A Christmas Story

It’s funny how inspiration comes from the strangest places and often in the strangest of times. My latest came while driving downtown in the cold December pouring rain. While looking at the beautiful buildings of Downtown Norfolk and thinking about my trip to Atlanta next week. I got to thinking about Christmas and what this time of year means to me.

Nineteen ninety five was the fourth Christmas in a row that my mother was bald – and it wasn’t by choice. We were what from the outside appeared to be the idyllic American family, though behind the scenes, like any other family we were, to an extent, dysfunctional, having our own set of problems. My parents worked so hard to keep our family happy and together but with four kids, two full time jobs, and private school tuitions, stress slowly took a strain on their relationship. So, during this same Christmas my parents had marital problems, but were doing their best to keep things together for us, for the kids, in what none of us knew at the time, but all but expected to be my Mom’s last Christmas.

After the Christmas Eve service at the beautiful St. Phillip's Cathedral, my dad weaved through the Christmas lights of Atlanta as the excitement and energy of Christmas resonated from our Suburban. We returned home to our already-dressed table which was decorated in coastal paraphernalia - fishing nets, oversized clam shells, and bowls that were inked with crustaceans. It was time for our traditional Christmas Eve dinner. My mother’s side of the family for as long as I know religiously steamed lobster every year, and to me this tradition has a greater importance than the holiday itself. It is a meal I annually cherish, look forward to, will never get sick of, and I vow to carry on for as long as Christmas exists.
Before sitting at the table my parents took us into the living room where a surprise was in waiting. The fireplace was burning embers from earlier in the day with which my brother and I struggled bringing back to life. My father guided us, and flames appeared, beginning to wave back and forth, almost at us. The ledge overhead was hung with stockings, manger scenes, and candles whose blazes were pale in comparison to the erratic flames below. My frail mother began speaking of her love for us - making allusions that this would probably be her last Christmas, how much her family meant, and how having each other is paramount. She had been fighting for years. Surgery after surgery debilitated her strength, though never her spirit. She was always proud, and strong, and ceaseless, but options were running out and we all knew that, but coming to terms with that is undoubtedly harder. An experimental laser surgery had failed, and the cancer had learned to combat the radiation and chemotherapy, thus eliminating options. Emotions were always tense and threshold-like, always preparing me for the worst. She didn’t say anything of it though, and neither did my dad. She merely walked into the dining room, returned with a camcorder, and the red light on the front told us that it was recording. This was our big Christmas present in 1995 – a camcorder. Though unsaid, it was so that we could remember that last Christmas with my mom – so that we could remember her voice, gestures, smile and most importantly her spirit. Looking back I am pretty sure those are things that someone never really forgets about their mother, no matter how far away, or how long away they have been gone. That voice, that touch, that spirit though at times cavernous and distant is always in the inner dwellings of a child, and inseparable. We joyously sat around the table passing the camcorder while cracking lobster claws, laughing, and enjoying each other. We were enjoying a family that had been through so much, but would in the end know what was really important ,and what really mattered. As kids, we grew up too fast and were faced with many of the harsh realities of life at a young age, though on the eve of Christmas in 1995, none of that mattered, and we spent this holiday season cherishing whatever remaining time we had together. That night we read Christmas books, held, hugged and loved each other. My mother passed away four months later. While expected, none of us were ready for it. To this day, Christmas Eve will always be synonymous with my mother, and of course Lobster.