Category Archives: Holiday

Every home is distinctive, each has its own quirks and foibles, and because of that no one other than the participants themselves ever has a real inkling of what really goes on. Most siblings have their growing pains, and like any two brothers close in age we had ours. At times adversarial, competitive, cruel, and mean – and alternately kind, comforting, caring, and loving – the ties of one brother to another run the gamut of emotions. I counted on my brother for all of it, the good and the bad, and I gave just as well, and as badly, as I got. Through it all, though, we shared the love of one brother for another.

This was family. This was life. This was the way the world had always been, and will continue to be. We may get older, and hopefully a little wiser, but we’ll always be those two mischievous Ilagan boys, united in blood, bonded by circumstance, and joined in a history that cannot be rewritten. For that I am thankful.

One of my favorite Christmas songs as a kid was ‘The Little Drummer Boy’. The simple, insistent drum rolls, the intoxicating cadence, and the sentimental tale of a little boy who had nothing to give but a song – a small piece of self-created art – spoke to me more than any angels on high or Santas en route.

On one Christmas, my parents gave me a toy audio recorder that recorded a couple minutes of sound, which you could then play back. I was too young for a proper stereo, and I don’t even think cassette tapes had come into mainstream play yet, so this little recorder was all we had. After all our gifts had been opened, and we were shifting into the lull of a post-Christmas morning moment, Mom suggested I try it out.

Suddenly I became shy and self-conscious: the budding stages of stage fright and a heart-bursting aversion to public speaking or unwanted attention reared its debilitating head. I hesitated and proffered excuses, saying I would do it later. Upon further pressure, I caved, but only on the condition that I could record a song alone without anyone watching.

Mom took me into her bedroom, where we sang ‘The Little Drummer Boy’ into the machine. Even then I was embarrassed and awkward about it – the pressure of performing, even if just for family, wreaked havoc on my nerves. Yet somehow I got through it, and my recording of the song was complete. We went back downstairs to play it for the rest of the family, and when it started I literally hid under a blanket – so suddenly bashful was I upon hearing my voice for the first time.

It’s a feeling I’ve never gotten over, and whenever I hear that song it is imbued with a slight bit of tension and apprehension, and a requisite sadness that accompanied more than a few childhood moments. An indication of what was to come, there was the voice that everyone heard, coming forth from some mechanized machine or computer – in someone else’s song, in a story, in a photograph – and the internal voice of a scared little boy, cowering from the world and begging for protection when none would be found. The safety of separation between the artist and the art – the perceived image of a man and the reality that will always pale beside it.

On that single Christmas morning, I learned more than I would from a whole year of school, and the knowledge would burden and terrify me.

The sweetness of blooming privet hedges floated in the air, and the breeze was light and cool. Ahead of us the summer sprawled onward, with its promise of carefree laziness and hazy laughter – the promise of a new pair of childhoods being borne out upon the same backyard where my brother and I used to play.

There was no other image I wanted to conjure or create that would so perfectly encapsulate the year, and what I held most dear, than this one. We’ll return to our regularly-scheduled raunchiness and debauchery in 2012. For now, let there be peace and wonder.

I can’t quite remember why we were taken there. My parents were not, and are not, big party people. Most of the parties they’ve thrown over the years have been at my nudging/insistence, but when they do go out they always seem to have a good time. So for whatever reason, we were brought along for an afternoon of holiday hayrides and the warmth of a log-home lodge out in the countryside, courtesy of my parents’ friends.

The home was indeed a bit of a drive (and in the mind of a child distance should be multiplied times five), but at the end of the driveway there was the house, and a little ways ahead was the road heading into the forest, where horses waited to carry the sleigh.

We went inside first, I think. It was decorated for Christmas, and there was hot chocolate with marshmallows on hand – though this may have been in my imagination. Snow was lightly falling – not unlike it is at the very moment I write this – the pretty kind of snowfall – slowly and delicately and just enough for a dusting on the ground, enough to make things pretty again.

Various friends of the family were there – I actually think Suzie may have been there, but for some reason our paths didn’t cross much that day. My brother was with me, but I also don’t recall much interaction with him. It was as if I were on my own at this gathering. How strange that a child should be left so alone.

At some point I was herded outside to take one of the obligatory sleighride/hayrides, through the forest – into the woods. I was reluctant, because I don’t think my parents were coming along for the ride, or if they were they were sitting up front while I was in the back. Or maybe Dad hadn’t even come along for the party and it was just Mom. I only know I didn’t like it, and as the horses took off, the immense evergreens that marked the opening to the path closed off the house behind us, and the light went dimmer.

It was later afternoon, and getting dark anyway. Beneath the boughs overhead it was darker still, and the horses themselves seemed apprehensive, slowing a bit as we rounded bends and went further into the forest. The others laughed, gripping their cups of hot chocolate or hot toddies, while in the back my little body jostled along with the rest of them, eyes wide and waiting for some winter specter of the forest to appear and snatch one of us away.

I was terrified that I would fall off and there would be no way for me to catch up to the horses or find my way back to the house. My mind raced with worry, desperately conjuring what-if scenarios, madly searching my pockets with mental wishes for breadcrumbs or other trail-indicators. And through it all, everyone else laughed and talked, oblivious to all the danger.

I was in no mood for joking, though I tried to smile along with some of the adults. I was not comfortable there, I don’t know why. Today the thought of such a ride thrills me; I would give anything to go back and traverse the pine-laden forest, drawn by horses and dusted by falling snow, but not then, not that day, not when I was a kid. A sensitive child is quick to ruin, easily destroyed, and it’s almost impossible to prevent. This must bring its own form of madness to the parents, and I know that now. I think I knew that then, but what can you expect a kid to do? Close his eyes, whimper, pray, and hope that it’s all a nightmare… and then the ride was over and we were all still intact. The house was lit brightly as we returned, the sky had darkened considerably, but the snow glowed a deep blue as it does on some evenings.

No, it’s not a miniature disco ball (even if they are my signature baby shower gift). Nor is it a heavily-plumaged bird of paradise. It doesn’t sparkle or glow, flutter in the slightest breeze, or move of its own accord. There is no electricity or batteries needed, and no assembly is required.

It is the simple mouse house seen here, worn and torn after three decades of attic storage. Made of an old bark-covered log, hollowed out in certain sections (where the mice are supposed to live), it is a rather sorry piece of my childhood, but for precisely that reason it is my favorite. A segment of the roof is missing, as are a few of the decorations (as evidenced by the glue that once held their bases).

Back when I was kid, this piece completely enraptured me, capturing my imagination and igniting thoughts of cozy, fire-crackling scenes of cuddly forest animals, huddled together in their trees, safe from the winter snow. It was a vision of comfort, along with the connotation of safety and warmth, and, above all else, it was a vision of family. I longed for a house filled with such warmth. Sometimes it was, sometimes it wasn’t, but the mouse house was never-changing. A small wire tree or disproportionate kitten figurine might break off, but the core – raw, splintered, and unfinished – remained intact throughout the years.

To this day, gazing at that decoration makes me feel a little happier, a little warmer, and a little closer to the elusive holiday spirit of the season.

This year marks the tenth holiday party that Andy and I are giving. There is no theme (mostly because I was too lazy), and no new outfit (I’m planning on wearing what I wore at that very first party back in 2000 – though I’ll need a new pair of jeans because the originals no longer fit. I’d insert a parenthetical frown here if I used such nonsense.) At this point, our parties run on autopilot, and there are very few surprises left. Give the guests a warm house, plenty of booze, and something to nibble on – and boom, it’s done. Personally I like to throw on something a little more special than your average cocktail dress, but that’s optional. There’s nothing left to prove.

Of course, I had thrown parties long before I knew Andy, and I still fondly recall a few insane events at the Boston condo, where 50 people were somehow crammed into two rooms, hanging out in the closet, pouring onto the fire escape, and making enough noise to warrant regular visits from the police (who were always nice about it, joking that I must not have remembered to include the neighbors who had complained).

Those parties were raw, wild affairs – filled with cocktails, but light on food – in fact, if people wanted to eat I usually asked one of the guests to whip something up (thank you to Simon for some amazing stuffed mushrooms). And yes, I consider jello shots a form of solid food.

They were mostly casual events, if hyped-up to high heaven as not-to-be-missed milestones. Mainly, I just liked to see people having a good time. As host, I learned early on that it would be impossible to have any real meaningful conversations with anyone at these parties, which killed me at first, but once I let that go it became a simple night of frivolity and fun, light on the serious talk and heavy on the laughter.

Guests often take their cue from the host (though if that were really the case then I wonder where all the passed-out people were at The Arabian Night Party of 2002…) so if the host is having fun the guests will usually follow.

My one secret to throwing a party is Rosalind Russell. In the hours leading up to the event, I try to do something to calm my nerves and remind myself that it’s just a party. I don’t have the means or desire to get a spa treatment or massage, so I substitute a showing of ‘Auntie Mame’. If the opening party scene doesn’t put you in the mood for a good time, nothing will. Remember, life’s a banquet and most poor suckers are starving to death!