Remembering Judy at Christmas
Judy, Louis, Carrie, and gingerbread antics… Christmas 2003
We just had our first snow of the season.
“What kind of Christmas will it be?” asks Sue.
“Like the rest of them, I suppose,” is my reply.
“No, Ebenezer,'“ she says. “We’ll find a way to make it special - make it memorable.”
Trust me, Sue will succeed in this goal - as she usually does. No matter how grinchy I might be - she counterbalances with abundant grace and energy… and Sue’s love of Christmas makes me reflect upon someone we lost this summer.
Happy Christmas Judy
These will be the first holidays since Judy (my mother) passed. When I was a kid, no matter the wretched state of family affairs, Judy had a magical ability to project an alternate reality. She directed her project management skills, seemingly limitless energies, and artisinal talents towards transforming the family home into a phantasmagorically festive setting.
When Judy passed, oldest son, Simon, shared an insight. While she rarely demonstrated affection or tenderness, Judy expressed love through the thoughtful, creative Christmas gifts that she purchased, gathered, and concocted every year. She did this almost to the very end of her life.
Judy’s force of will was most evident at this time of year. There could be a handful of “final notices” in the mailbox - a dozen wolves at the door - but Judy paid no mind. She would direct the last of whatever resources could be scrounged up towards gifts and festive feasts.
You see, in our house, the holiday season was perpetually like that scene from It’s a Wonderful Life when George Bailey gets wasted at Martini’s Bar, loses his marbles, and yells at his daughter’s piano playing.
“Oh Daddy!”
We may have been tiptoeing upon eggnogshells, but nothing would get in the way of Judy’s vision for a blissful Noël. Decorations filled the home, gifts were plentiful and, just like the kids today, we were hyper-vigilant over the fairness of it all.
One Christmas morning, while Bernie (father) treated his Yuletide headache with some hair of the dog, we settled into position around the tree – presents sprawled around the living room.
Some gifts had already been partially unwrapped by Gretchen (a very weird dog) who, when faced with wintry chills or drifts of snow, preferred to do her business under my sister’s bed. How’s that for a lump of coal in your stocking?
Judy made sure that on top of a great number of small packages – whose pleasure was more in the mad ecstasy of the unwrap than the content, each child was sure to receive a bigger bounty – one meaty present that would be the standout of the season.
For Karen, my older sister, appropriate for her hippy, non-conforming spirit, it was a collection of obscure, subversive LP’s.
My brother, Jeff, would receive a gift that today would provoke a Children’s Aid investigation: a deadly crossbow complete with metal-tipped arrows.
As he unwrapped the weapon, the glee in his eyes was terrifying. I looked at my parents in horror. Was it not as obvious to them? For me, it could not have been more clear: In Jeff’s imminent hunting fantasies, he was Davy Crockett, and I his bull moose.
For my younger sister, Laura, it was a hand-decorated, three-story dollhouse - a scale model of domestic bliss in stark contrast to the chaotic discord around us.
With nervous optimism I opened the last present tagged for me (the climax of my haul). The soft texture of the package hinted at clothing. Could it be at last my longed-for #14 Davey Keon Maple Leafs sweater?
I stopped breathing momentarily as I tore open the wrapping paper and gazed upon 4 pairs of jockey underwear – powder blue.
Desperately trying to stop the pre-sob twitching in my face, I slowly rose and shuffled up the stairs to hide in the bedroom I shared with my brother. There I would weep in solitude at my mistreatment and scream my accusations of injustice into the pillow on my bed.
As I opened the door to our room, I saw Bernie standing and smiling (a stubby of Labatt’s 50 in his hand). Jeff was kneeling on the floor, having just connected the last piece of track in a metal Lionel “O” scale electric train set (in almost mint condition) that Judy had found at the Saint Vincent de Paul.
It was quite the shock, for up to that point in my life, unexpected sightings of my brother did not end well for me… But this time was different.
My suspicion quickly gave way to pure Christmas joy. I wiped away my tears of self-pity and within minutes my tin train was occupied by plastic army men plotting explosions, violent collisions, and derailings.
No Christmas memory compares.
Thank you, Judy.
