I walked in my friends' home last night and saw they had already decorated for the holidays, and I felt the butterflies in my tummy because it's not December 3rd yet.
In a family of four kids, my parents tried their best to preserve the identity of each child and make sure they felt special and cared for individually. My brother Russ was born on December 2, so Mom and Dad would adamantly disallow any Christmas decorations to be up in the house or out in the yard until December 3rd. Until that day we were welcome to submit our wish lists to Santa and talk about what we wanted, even underscore our points with pictures we cut out from magazines, but under no circumstances were we allowed to put anything that was red, green, silver, gold, gold-plated, or in any way jingled and/or jangled in a manner fit for a holiday spectacle where the general public could see until the day after we celebrated Russ' birthday. Not the night of the 2nd. The morning of the 3rd.
Once our family started decorating, we also had mandated placements and decorations that were not up for deviation. Mom would arrange the cardboard cutouts of the Christmas ice skaters on the double closet doors in the main hallway, Matt and Russ would decorate the main pine tree in the front yard. I would put up the plastic stained glass cutouts on the big front window, and then we would all bring up the Christmas books and puzzles Mom kept on the ping pong table that served as the year-round groaning beast of burden for her holiday hoard.
Overnight, with a little help from the kids, Mom turned our ordinary house into a magical wonderland that was sure to make Santa blush. I lived for that time of year. I think Mom did too. She was so busy taking care of everyone else all year, whether they were her kids or her parents or siblings or husband, that I think this was a time she could call her own. She takes care with everything she does and Christmas calls for meticulous methods. She taught me how to hang tinsel one strand at a time to make the tree look like we harnessed a moment of winter and brought it inside to enjoy for ourselves. She could tell you every ornament she hangs on her miniature tree and where to find it. She not only believes in Santa, she makes sure others know he is real, too.
I still keep this tradition every year, though I've lived on my own for quite some time now. Even in the dorms when I was in undergrad, I explained it to my roommate who was completely understanding of this hold the 3rd still had on me and we waited until that day to set up our little tree and Christmas lights around the room we called home.
I haven't mentioned the family tree yet. I'll save that for another time. In the meantime, I'm going to make my wish list and wait with quiet anticipation until after we've wished Russ a very happy birthday to hang our stockings by the chimney with care.
Rarely are there minutes in the day when I don't feel incredibly awkward or out of place, determined to say the wrong thing or step a little to the left when I should have been leaping to the right. This especially can be said of when I'm around my family. It's nothing they do or say or don't do or say, but when you're the youngest sibling of three wunderkinds, well, it can be a shite recipe for self doubt and loathing. Fortunately, they're all really cool and hardly ever project an air of condescension, or cast a pall of disappointment over our interactions. Disjointed social impulses aside, I feel most at ease when I'm working. I've risen up through the ranks of what I do with the uncanny ability to soothe ravaged souls and calm down the inner demons, both the patients' and my own. I may not be able to get a sentence out at Thanksgiving without stuttering, but I can Steve McQueen my way around lost and forgotten souls who've rejected their meds for the last week and saved up their rage and resentment in big throbbing angry baskets of bullshit for lucky little me. They're walking, talking Rubik's cubes. The last thing they want is pity. The first thing they want is for someone to listen to them without judgment. They get that enough in the outside world. Regardless of what they're saying, they just want to be heard--to know that someone understands their words and while no reasonable solution may exist, they're sharing the incredible weight with someone with the tools to help them carry it. By the time we're finished, they've put all the yellows back with the yellows and the reds in line with the other reds, with maybe one or two oranges mixed in for humor's sake. I can't take credit for that. I just listen while the pieces fall into place and help them tweak the lines.In this sea of strange and often daunting daily activity, there are glimmers of true joy. Today, I was granted the opportunity to lead the staff holiday project. We adopt a nursing home and all of its residents who either don't have family and visitors at all, or who don't have loved ones with the ability to provide holiday cheer in the form of presents and cards. This will be our third year working with this same facility. I called to ask if they needed us this year and the social services director started giggling like a gleeful child. They had just this morning started wondering how they were going to cover the holidays for the 40+ folks on the giving list, and were at a loss. She said they just looked at each other and then looked away. And then I called on behalf of our staff. Funny how things work out.I work with unbelievably kind people. As soon as I put out the word about the project, I received at least ten offers to help, whether with the planning, or actually distributing the presents, they were all willing and excited to participate. One of our managers brings her friend's therapy-certified dog to the facility Christmas Party (all of the residents identify as Christian, so the facility feels free to call it a Christmas Party). The residents absolutely love the opportunity to pet the wee gal. She dresses as Santa. The dog, not our manager. Last year, I was privileged to help deliver the presents to the home. We unloaded two cars and a truck full of presents for every single resident. No one was left out. Our staff was able to personally sign three Christmas cards for each patient in addition to four presents tailored to their likes and hobbies, as provided by their caregivers. After we unloaded, they offered us a tour of the place. Three separate folks held my hand and showed me cards from the year before signed by our staff, meant just for them. They still hung by their beds. For some of the residents, those cards were the only things on their boards. What took maybe two minutes to write and address may endure as a joy for the rest of that patient's life.I'm a sucker for the worthy causes of helping orphans, foster children, abandoned animals, and struggling families, but I think it's because of pretty much growing up in a nursing home with my grandparents that I have a special drive to help this particularly under-served population in our community. Their smiles don't mean any more than a child's or a rescued animal's tail wagging, but I do think those smiles are harder to come by. Most of the time, they just want to know someone out there cares that they like bears, or the color blue, or that they were once the bowling champion of Multnomah County in 1948. Most of the time, they just want to be heard.
Busche de Noel cake
Busche de Noel cake
Incense at Midnight Mass
Incense at Midnight Mass
Warm fuzzies