Category Archives: Holiday

“I felt overstuffed and dull and disappointed, the way I always do the day after Christmas, as if whatever it was the pine boughs and the candles and the silver and gilt-ribboned presents and the birch-log fires and the Christmas turkey and the carols at the piano promised never came to pass.” ~ Sylvia Plath

Leave it to Ms. Plath to give a happy spin to this season, though I still prefer a quote from Madonna in ‘Truth or Dare‘: “Definitely one of the all-time worst… There were so many little things they could fuck up, and boy did they.”

We have dwelled enough on this never-ending holiday season, but for this final holiday post of 2018, I give the last word to Judy Garland, herself no stranger to heartache and unappreciated genius. Sing out, sweet sister, and tell it to the world.

Do it up, any way you want it. 

I’ll be finishing up a seven-dish Filipino meal, cooked entirely by yours truly. (Clean-up by Andy.) 

Merry merry quite contrary…

“Happy, happy Christmas, that can win us back to the delusions of our childhood days, recall to the old man the pleasures of his youth, and transport the traveler back to his own fireside and quiet home!” ~ Charles Dickens

Before the excitement and the noise, a moment of quiet and repose. 

In the anticipation and the hours of lead-up, I find the most peace. 

There is still time to think it will all be perfect.

All the gifts you ever wanted could still be under the tree. 

All the wishes you ever made could be waiting to come true. 

All the warmth and love you ever needed could be on the way, high in the night air, nestled in a sleigh. 

… this. 

Making my entrance again with my usual flair… 

Even if I don’t quite feel like it this year, I’ll get on my tip-toes and make it happen.

That’s what we do. 

{…continued from here.}

The next day began in light gray fashion, but after a quick breakfast at Charlie’s the clouds parted and the sun came out to play. Texts were coming in and most of the gang was arriving. There was excitement and anticipation in the air, and if the whole truth and nothing but the truth is to be told, a bit of anxiety as well. The days of finding thrills and glee in stuffing the condo to the gills with people have long been gone. Fitting eighteen bodies, no matter how small half of them might be, into a more-or-less-extra-large closet gave me agita. When half of them were under the age of fifteen, well, that was even more of a crap shoot, and I simply don’t shoot craps. I practiced taking deep breaths and declared the mantra for the day, only half tongue-in-cheek: let go and let God. I was giving Jesus the wheel, God help us, every one.

The day was certainly a fine one. Temperatures had risen, the sun was out, and it was perfect strolling weather. We walked through the South End then turned back toward Copley, where our friends were gathering at a nearby hotel. In one of those fortuitous moments that seemed designed by some coincidence-happy screen-writer, we ran into half the group outside of the Boston Public Library. They were on their way to Newbury Street, while Chris was headed to the hotel to meet the rest of our friends. I was headed back to the condo for some alone time. Before any gathering, large or small, I find that a small window of solitude works wonders for the soul. It’s a moment of meditation, when I can be alone and quiet, stilling the jittery edges and calming the flighty fantasies of fleeing before anyone arrived.

Unlocking the door to the building, I trudged up the stairs as a vaguely familiar tune played faintly in the background. At first I couldn’t tell if it was even real, or if I was just imagining and willing it into being. The melody was soothing, even if it carried questionable memories. Something of church, and serving as an altar boy, something of Christmas, and something sacred. I paused at the top of the stairs and listened. Someone was playing ‘Ave Maria’ and a woman’s voice rose to fill the staircase. I was about to hurry into the condo and finish getting ready, but I waited at the doorway taking it all in. This, then, was that moment of meditation. Provided by some happenstance of the universe – a higher power, God, whatever you want to believe – it stopped me in stillness and peace. I knew then that it would be all right. No matter what happened for the rest of that day, there was this sliver of sacred perfection when all was as it should be. I wanted to freeze the moment as much as I wanted the get-together to begin.

The finishing touches assembled – a bucket of eucalyptus against the brick wall in the bathroom, a pot of mulled wine simmering and lending fragrant Christmas cheer on the stove – I waited for Suzie and Chris to return. Once they did, I changed into my party outfit – all glitter and rose gold – and the guests started to arrive.

The space – so often so quiet and hollow – sprang back to life. Laughter and conversation bounced off the walls, rising all the way to the ceiling and back down to the floor. ‘Christmas in a glass’ was poured, while Suzie’s plate of charcuterie was steadily depleted by hungry hands. The crafts we had purchased a couple of weeks ago were opened and used; kids want nothing more than to be entertained and occupied, and when left to their own devices will find their way around a craft project better than any adult I know. The Boston Children’s Holiday Hour passed much too quickly, and I wasn’t the only one who wanted it to slow way down. Dusk approached, sneaking in the windows and grabbing at the light. Soon it was dark, but inside the lamps and candles glowed. Kids giggled and played with new toys and games. The condo doesn’t often get to hear such outward displays of happiness.

My friends – the most important people in my world for the past 23 years – filled the room with their own light. I looked around at their faces – in the smiles and lines, in the way that we were now, beyond any doubt, adults on the verge and in the midst of middle age, for better or worse – and I felt the way most of us only ever get to feel a few times every few years: happy, content, and bursting with the sublime. It was the way I felt for each of their weddings, and when I met each of their kids for the first time. It’s the way I feel when Andy and I have a perfect night out and I’m reminded of the night we first fell in love. It’s the way I feel when my family and I come together and recall a happy childhood memory. It doesn’t happen as much as I’d like; it doesn’t happen as much as it should – so I hold onto it a little bit tighter, and I put it down here so we can bookmark the moment.

I was just about done with Christmas.

It started so early this year, and it just never let up.

I was burnt out by the whole scene, especially considering the various mishaps that had already all but ruined the season. We still hadn’t even come with a week of the damn day, and all the events planned suddenly felt like insurmountable chores rather than exercises of enjoyment, and what’s the point of any of it then? I was spent. The real reason for the season had once again dissipated like the final wispy throes of a dying candle. The sparkling remnants of a broken Christmas ornament waited to be swept away beneath the tree, while holiday lights blinked blankly in the dark night. A dismal ache of emptiness; the sigh of a discontented season.

Into this madness I’d scheduled the Boston Children’s Holiday Hour, and eighteen people (nine of whom were under the age of fifteen) were about to descend upon my one bedroom condo on Braddock Park. It had coalesced into something that was verging on terrifying for me; the only thing that allayed my social anxiety (after a week of constant social interaction with office holiday parties, grab bags, dinners out, and family strife) was the thought that these were my safe people – the singular group of people I’d chosen as a family of sorts even and especially when the real thing could not be counted on. These were the people who had seen me at my absolute worst and not given up or turned away. We grew up together in the best possible way: out of choice. A choice to stay close and stay in touch no matter how much time or distance passed. A choice to remain in each other’s lives as we got older, got married, had children, lost loved ones, advanced through jobs, and went along our own mad paths of existence. Simply surviving in the world can be daunting, and some of these people have had it very difficult indeed. When we’re together, though, everything’s a little better. Maybe we are reminded of how simple things were when they were all back in school, living in that house on College Ave. I was only a visitor – the best friend of Suzie – but she was so beloved they each took me in and embraced me in all my non-glory. They became a family when I wasn’t sure if I could depend on my own. They did so unquestioningly, not taking any of my proclivities – sexual or otherwise – into consideration. To be so accepted was something new and startlingly wonderful. The best part is that when you go through something with someone when you’re both young, you can keep that as part of your very core make-up. It’s almost like being born into it. I like to think we caught that just in time, just before our souls solidified into the people we would forever be. They certainly informed the man I am today, and if there’s anything good or decent or compassionate about me, they each played a part in it.

With that in mind, quelling doubts and concerns about things being broken or burned, I entered my favorite city, where Chris and his son Simon were on their way to the condo from Harvard Square. There was just enough time to get everyone’s gift bags in order, turn on the Christmas lights, and prepare for a weekend with the kids.

Simon had been at last year’s Children’s Hour, and we’d had a blast then, but kids change a lot in a year, and I was sure he had little to no memory of all the mayhem that happened then. Childhood is forgiving that way. We caught up in no time, and whereas last year it took him a while to come out of his shell, this time he was ready to go within minutes of making a book together. While waiting for the glue to dry, we headed out to dinner at a family restaurant (according to Chris, most five-year-olds have a half-hour of table-sitting time before other distractions are needed, and apparently a bar is not an appropriate distraction, though I don’t know what we are teaching kids…) Though Simon favors a stroller, he did deign to hold my hand for the escalators and stairs.

Considering that half-hour warning, dinner went surprisingly smoothly, though we passed on dessert in favor of a visit to the Chipyard at Quincy Market. There the Faneuil Hall tree rose skyward in all its magnificence. Kira and I had missed it on our Holiday Stroll, so I was glad to mingle with the tourists for a bit and watch the light show with Simon. Seeing that through the eyes of a child was reason enough to believe in Christmas again.

Back at the condo, with preparations for the next day almost complete, there was nothing left to do but hunker down for the night. We set up the pull-out bed for Chris and Simon (hey, it was their turn as Kira and I had been relegated to it last year) and Simon helped me put the sheets on. I was told that he would be back up at 7:30 AM…

{To be continued…}

Now accepting recommendations for holiday movies. Here’s my current list, which runs the gamut:

• ‘Auntie Mame‘
• ‘The Man Who Came to Dinner‘
• ‘Carol‘
• ‘Love Actually’
• ‘The Family Stone’
• ‘Meet Me In St. Louis‘
• ‘A Christmas Story’
• ‘Scrooged’
• ‘Home Alone’
• ‘The Bishop’s Wife’

Some of these I watch faithfully every year, some of them I only visit once in a great while. I’m always looking for new suggestions. (You’ll also notice a few glaring omissions, so if you have a compelling reason for me to revisit ‘It’s A Wonderful Life’ or ‘Miracle on 34th Street’ I’m open to hearing it.) 

This is not a feel-good Christmas post.

If you’ve come here looking for holiday spirit or happiness, move along.

Seriously, keep going. Do not pause here. Do not read further. Come back another time. Closed.

Anyone who remains is going to get an earful of Christmas sass and a slap of cold hard truth.

When I was a kid, my favorite television episodes were those that had a holiday theme to them. Some tied in little variations of the Scrooge story, some threw in the birth of Jesus, some just made their usually-snarky villains experience a momentary reprieve from their evil ways – a softening and brief suspension of their otherwise-integral shit-stirring.

I loved these episodes because they made it seem like Christmas had the power to change an asshole from an asshole into a decent person. They made me believe that redemption was possible, that it was never too late to become “nice” and “good” and all that stuff. And for one shining sitcom/drama moment, maybe it was.

The funny thing about this televised version of Christmas, as well as the real-life commercialized extravaganza itself, is that for that one moment you start to believe that most of the world is good, that most people will, if given the choice, do the right thing. And it makes you feel good.

Then a day passes.

Then two.

Soon it’s New Year’s Day and all you do is make wishes for your own self, your own wants, your own resolutions and desires. You forget the good that Christmas briefly brought. You forget and you forget and all that is left is some dim memory of happiness that you will attempt to rekindle next year.

There are worse things, I suppose. But not after you realize what you’re doing. Not after you realize how it works, how hollow it all ends up being. Once you realize that, you are complicit and guilty of the game. That’s why some people have children, I imagine. To start it all over again. To try to make the good stick. To try to make the good into something real and lasting.

But it isn’t.

It wasn’t.

It never will be.

When I was a little boy, one of my favorite things to do in the days leading up to Christmas was to crawl beneath the Christmas tree when it was lit at night and look up into the branches. From this interior vantage point, I was both secretly concealed (I always liked to be hidden) and afforded views no one else had. I was within looking out, and that’s one of the best views to have.

Behind the thick exterior of pine needles, the inside area opened up. Where less light reached, a thinning of branches occurred. Foliage wise, the interior of a Christmas tree can be hollow. One could see clearly the beauty of the trunk, the architecture of the branches and the congealed rivulets of sap. One could follow in the footsteps of chipmunks and squirrels, tracing how they might climb and disperse to evade predators, or where they might hide their plunder. Illuminated by Christmas lights, the natural beauty of the tree found particular splendor. I stayed there, pondering the prettiness of the season, holding onto my childhood because I already knew that life would only get more difficult. 

The heart of a tree is a private place, and only in such secrecy could I be comfortable enough to show my pain.

This year I remembered the balm of being in the midst of such beauty.  On a night otherwise filled with sadness, I pulled a pillow from the couch and worked my way under the lower limbs of the tree. I looked up and into the branches closest to the trunk. This tree that I’d grown for fourteen years, this perfectly-imperfect piece of nature and wonder – it held its sharp needles tightly to itself, as dearly as I held onto childhood memories. 

No matter how old I get, there is still wonder and pain there. Here. 

Beneath the prickly boughs, salty gratitude and anger like the sea rolled over my face.

The journey that brought us to this year’s Christmas tree began about fourteen years ago. We had only been in our home for a short time and the front yard was still a barren wasteland devoid of character or anything other than standard yew and juniper fare. The lawn tumbled rather ungracefully to the street, so the main view one had when surveying things from the front door was an expanse of dark pavement. To break this up, I planted an island of three specimens: a Chinese dogwood, a Chamaecyparis, and a tiny foot-tall blue spruce. Between this and the street I planted a long row of Thuja ‘Steeplechase’ – about a dozen.

I knew the spruce would eventually outgrew the space, but it would take a while – at least a decade – and I couldn’t see that far ahead back then, so in it went. The first few years it stayed relatively small, with only a few new puffs of soft blue-gray needles appearing each spring. It also had enough room to develop a decent coniferous form. When it was about five or six, it was the perfect size for a strand or two of Christmas lights, so I ran an extension cord all the way down the lawn and lit it up.

Eventually though, as all babies and children do, it grew up. The neighboring dogwood had grown too, as had the Chamaecyparis (which I’d had to cut down a few years ago thanks to its size and unruliness). The blue spruce was reaching true Christmas-tree size. Whether utilized as such or not, it would need to be taken out. The dogwood was already bending its beautiful limbs around it, and where it refused to yield the spruce was making motions against its pretty form.

For the last two years, I’ve been promising to cut it down and bring it in for Christmas, but each time something came up. This year my co-worker Heath said he had a chainsaw (gas and oil-powered!) and could make quick work of cutting it down. Since it was about ten feet tall, I pruned off the lower branches, marked off a suitable place to cut, and had Heath over after work to make it all fall down. After planning and picturing it for years, the actual event was woefully anti-climactic. The mighty spruce was felled in a few seconds, and Heath leveled the stump at the ground. It was as if no spruce occupied the space for all those years. The tricks of time. The wonder of nature. The weight of the world.

We propped it up in the garage, where it lowered its boughs gloriously, seeming to expand before our eyes. It would require additional pruning to bring it to a manageable size, but it was, in my eyes, practically perfect. Proud as a parent and a peacock, I remembered how small it was when I planted it in our front yard. I thought of all it had seen – all the summers and springs and winters, all the guests and family and friends who had paraded by, all the games of hide and seek with my niece and nephew. It was a special tree, and it was getting a special send-off.

Draped with lights and decorations, it takes pride-of-place in our living room, scenting the whole house with its gloriously fresh pine fragrance – the perfume that only Christmas can conjure. So much lovelier than dismembering it into a bunch of brown lawn bags come the spring.

(Many thanks to Heath and his chainsaw for making it happen!)

By the time of this posting, we will have hopefully cut down our own Christmas tree this year (and by “we” I mean my co-worker Heath, who has a chainsaw that runs on gas and oil, as most of them do I’m told). This marks the first time “we” are cutting our own, but the blue spruce I planted about ten years ago is finally outgrowing its space and infringing on the form of a Chinese dogwood, so down it must go. I’d rather use it as our Christmas tree than simply dismember it, distributing its parts among lawn bags come spring.

To prepare for the cutting, I trimmed the lower branches, saving some of the boughs for this hearthside display you see here. Strung with a few holiday lights, it makes a simple yet effective Christmas scene, and brightens up an otherwise dim section of the family room. It works well with the brick, and the new leather couch, while adding that traditional Christmas tree scent that is so evocative of happy childhood memories. Such rustic elements are indicative of the coming winter, when subtle beauty – mostly textures and tints – takes the place of brighter, sunnier components.