Beech Tree News Network

Earlier today, I was listening to my granddaughter, Sabria, laugh as she dropped red and green beads into the icing atop a solid chocolate candy house that she and her mother, Natalie, were putting together.  She cheered for herself after each successful try.  (She has yet to learn the adult practice of false modesty.)  She wanted to start nibbling on it as soon as it was finished, but her mom, like moms everywhere, told her it’s too pretty to eat, you will have to wait until later, and stand still so I can get your picture with it.  Unbeknownst to Natalie, she placed the house on the kitchen table in the exact spot where the afternoon sun beams through the separated curtains with laser beam intensity. As the minutes ticked by, a small hole began to form in the back wall of the house.  It grew until the wall collapsed, taking down the house with it.  To her credit, when Natalie discovered the blocks of broken chocolate, which were once her candy house, she laughed.  She gave a piece to Sabria, who was delighted to practice this new word, “chocolate,” with each bite.
    For me, it is the mishap, the unexpected and sometimes the downright strange that has made my memorable Christmases.  If you could see all of the Post Its and notepads of lists on every flat surface of my house, you would never believe it.  At my core, I’m one of those unrealistic, Clark Grisswaldians who still thinks she can pull off the perfect Christmas.  If ever I did, I don’t remember it.  At the end of most Christmases, I, like Clark, am saying to Garey, “Look around you. We’re at the threshold of Hell.”
    I have cried my way through the holidays over burnt peanut brittle, fallen cakes, toys I couldn’t locate, lights that wouldn’t stay anchored to the roof, presents I forgot and one silk poinsettia that went up in flames.  (The poinsettia was Garey’s fault.  He lit a candle too near the flammable red leaves.)
When I arrive at this breaking point in the season, I have learned to get in my car and drive around to look at the Christmas decorations on other people’s houses.  (Because I have a paper route this year, I’ve been able to do that as I work.  My personal favorites so far are Santa hanging from the gutter of the front porch, and a purple hippo donning a big red bow.)  As I drive, I try to imagine the smell of burnt cookies wafting from the oven, a cat playing with ornaments he has stolen from the tree, a two liter of coke knocked over onto the dining room carpet—sometimes, I swear, I even catch a hint of burning silk poinsettia leaves in the air.  I come home with a real sense of peace, imagining that my fellow man is suffering through the season with me.
    One Christmas, during a particularly stressful Christmas, I got a phone call from a parallel universe.  I was on my way to the mall when my cell phone rang.  I answered.  It was a guy who wanted to speak to Gloria.  I told him I wasn’t Gloria and hung up.  Fifteen minutes later, the same guy called back.
    “Are you sure this isn’t Gloria?” he asked.
    “Just a minute, I’ll check my driver’s license,” I said.  He hung up.
    He called again a few minutes later.  “Look!” he said, “I know this is Gloria’s number.  She gave it to me personally, and I’ve called it before.”
    “Sir, trust me,” I said, “If I you can locate Gloria, she can have this phone with this number and my identity, as well.  Maybe she can make a better Christmas out of it than I have.”  He hung up.
    I stood in the mall parking lot thinking about the man and the missing woman and me, and I started to laugh.  I laughed hysterically.  Passersby smiled uncertainly.  Mothers stared and pulled their children closer.  After the episode was over, I gathered what was left of my dignity and walked toward the mall.  A Christmas carol started working its way toward my lips.  I had to give in.  I sang the words as I walked.  “In Excelsis  Gloria.”