, like Macon, lived loud. Her words ‘su-ga’ and ‘hon-ee’ were overheard a county over. Every room she entered, she owned, not by her design, but by the way she was designed. Our Marilyn Monroe, only older. No better way to describe her.
“No, I don’t.”
I was a freshman in college. Only after the asking did I consider that I should have asked my parents first. The Christmas season was the busiest and most social time of their year.
“We can’t do that,” Mom said.
“They need to be alone,” Dad replied, meaning he did not want to see their pain. Deep down, past the layers of grouch, my dad was tender, especially about death.
“We can’t un-invite them, Frank,” my mom said.
Christmas morning,
we gathered on my parents’ twin couches. Coffee and gifted gingerbread from their friends started the morning sweet. I glanced around us all together, very proud of my work when the unexpected happened.
It was utter and complete silence.
I looked at my talkative sister who twisted her scarf. Aunt Letty turned her head to the side, away from us. My cousin grabbed her mother’s hand. I long to say something to end the awkwardness, but here it was, upon us.
What had I done? I nudged Mom to say something, and she nudged Dad. After more minutes, my crossed leg stopped tapping. “This has to be hard.”
Something broke open. Acknowledging the pain a first holiday brings loosened us up. Each one of us recalled a story of Great Uncle Macon, his way of doing things. We learned special things he did for Letty and my cousin. His memory was honored, as they remembered the love.
We had unwrapped gifts without one of them being physical. The remembrance of his presence was all the presents we needed.
PONDER POINT: Holidays haunt. The first one takes us by surprise. If people offer, join them.
If you know of someone who’s recently lost a loved one, be the one to invite. That was one of my most special Christmases, happening over forty years ago. Life-giving memories still come from that time, particularly now that my parents are gone.
Excerpt from Renee’s book,
