I’m not sure which is more important about the past few weeks, that I understood something about Christmas or that it’s been raining.
Oh, of course I know the rain is more important. Our drought has affected so many. However, that story can be found everywhere, my immediate thoughts only here. We will work with what we have.
I found Christmas stressful this year, which was weird. I had more than enough time to plan, I thought I had done so, and yet at the end I ran around. It seemed a lot of things became necessities, despite my intention to go easy. Why?
- I had to have a wreath and a tree. The wreath needed a bow. It had to be gingham.
- I had to put out the red glass trees, the elf houses, and a bowl of clementines (I could also have filled it with ornaments). Which bowl? Silver? Or vintage from Hong Kong?
- I had to serve a peaceful but out-of-the-ordinary dinner. I worried about managing on my own.
- I hired a house cleaner to come two weeks before everyone got here. My sense of so much to do persisted.
- I decided against the usual garland over our interior French doors. I missed it.
At some point I understood. I wanted, no, I needed (I rarely use italics. High WASPs disapprove unless required by publication) something we will now call The Christmas House. I needed to strew imaginary sparkle like Tinkerbell’s dissolving flight path. Silver, floors, lights, all shining, surrounded by evergreen and red. Imagine a round globe of warm light, our house inside.
The Christmas House, then.
My mom was always good at Christmas. I don’t think she ever once showed stress, or complained. High WASPs don’t, especially those from New England. Of course, she probably had help with the silver. Curled arm candelabra, big spoons, a basket for rolls. To say nothing of our linen tablecloth, with napkins so stiff and heavy they resembled white slabs of granite. Heaven forbid you wipe your lips too hard.
But our Christmas wasn’t formal, per se. I mean, we wore our flannel nightgowns in the morning. We tucked our feet up onto chairs when we sat. We were seen and heard.
I wanted that house, here. I’ve always wanted that house, here. Even if I’ve never said it quite so clearly.
It’s also true that until now I have prized invention and surprise over all. The adrenaline of the big finish, at Christmas and always. I’m getting older. Might be time to make a change.
I was wondering if I’d need to say this next bit, but I guess I do. Otherwise you might not understand my intent. My mother doesn’t remember who I am any more. She might remember The Christmas House, I’m not sure. I wasn’t in Santa Barbara this year. But when your mom forgets you, you’ve got to remember yourself all the more.
For the first time I am daydreaming of repetition. No invention. Our menu this year:
- Hot and sour seafood soup
- Cross-rib roast with rosemary and balsamic rub, cooked in the pan with potatoes, carrots and onions
- Roasted brussels sprouts
- A simple salad with red leaf lettuce
- Frozen whole wheat rolls (important to remember to put them in the oven on time)
- Blueberry pie with caramel ice cream
Maybe we will eat this, with variation, from now on. The roast was delicious but a tad overdone. I didn’t predict the impact of letting it rest an extra 20 minutes as we sat and talked. Next year I might substitute a seafood and tofu soup. Maybe an apple pie. Can’t call Mom any more for that recipe, which is probably why, subconsciously, this year I chose blueberry. Maybe a cake. I’m a terrible baker.
It’s so hard to know how to communicate all this. I might sound cavalier. Or trivial. I am not and I am, both. I know you guys are kind and good and you are going to want to comfort me — I want to ask you not to. Relationships are complex, sorrow faceted like broken ice in a puddle. This is life. This is what happens. I am greatly fortunate, in my family, my husband, our resources. But it’s Saturday morning and a long time ago I decided that every Saturday morning I would write as I chose.
Here I want to get rid of sentiment, to be practical and acerbically Sturdy. To indicate my capacity to cope and understand. That’s how I comfort myself. And I suppose with garlands and Bach in my earbuds and plans to buy more snowflake lights for the pyracantha next year.
Have a wonderful weekend.
108 Responses
Hug <3
Dottoressa
@dottoressa, <3
My mom died in September and for some reason, I also wanted “A Christmas House”, more intensely than before. I was tired and grieving, yet I pushed myself to create a more Christmas-y Christmas than I have in the previous few years. It was wonderful, but I was stressed as well.
I know there’s a connection with my mom being gone, and I’m sure with yours not recognizing you anymore, etc. but I’m still in search of it. A sort of grasping at something?
On a practical note though, I do always (for these kinds of holidays and family meals) make it a tradition to serve something like Beef Bourguignon, which can be made the day or two before, and only gets better with time. It can sit on the stove heated up and served when everyone is ready. Easy and you’re not rushing everyone to the table so dinner isn’t ruined.
@Kathy, Thank you both for the shared experience and for the practical suggestion. Two of the most comforting things in life.
What a poignant post, Lisa. The statements about your mother are heartbreaking. Why do we always feel compelled to follow expression of even the most legitimate sorrow with a list of blesdings? No matter how much more others in the world are suffering, it is terrible that your mother doesn’t recognize you and you are entitled to feel sad about it and to write about it.
Christmas is so difficult, it really is. If I balance the joy against the anxiety and the feelings of failure over the years when I’ve been the responsible party, I don’t get the result I’d like. So much guilt about not having managed a gingerbread house.
@Marie, Thank you. I don’t think I ever managed a gingerbread house either! And I love gingerbread. You are right. My sorrows aren’t obviated by my good fortune, just as my sorrows aren’t negated by anyone else’s.
Bach in the earbuds. Is there anything more comforting? Sending wishes that you are able to claim exactly the kinds of comfort your body and your soul (dare I use that word!?) require, as I sit here writing a dissertation with Bach Cantatas pouring in (or out, depending upon point of view)—comfort, inspiration, order. Be well, and thank you for the voice you share in this blog.
@Chepkirui, Such a lovely, intelligent little comment. Very comforting, particularly to someone like me, which feels wonderful.
Ah, Lisa, my thoughts are with you. A most poignant post, as it should be.
Love, Margy
@Margy Houtz, And love back to you.
This was the year my mother announced that she will not be taking her turn anymore hosting Christmas dinner. Everyone else did the cooking this year, including the prime rib, cooked at my house (I only live through the field from my folks), all other side dishes outsourced, but she’s decided it’s still too much. She is starting to see every bit of fatigue these days as age-related, and it’s starting to make her sad (she is the ultimate energetic Sturdy girl). I don’t really think it’s all attributable to age, but she is worried that it is, and I think it really weighs on her. It’s hard to see, as she isn’t the type to just sit down, you know? Maybe it’s a little hard when we have to recognize that the matriarchal torch has passed to us, and we’re a little afraid of the heat and light of it, and worry that we don’t want it to accidentally go out on our watch? Sounds like you’re doing pretty well with it, yourself.
@Kristina, “we’re a little afraid of the heat and light of it…” And of the black shadows it casts. Thank you. You made me cry but that’s OK. I think I understand how your mom feels, the question is, when I am being not lazy but just older? When can I accept these limitations?
as you know, i love you.
@lauren, Oh me too. Oh me too.
I lost my mom at 26, half my lifetime ago. I still want to call her everyday, wish she met her grandchildren and know she’s proud of them. Maybe even proud of me, for once. When I get down I remember my grandfather’s constant advice, “Just do the best you can, honey.” That’s all we can do, right? In Japan it’s common to have Christmas cake with strawberries on top. I tried that this year and it was a big hit, so maybe go for a cake next year? :)
@Solange, I am so so sorry you lost your mama so young. I bet she would be proud of you. And if I remember, I’ll do strawberries somehow next Christmas.
I’m so sorry to hear about your mom. My mother didn’t know me the last several years of her life – I remember once I was talking to her and when I called her “Mom” she turned around to see who I was talking to – and the fact is that it’s really hard to deal with. I certainly understand and sympathize with your wish to have The Christmas House. Perhaps doing the same thing in the same way every year (with only an occasional tweak so you don’t get stale) will make it easier – at least until you get to the point where grandchildren enter the picture or your children decide that they want to host. I wish you all the best this year.
@MJ, Yes. Simply put, it’s hard to deal with. And I hope doing the same thing, with tweaks, will provide a different and more appropriate kind of joy than the big bang last minute stuff does these days.
Tradition, born of loss.
@Georgia, Oh boy. How beautiful is that. Thank you.
Lisa: What a poignant post. I want you to know that I make the most excellent apple pie (yes, I will brag about it) though my mother cannot bake under any circumstances. I cannot / could never go to her for this sort of advice – though I am very grateful to have her at my access for all kinds of other support. I am happy to share my recipe with you if you’d like to dabble in a new – but true – tradition. I find that sometimes those are just as satisfying (if melancholy).
@K-Line, Yes. I’d love your recipe. Why not incorporate the community here that has become such a rich part of my life? What would be better? Thank you.
Oof, we were traveling this year, leaving the 23rd and coming back the 29th. I couldn’t have a tree and it really bothered me. I also did so much traveling last fall that I never made the arrangements to have the guys come to put the lights up (I choose super tacky multi-colored icicle lights and brightly colored LED lights on the bushes out front because I’m a rebel.)
No tree, no lights, no fun. I did pop for some glorious wreaths and I put the New England-style single electric candles in some of the windows, but it felt half-assed at best. If this is what being an empty-nester is like, you can keep it.
@Poppy B., Good lord, Lisa, I’m so sorry–I must have skipped over the paragraph where you talked about your mother. How heartbreaking for you. I’m so sorry. I find myself almost resenting the moments in life where I realize I’m the grown-up, which is absolutely insane, given my age. You certainly appear to be handling it with your usual grace and–do I dare put it this way?–sturdiness. xxx
@Poppy B., Do not worry. Funny thing, I know that you come from a family background not unlike my own and I took this for the coded communication I’m so used to:). The grace slips all the time, the sturdy less often, but on occasion leaves me high, dry, sobbing.
Dear Lisa,
The soul wants what it wants.
That is all.
@Teen!, Thank you. Would that we always knew what that was.
Xoxo
When mine were little, I’d often find myself hugging them when they’d been hurt and were crying, and I gradually realized I had a pattern of murmuring “I know, I know” repeatedly while patting them gently on the back.
And somehow reading this post, although you’re clearly not one of my little ones long ago, and you’re plenty Sturdy, and I probably don’t know, but I find myself on the verge of murmuring, “I know, I know.” Testament to your eloquence, I suspect, evoking some similarities with things I’ve experienced, mothers, loss, families growing and changing, ourselves ageing also, irrevocably…
Probably should have stuck with the Xoxo…hugs to you, Saturday afternoon at 1:24 PM
@Frances/Materfamilias, “I know, I know,” is perfect. xoxo is good too.
Dear Lisan
A very poignant post, and as Teen! said, “the soul wants what it wants”.
I too had a very hard time at Christmas this year – the first Christmas without both of my parents. I know things change, but I was dreading it. Then I was hit with the “mother of all” sinus colds and was felled through Christmas, so it became a moot point – my husband and I watched a movie and ate Vietnamese takeout for Christmas dinner. On the 27th we were able to marshall some family members for a turkey dinner which my daughter and I cooked for everyone at her house. It was a joy and worth the wait! Things really do change, as hard as it seems to contemplate.
I know you asked not to be comforted, but I just couldn’t overlook how hard these changes must be for you. In some way I think we all want comfort when we go through life’s such immense shifts…..
Barb
@Pucky, First Christmas without both parents must be yet another level of shift and sorrow. And you’re right about comfort, and I am taking it from these immensely graceful comments.
Sorry “Lisa” hit the wrong key………..
There is nothing sturdy about Christmas. A sturdy Christmas would be a Christmas cold in sentiment and therefore not the fragile magic of Christmas proper. I tried to batten down this year and it didn’t work. I don’t think this qualifies as trying to comfort. If it does, let me say in italics that it’s not the first time I’ve ignored instructions.
If I were you, and since I’m a controlling know it all commenter, I would get working on that pie recipe so you have it worked out by next year! I would help if I had tasted it. Oil based crust? That seems to be a New England thing.
I always call this time of year my holiday hangover. Lots of scowling and lamenting and saying I’ll never do it again. Sometimes when I almost wish to confront myself regarding my inflated holiday feelings, I watch the Family Stone. My favorite Christmas movie. The family reminds me of mine and the house is most definitely a Christmas House. Then the end rips my heart out and I’m readjusted for next year.
@SAJ, I could learn from your commitment to your feelings. Here’s to an unbattened down Christmas for next year.
Lisa, Totally get you. My mother died last year and it was the hardest Christmas. I just wasn’t satisfied with anything and I don’t know why. Something about missing that part of our lives that is gone forever I guess and also being the oldest female grown up now in the family.. Holidays are hard. Afterwards is almost harder though thinking through it all. Wishing a good 2016 to you. Hope it’s the sweet 16 they have been predicting..? Kim
@kim, Here’s to a very sweet 2016. I am so sorry your lost your mom.
A beautiful, poignant post. I hope 2016 brings a bit more light for you in these darker days.
@Kristin, Thank you. I am dreaming of summer.
My mother still knows who I am but she forgot that she spent six hours at the Golden Age Center when I ask how her day was there. So I am bracing myself for the day that she doesn’t recognize me. To tell the truth, it’s scaring me. I spent Christmas visiting her in Boston and talking to her about her family. My brother had put together an album of her family photos so we sat down and talked about the siblings and her parents in one of the family portraits. It was gratifying to hear her talk about these family members and reminisce. I regret that I hadn’t done this sooner. Thank you for this sensitive post.
@Jane, You are more than welcome. Thank you for listening. It sounds that talking with your mom about her past is good for all of you.
I am sorry to hear about your mom….but bravo for you making the Christmas House come alive in your home. The menu sounds tasty and I think new traditions are a great way of claiming the holidays and making them your own.
Soldiering on in your Sturdy fashion is all you really can do at this juncture.
Mr HB’s 97 year old mother knows him because he visits her twice a week….everyone else she has forgotten. It is a sad state of affairs but Alzheimer’s is like that…
My heart goes out to you….
@Bungalow Hostess, <3. And all my best to Mr. HB and his mom.
Such a beautiful post. XOXO
@Leslie K, Thank you. xoxox.
Oh Lisa, dear Lisa. Don’t forget that “The Christmas House” of your childhood was not your responsibility to create – all you and your siblings had to do was enjoy it, with toes tucked under your flannels and eyes bright with wonder.
Now you are feeling that responsibility yourself, while the person who created those memories is drifting away, and the juxtaposition of the two is almost unbearable. Of course you feel stressed, and sad.
We all want that magical, and seemingly simpler, past. But you are creating your own “Christmas House,” with clementines on the table in a beautiful bowl, and loved ones gathered for a special meal together. Cherish what you have now, and be glad that The Christmas House of your childhood is part of you forever. And ask your own two beautiful (now adult) children what their Christmas memories are.
I think you will find that their own “Christmas House” is the one you created for them – and the one they will carry with them into the future. A future which carries traces of your mother and all the memories of your own holidays past.
Peace, dearest Lisa, peace and love.
@victoire, You are right, of course. And you saw my Christmas House, in the days I can’t even remember they were so long ago. So you know. Know a whole different reality than mine – and hearing yours helps make mine sturdier. Thank you so much. Froot Loop troll forever.
When I read your post I wanted to cry. I understand your not wanting comfort from us, but it’s hard not to want to send you a virtual hug.
My mother died several years ago, but she started leaving us before she actually did. Such a heartbreaking time.
@Mary Anne, This counts as a hug. I couldn’t handle anything much more emotive, it’s perfect. Sorry for the loss of your mom.
Thank you for this: “Relationships are complex, sorrow faceted like broken ice in a puddle.” I made happen a slightly down-sized Christmas House thgis year and intentionally pursued small joys throughout the season and let go of a few treasured traditions. I was pleased with the approach but still felt exhausted.
A few days before the big day I privately just fell apart, missing my late father so acutely. There is no one I associate more with all that is wonderful about Christmas. Mourning him felt right; I don’t know if the hollows within the holiday will diminish over time or remain. I am learning to accept the unexpected uncertainty.
@M, Your last paragraph is exquisite. Thank you. Thank you.
Very poignant. This was the first year my 90-yr.-old dynamo of a mother-in-law decided to hand Christmas over to the rest of us. We still gathered at her home, but she’s decided to sit back & enjoy & let others do all the cooking. It was nice & casual & relaxed. My niece brought a big crockpot of pulled pork & we all had fun custom-making our own pulled pork sliders with choice of condiments & coleslaw, beans etc. My husband & my nephew wanted to keep some traditional touches, so husband made stuffing & nephew made pumpkin & apple pies.
@Megan, It sounds absolutely wonderful.
It’s your blog and you can say what you wish…I think your honesty is refreshing. Many of us feel sadness, regret, and a kind of melancholy at holiday times.
I loved your menu – so beautifully balanced and a great mix of traditional and new.
@Sue, Thank you. Balance in food, and other stuff, is very important to me. xox.
Your mother sounds so capable and lovely, just the sort of family I wanted to be adopted into growing up! Our house was always dire at Christmas time, this is the way it is for unhappy couples I guess, and then my mother left the family…The Christmas House has been my own invention. Over the years I have placed pressure on myself to create the kind of perfection I imagined as a child… now I find it easy because the kids and extended family appreciate it so much and the fact that I’ve made it all up doesn’t matter to them, it’s their tradition, their Christmas House. I always felt like an imposter at it but then I realized that just wanting it makes one the Real Deal.
Still, it’s a fraught time and I do understand how you felt, such a difficult thing to write about too. Love your honesty. XO
@DaniBP, What a difficult way to lose your mother. ” I always felt like an imposter at it but then I realized that just wanting it makes one the Real Deal.” Well that is probably something I need to learn and believe. You are, clearly, the Real Deal of The Christmas House. Maybe I am too.
Sturdy, Artsy, or Grande Dame WASP..still, can use a big hug (when no one is looking).
Cheers to wonderful 2016.
-Linda, NY
@linda, That they can:). And then a simple Thank You suffices…
Sorry to hear about you mother. This, I am sure, impacts everything about daily living. My Uncle of 99 years, passed last Sept. The last of a generation in my family. Despite the decor and full holiday meal, the holiday was tense/different and I was too. (I’m thinking this comes with the territory.) Don’t be to hard on yourself. Do things that you especially enjoy. Treat yourself. Accept things, exactly as they are, because they are already here. Stop wishing things were different (this adds stress). This is what I was advised as well. …I’m sharing what I am finding helpful. Susan
@Susan, Thank you. I am working on the “stop wishing things were different” part, very hard.
Lisa,
How could so few words generate so many tears? You always create a beautiful home, whether it’s precisely as Mom did or otherwise. What else is there to say — except everything….
I love your blogger friends, though of course I don’t know them. But the comments make it so clear that they know you. And I love them for that.
@Sib, It means so much to me that you feel I make a beautiful home. So do you.
This year we had the Christmas dinner of my childhood dreams, in a nicely decorated restaurant in Greenwich Village. I felt horribly guilty, yet exhilarated. Maybe next year we’ll have a Christmas House.
@joannawnyc, No guilt! Take the exhilaration and run!
Hi Lisa,
This was a beautiful post and I know, or at least I think I understand what you were feeling this last Christmas. My mom passed away in 2010 and my three sisters and I all hold on to many of her traditions but the void is vast and those things and memories we hold so dear also bring us sadness.
I live in Santa Barbara…if you need someone to check in on your mom from time to time, I will. Coming from a stranger that may seem odd but the offer is genuine.
Cathy in SB.
@Cathy C, Your offer doesn’t seem weird, it seems very kind. Mom has caregivers, we are working on the plan for more. Thank you. I am sorry you lost your mom, and I hope your sisters comfort you as my siblings do me.
No comforting? I understand. Maybe I’ll share something about my Christmas instead.
For many reasons, it has been a number of years now since I’ve put up Christmas decorations or made a fuss about the holiday. I give my mother a gift, and fill stockings for my son and husband. That’s all I can manage.
This year, I couldn’t find two of the stockings I needed. After a frustrating and unsuccessful search, I finally gave up. My son took up the task when he came home from grad school. He never did find the stockings I wanted but in a box in the back of the closet, he found some silly ones from his childhood, made of parachute cloth, which cheered me greatly.
When I got up on Christmas morning, I found a small artificial tree on my desk which he’d found as he was hunting for the missing stockings. He’d decorated it with tiny toys and glass ornaments and a set of miniature bubble lights. It’s still up and I plug it in every morning. It came as a complete surprise, and was a wonderful and loving gesture.
Thank you for sharing your stories, Lisa. Best wishes for a wonderful year.
@Wendelah, Oh this is so sweet. What a wonderful son. Thank you for sharing your story too, it is perfect comfort, tangential.
beautiful writing, thank you Lisa.
beautiful writing, Lisa. thank you…
@linda, I’m leaving the duplicate up because I admit to loving to hear this and twice makes it even better. Thank you!
Thank you, Lisa. Sending so much love.
@Linda, Thank you in return. xox.
A wonderful post, Lisa. Interestingly, I had a long chat with my 88 year old mum on the phone this morning and thought how lucky I am to still be doing this. She mentioned that since her brothers have died, and a much loved cousin, she is feeling very much as if she has no family near her. This despite the close proximity of my brother and his daughters and families. It’s not the same. Mum wants to be able to talk with people of her own generation, who remember what she does, or can help her recall what she has forgotten. She even said that the other day she had a sudden urge to call her mother, my grandmother,just to talk. My grandmother died at age 92 in 1992. As I seem to be the repository for family history, family stories and the like, I always try to get mum talking about the ‘old days,’ like we did this morning. We both enjoy that. And I will miss those calls terribly when she’s gone. Okay…okay… not being sympathetic here… you sturdy gal you! xoxo
@Sue Burpee, I think the clan remembering business is very important. I am so happy to have my siblings – they are the people with whom I share the longest most similar stretch of memory. I am sure your mom loves to tell you what she remembers.
I will be careful not to comfort (cough cough) but 1 friend (50) and her daughter (10) and my cousin (48) all died. End of their living stories. This had an enormous impact on Christmas – the days before, the current days. Interweaving our loss into our lives – and holidays — it’s a process. No answers — because there are not really any…and comfort – also fleeting. I am sorry your mother doesn’t always know you and it’s ok to receive comfort when there is much in your life to be thankful for. So comfort to you, across this continent. And, you will appreciate, writing this at my 7 year olds first ballet audition for Sleeping Beauty!
@JB, Sounds tragic, so much loss at once. I hope the near and dear are OK. And I hope your daughter loves her dancing:). Thank you.
Well I am the mom in my family and I am done! I want to enjoy Christmas and my grandchildren and not be exhausted and worried that things be perfect. I announced this to my adult children this holiday. We’ll see at happened next year!
@Dianne, Good luck!
Love to you, my dear Lusa.
@Mamavalveeta03, Thank you very much.
If you want to be sad, be sad. (Shades of Harold and Maude)
Your house and Christmas sounds lovely.My husband is a staff singer at the Episcopal Cathedral and is always gone from 6 PM on Christmas Eve until 2 AM Christmas Day. I never feel like venturing out to a service on my own–how difficult it must be for people newly single to face all the seemingly happy families!
My mother is still mobile and sentient, but continues her Christmas tradition of feeling sorry for herself (perhaps a German American thing?) and after enough complaints about her having to shop for gifts, (she buys online, I gave her a series of online wishlists for everyone) I suggested we ditch the gifts except for minor children. So we have a slightly special meal–though she does not even use the dishwasher safe white china from the cabinet right there. I bought her a fiber optic tabletop tree so she’d have something easy, and she seemed to like it. I only decorated my own house with a trio of green stained, distressed wood triangles, my Kosta Boda ice ball votive holders, a pot of miniature red roses in a faux mercury glass bowl, and red linen napkins. Lowered expectations suit me.
@Kathryn Fenner, In fact your decorations sound beautiful and very tasteful – which of course in my book is a huge compliment.
I will try not to replicate the tradition of feeling sorry for myself;).
So sorry about your Mom. My younger brother is on that path, but he’s not going quietly. It’s hard on his wife. We used to go all out on Christmas, but after two moves we just got tired of resurrecting all of the boxes of stuff. We’re down to a 14 inch white fake tree, a couple of doo-dads and lights on the palm tree. Here’s wishing you a good 2016, how ever you define it.
@Allison, Thank you. Sorry your brother is on this path, and especially sorry it’s a struggle. The behavior shifts are hard to deal with.
I’m sorry about your mother. I try to make things perfect, knocking myself out in the process. Then I find out others never even noticed my effort.
I made a delicious apple pie for New Year’s Eve. The recipe was from the Betty Crocker cookbook, with an all butter crust from the Cuisinart cookbook. I used Granny Smith apples. I wouldn’t have changed a thing.
@AK, Thank you. That sounds exactly like my mother’s pie. Granny Smith, exactly. And when I realized that nobody might notice the effort but me, it made me want to do more, not less. So weird.
I read your post. It is neither cavalier or trivial. You asked not to be comforted, and I understand what you mean. We have good fortune and we have loss, and life is made up of both. It is a hard thing to face your mom no longer knowing you. Your reaction to it moves me because it is so indicative of your sensitive intelligent resiliency. When I was on my own in San Francisco it became important for me to have my own rituals and decorations. Christmas at my childhood home was the same every year, with familiar decorations, food, china, silver, and a white linen damask tablecloth and napkins. We had sticky buns, basted eggs, and bacon on Christmas morning after church and presents, and standing rib roast and Yorkshire pudding for Christmas dinner. We strung the exterior roof line of our house with colored lights. Unlike most people we knew, we decorated our tree on Christmas Eve and took it down on Epiphany. On New Year’s Eve we had a fire in our fireplace, my mother’s wonderful homemade egg nog, and roasted hazelnuts my dad had removed from the shell and my mom had salted and roasted in the oven on a cookie sheet. I can still see the cookie sheet. All those things occurred, but I felt my mom’s sadness at Christmas, which is when her dad had died suddenly when she was in college. My Christmas memories of beauty and tradition were always tinged with her sadness, which she never talked about, but which I could feel. For the three years I’ve been staying with a friend, I’ve chosen to go to Yountville for Christmas, where my friend joins me. I have invitations to other family and friend gatherings, but I like being on my own in a place where I have my own new ritual. When I buy my own place I’ll establish my own rituals there, a combination of new and old. This is my first year without my mom, but she was 94 and ill, though still mentally sharp, so we were lucky in the complex way to which you refer. The grief surrounding my mother’s death has been confusing because it is organic and difficult to separate out into something I can describe or understand. There are waves I’m riding. In the end, for me, optimism rises, though lately that has not come easily. I’m thinking of you. You are doing a beautiful job of thinking about and living your life. I raise my glass to you; a Christmas glass sparkling in the candlelight.
Powerful post Lisa. Of course my inclination is to soothe. I’m a mother. I will resist and just say you’re amazingly eloquent.
Amazing post Lisa! I think did great… that’s my two cents.
A life well lived is like cotton candy – unbearably delicious (for a very brief moment) and then it melts in your mouth.
Here’s to you Mrs. Lisa’s Mother, you have given a beautiful person to the world, and now your daughter gives herself to us like this, again and again. Could you be the lovely lady seated at the table, the one in the pale blue cashmere sweater? Lisa’s mouth resembles that of the lady in blue, maybe just a coincidence or wishful thinking. Whether that is you in blue or not, you were certainly seated at Lisa’s Christmas Table, as you will be forevermore. To you!
I too am going through that STAGE with MOM.She still knows who I am but doesNOT like ME!
90.5 years of age……………
It was hard for me to get WITH IT THIS YEAR……..first time ever.I did not get the MAGNOLIA wreaths I normally buy from my NURSERY MAN as I understood he did not have enough branches due to the drought to make me three!ON CHRISTMAS DAY I open my front door and there is the MOST MAGNIFICENT MAGNOLIA WREATH and two Poinsettia’s…….
WE did not put out the CRECHE………nor the NUTCRACKERS which I had collected every year I danced in the SAN FRANCISCO BALLET.
It was a DIFFERENT YEAR………….
I too let the CROWN RIBBED ROAST SIT for 20 minutes………….I have NEVER done that before as the ITALIAN likes HOT MEAT.Somehow, it worked out this year…………..
I loved that YOU SHARED your thoughts!
I am sorry to hear about your Mom <3
You are a wonderful writer; even though Christmas is not my tradition I felt its importance through your words. It does seem like such a poignant time for family, memories, loss and traditions/expectations. Bravo to you for being able to meld old and new, together.
Also your menu sounds delish!
Holidays never stay the same, except in our memories. There is the Christmas that your grandparents no longer come over at dawn because your grandmother is no longer well enough to get up that early and anyway, you are probably too old for that anyway. There are the ever evolving years as you and your siblings marry and expand your families and perhaps Christmas is celebrated on December 22 to accommodate other family commitments; there is the Christmas that your brother is in Vietnam and can’t be there, and you just hope you will see him soon…so Christmas is celebrated in February, after his discharge and everyone is happier than ever. There is the Christmas when your own child can’t be there with you because she has another family in another state that is part of her life now too. There is the Christmas when your father is no longer able to talk and watches Miracle and 34th street all day long, and there is the Christmas the next year when he is no longer with you, and your mother doesn’t know her grandchildren and thinks your brother is her long dead brother. And there is the first Christmas when your brother, younger than you, is no longer alive (because Vietnam killed him after all, just very slowly).
After my parents died, we moved Christmas to my daughter’s home in California. Its a different Christmas, but its the one we have now, and I embrace it for what it is, and I am happy to be a part of it. I suspect that your mother’s Christmas House represented change and compromise as well…its only that you didn’t know what she might have given up to maintain for you that illusion of continuity. I hope you find peace in the New Year.
I so remember when my mom announced that we would be having pizza for thanksgiving dinner and if we didn’t like it, tough! Funny thing is I remember those pizza dinners more than any of the turkey ones. Oh, by the way, we still had wine with the pizza in her fancy wedding gift fostoria wine glasses.
My husband’s mother no longer remembers him and it’s sad and hard. But we know her and we remembered her by making her blueberry cake and it was not awful and we smiled. It was actually pretty damn good.
I’m trying very, very hard not to pre-mourn my parents. They are old and failing physically and I think they sense something, because they are never far apart from each other.
Oh, the emotional landmines. They never cease to amaze me–and my parents have been dead a long time … as in 1972 for my Dad and 1997 for my Mom … and still, I often find myself caught unaware by something.
Technology conspired against posting my earlier comment, however that may have been best as I have had a quietly emotional week.
I wonder if the perfection we so often expect and strive for at Christmas is in part a reflection of how we idolised our own parent/s at childhood Christmases? So giving it up feels like not loving them enough, even though rationally we know that will never be the case. Like Kathryn F, my mother carries negative feelings regarding Christmas, which can make it hard to work towards celebrating together, however a change in circumstances meant I could ask her not to trouble over the meal, and that she listened, so she was a little more peaceful this year.
I like that so many commenters have spoken about not remembering, rather than forgetting, and while semantics can’t change how we feel, that small change can perhaps help us to deal with where we are, and where we are travelling, a little easier.
A comedian and performer here in Australia has spoken about the journey she had in the final years of her mother’s life, bringing joy to her mother daily by surprising her with wonderful stories of all the achievements and blessings she’d had in her life. She spoke of how her mother would say “I always wished I’d had daughters”, and she would reply “I have some great news! You have 2 wonderful daughters and they both love you very much. Would you like to meet them?”. There were so many other stories, and I’m certain I could not live up to her ability, but it is something to strive for, if the circumstances allow.
I think the variable and changing nature of Alzheimers can make it difficult, since experiences can be so far apart. Some remember those they see more, yet others disparage their visitors in favour of those who cannot or do not visit, while some recall only a past long gone. For some repetition and photographs bring joy, while others are distressed by thoughts of what they have lost. However anyone works their way through, is exactly what is right for them and their family. There is no room for second-guessing or recrimination – we can only be who we are, and know what we know.
(Don’t look here, Lisa, sneaking in a hug and <3)
Such beautifully thought and written words; exceedingly wise and certainly not at all cavalier.
“For the first time I am dreaming of repetition. No invention.”
Such poignancy here, and yes, although I am sure there is much sadness, and a yearning for what was, what I see your beautiful words is more of a wisdom of creeping acceptance, and an acknowledgement that the past is a major player in who we are, and sometimes we need to simply honor that, before we can move on, before we can invent again. The sorrow stays with us, occasionally cutting us like your broken ice metaphor, but through its lens we can hold that which is precious all the more fully.
Lisa, this blog has struck to the heart of things for me . My mother did not recognise me either and many, many years later I still have moments where I wish I could ask her things (like why her green pickle recipe is so salty and other more serious things).
There’s something about Christmas that makes us reflect on Christmases past and our lives in general. It’s like an annual watershed moment where we consider what has passed, what is happening in our present and what might happen in our future.
For all of us, change is inevitable, often bustling us onwards before we are ready, so that we look back with nostalgia, even as we are moving forward.
I’m of the opinion, though, that Christmas does afford us precious moments of poignancy where our memories are bittersweet – to be cherished for what they are, no holds barred about how we feel. And then we gird our loins and get on with things, as sturdy women do.
You will be ok. It is the way of things for all of us.
Thank you for your insight and honesty.
I’m so sorry to hear about that. Wish all the best things come to you.
What an intimate post. Thank you!
It is interesting that this Christmas was more stressful than in the past (but surely a different stress than when kids believed – ah, the hiding, the staging, the build-up)
Wow. To have your mom not remember you. Not looking forward to that (you have me by 17 years I think). Your kids and husband remember you and the Christmas you created sounded fantastic.
Happy New Year!
My standard line through these holidays has been, “The circle of life is running through my head.” While on the first 5 minutes of driving to a family wedding (my side) we found out that my MIL had a massive stroke. I attended the joyous wedding, He attended the bedside with his siblings. When our little family finally reunited from different states, I made a large comfort food dinner, opened wine and told the young 20’s son he had to stay home. What followed was a delightful evening catching up with people I loved. That’s it isn’t it? Catching up with loved ones.
Only read this post just now. My mother, who died in August, didn’t know who I was for the last several years of her life. One gift that came with her death was the ability to remember her as she had been. Christmas was emotionally stressful for me as well this year. Thank you for sharing.
Dear Lisa, Just now reading this and learning about your mom. Just wanted to send my very, very warmest wishes — hugs over the airwaves — and sympathies. That must be so hard, and so sad for you. I truly empathize. Unexpectedly, your post bring up memories of losing my dad to cancer two years ago — mixed in with remembering incredible Christmases that my mother (who died in 1996) used to put on. (It was definitely a generational High Wasp thing!) I’ve never been able to match hers, either, but have my own small ways that give me happiness. I am shedding a few tears for both of them right now, as I know you are shedding tears for your mom. I probably should have sent you this message privately; oh,well! Anyway, ‘sister,’ sending you lots of love. Everything your mom ever did or thought is still alive within her, even if her brain pathways can’t get to them. And your whole experience of her will always be alive in you. Blessings and grace to both of you (and your husband and kiddos). xx
“But when your mom forgets you, you’ve got to remember yourself all the more.”
I’m just now — months later — reading this post. I’m so sorry for this loss. And it is a loss, this change in memory and story.
But that line — aching, beautiful and true.
Write on & write through, Lisa.
Comments are closed.