The Ghost of Christmas Past

(Pinewood Social.  Opened today at 2:00 p.m., including the Creme coffee bar.  The place is rocking, as I drink my coffee at the community table directly across from the bar.)

Every year, I plan on taking time off from work leading up to Christmas and in between Christmas and New Year's Day.  And, every year, it seems like something comes up that prevents me from doing so.

This year was no different.  A legitimate emergency arose in a case I have with a new client, so it was all hands on deck leading up to Monday, December 23.  I also had an emergency hearing set on Monday afternoon at 2:30 p.m.  Fortunately, we were able to work out an agreement and avoid the Monday afternoon hearing.  Although the judge approved our agreement in court when I announced it Monday morning, I found myself at my desk, crossing items off my "to do list" as mid-morning turned into early afternoon.

I closed the office - or at least my part of it - around 2:00 p.m. and what remained of my staff practically ran out the front door.  They turned out the lights as they left and I found myself, alone, sitting in my office gazing at what was, for me, a reasonably clean desk.  Still, I couldn't really bring myself to leave.

Why?

I'll tell you why.  Because I knew that the minute I got up to leave, I would be walking right up to the Ghost of Christmas Past.

My mom loved the holidays.  She especially loved Christmas.  The decorations.  The music.  Church.  The basketball and football games on television.

Most of all, she loved getting together with family on Christmas Day.  Cooking.  Sharing a meal together.  Watching the kids and, later, grandkids, play in the backyard.  And, of course, the opening of presents, which can only be described as pure chaos.

Every family has its holiday traditions and every family does Christmas a little bit differently.  

When it comes to opening presents, some families - like Jude's - typically open one present at a time while everyone else looks on and murmurs with approval as each present is opened.  It's a very deliberate process.  

That's not the way it was at my mom's house, however.  Not by a long shot.  First, we ate lunch, usually in the mid-afternoon.  Scattered throughout the playroom, den, and kitchen, we sat together as an extended family and shared a meal together.  Always, we had to remind my mom to make a plate for herself, because she was here and there, making sure everyone else had enough to eat.  After we finished eating, the real fun began.

The youngest children - David Clark and Alice in the early days - delivered the gifts to the recipients, usually gathered int the playroom, from under the Christmas tree in the living room.  In later years, Kaitlyn and Matthew took over until, finally, they passed the delivery responsibilities on to J.P. and Joe.

After all of the presents were delivered, everyone began opening them.  At the same time.  So, in roughly 10 minutes, all of the presents had been opened amidst a cacophony of "thank you's" and "I love it's".  Balled up wads of wrapping paper flew everywhere in the playroom, as we (well, usually I) tried to peg any unsuspecting or unaware relative.  The key, of course, was to look innocent after pegging someone, so they didn't know who had hit them with the wrapping paper ball.  Predictably, it was a game I invented, and perfected.

I passed my skills along to all of the grandkids, of course.  And especially to my boys, J.P. and Joe.

Always and I mean always, my mom feigned anger and irritation when she was hit by a wrapping paper ball.  "Stop it," she would growl at us.  Secretly, though, she loved it.  At least that's what I told myself then, and that's what I'm telling myself now.

It was pure pandemonium and my mom loved every minute of it.  No formality.  Just fun.  She was in her element on Christmas Day, presiding over the festivities.

I can see my mom, right now, sitting on the couch in the playroom, probably wearing a Christmas sweater of some sort, with her presents piled all around her, watching contentedly as everyone else open up their presents.  Tracy, Alice, and I always had to nag and cajole her to open up her presents rather than simply watching others open up theirs.

But, see, that's who my mom was in a nutshell.  She couldn't have cared less about what presents she received.  That was an afterthought to her.  Christmas, for her, like so many other things in her life, was about everyone else.  Their happiness.  Their joy.  That's simply who my mom was.  I can't describe her any better than that.

This Christmas, of course, is different.  The last two or three have been different, too, but this one is really different because buy mom is not here.  I've found myself slipping away to be alone more than normal - at church yesterday after communion, I walked outside and watched the sun set.  Last night, as we sat down to eat dinner with Jude's family at our house, I walked out onto the back deck with a drink and sat quietly and, well, just remembered.

It's been a difficult holiday season for me, as I suspected it would be.  I hate it, too, because it's my favorite time of the year.  I've tried to be present, as much as possible, for Jude and the boys, but it's been hard, at times.

Merry Christmas, Mom.  I miss you.