Reliving the holiday hangover

Our family Christmas celebration was rather mild this year.

None of us over- imbibed in my potent rum punch and all drop-in guests were welcomed. No child wept with disappointment at not receiving a Play Station 3, and adults were delighted to receive presents they did not plan to re-gift.

In retrospect, I thought about my own remembrances of the holidays, some as warm and fuzzy as comfortable slippers, others as sad as a Charlie Brown Christmas tree.

After our gift exchange, I shared some of my own childhood memories with my family. I told them about “Old Man Brown,” a friend of my Uncle Bill, who after imbibing in too much holiday eggs nog, fell into our Christmas tree, knocking it against the bay window, decapitating two of the wise men in the manger scene in the process.

I remembered how our family gradually diminished. Each year saw another death. My grandparents, aunts and uncles faded away until there were only three of us left. We were adopted for holidays by a gregarious Italian family who were friends of my parents. I smile when I think about Jack, still spry in spite of an artificial leg, and his wife, Bertha, who weighed close to 300 pounds, dancing around the living room as the victrola played “Waltz Me Around Again Willie.”

My sharing started a chain of recollections within the family. In our churchgoing years, the kids were encouraged to make a bed for the Baby Jesus in the manger by writing down the little sacrifices they had made. We still have the manger with a Hummel figurine of the Christ Child resting on fading paper sacrifices. My oldest son admitted he lied when he wrote: “I wanted to listen to a song on the radio, but I listened to a holy song instead.” Sheila said she secretly sucked her thumb even though she promised Jesus she wouldn’t.

Accompanying the wise men under our tree is a miniature car labeled “Duane’s Van.” It serves as a constant reminder to Paul, who, over 30 years ago, failed to buy Christmas presents for family members. He assured us that all of the gifts would be arriving in his friend Duane’s van, which, of course, never materialized.

We remembered my ex-husband’s eccentric Aunt Vera, who after too many bourbon and sodas, mistook cat food pellets sitting in a bowl on the kitchen counter for Chex Mix and ate half of the cat’s dinner before discovering her mistake.

Then there was Aunt Mae who always removed her ill-fitting upper dentures before she ate. Placing her pearly choppers carefully next to her wine glass, she sent an unsuspecting guest sitting next to her into shock.

I thought about the year my friend, Nancy was dying of cancer. I had spent most of the week before Christmas keeping a vigil at the hospital and forgot to wrap all of my youngest daughter’s presents. With tears running down her cheeks, Sheila asked : “Why did Santa forget me?”

Our memories are permanent ghosts that we never want to disappear.

They hover over our holiday celebrations like benign spirits reminding us of the laughter and tears that bind us together.