Holiday Traditions

This time of year, as we try to successfully manage the multitude of tasks of the holidays – the buying and wrapping of all the gifts, the untangling and set-up of the outdoor lights, the searching for the assembly instructions for the artificial tree, the planning of the what we hope to be an uncomplicated Christmas Day menu and then recovering from the aftermath of the post-holiday household mess, I often think back to Christmases past, when over thirty of us gathered on Christmas Eve at my Granny and Papaw’s house every year, where we ate and ate (carbs were not yet the enemy), laughed at the same stories repeated year-after-year and where the matriarch of our family, my Granny, worked to make it a real family holiday.

Don’t get me wrong – it was a far cry from the “Osmond Family Christmas Special,” where everyone was impeccably coiffed and perfectly outfitted in their coordinating holiday sweaters singing Christmas carols in harmony and drinking non-alcoholic holiday eggnog around the fireplace. It was quite the opposite, really. (I would fondly describe it now more like “Larry the Cable Guy” meets “Paula Deen.”) It was loud, unedited, politically-incorrect, always too much food and there was always an expected element of surprise involved. There was the cousin whose tradition it was to show up having consumed too many holiday spirits; the Uncle who never hesitated in telling the not-so-appropriate jokes and stories in front of all the grandchildren and the family members who were always hours late in arriving (the same that were the first to leave before the clean-up process began). It was a big occasion, as my Granny would wear her “good” dress and my Papaw would wear his nicest pants and one of his Fedora hats and as tradition would warrant, he would always put one of those self-adhesive Christmas bows on his forehead and pose for a picture. I loved that part of Christmas. As a kid, I couldn’t imagine any holiday more perfect. It was after all, our tradition. It’s what we always did; what we were expected to do and deviating from that annual activity was not even considered.

But, sadly, with the passing of my Granny and Papaw, that tradition also disappeared. Everyone now has their own families, kids, and grandchildren. Everyone is scattered, busy and now disconnected from each other. I knew that after my Granny was gone, that there would no longer be a family matriarch and the annual get-togethers would also be gone. We’ve all made our own individual family traditions, now. There is still too much food and warm beer, but the pink and green Divinity candy is no longer made and we’re now way too “p-c” to tell those inappropriate stories.

A few weeks ago, as I rushed through the grocery store to make my way out to the parking lot with one of my many grocery purchases to prepare for much-too-much holiday excess, there was a little man in front of me, shuffling slowly ahead. I immediately thought of my Papaw and our holiday traditions of years’ past, as he was wearing a Fedora hat. He was moving very slow, carrying his single plastic grocery bag. His crisp white shirt was tucked into his blue and white striped seersucker pants and I noticed his belt had missed one belt loop. I was in a hurry, as always, and briefly thought about walking past him, but, I then reconsidered. I wanted to help him along; ask him if he needed anything, tuck his belt into the missing loop and give him a hug. After all, he was probably somebody’s special Papaw. Instead of walking around him, I decided to move slowly behind him, feeling it would be disrespectful to pass him, like a car moving too slow in the fast lane.

I think about my Granny and Papaw often, especially around Christmas. I know now there’s no picture perfect family or stress-free holiday and now truly appreciate their efforts in keeping those traditions alive. Remembering the many not-made-for-tv celebrations we had, I now believe that our annual dysfunctional family gathering was really the best of all holiday traditions. I miss the chaos, my Uncle’s politically-incorrect stories and the crazy extended family. Although Martha Stewart would have been mortified at the sight of our paper plates, Cheese Whiz in a can and non-conforming mounds of pink and green Divinity candy, I for one, can’t imagine a better tradition.

I look forward to the day when I am the “Granny.” On holidays, I’ll wear my one “good” dress and teach my daughter how to host a great holiday celebration and carry on the torch as matriarch. No matching holiday sweaters or singing carols in harmony will be required, but no doubt it will be complete with dysfunction, too much holiday cheer, too much food and a bow stuck on our foreheads, just for fun.