Blogs

Twenty years ago my father died on Christmas morning. He was 100 years old. For a long time my feelings about the holiday were tinged with sadness.

Yet time, mercifully, has a way of easing pain. Moreover, my dad, who enjoyed a good laugh, wouldn't want his family to be solemn. And while I can't work myself up to being "joyous," I can appreciate the humor and warmth inherent in this family holiday.

My son, as a toddler, was not only joyous at Christmas, he was delirious. Very early Christmas morning, he raced into our room. "Mom! Dad! It's Christmas!" Like countless other parents, we'd been up late wrapping presents and attempting to assemble toys. Thus, when my son didn't get a response, he went to his father's side of the bed.

"Dad, it's Christmas," he repeated in his ear. In case his father needed more encouragement, he took his glass baby bottle and clunked him on the head. Even I heard that. Needless to say, my husband did not awaken with joy in his heart. Not one bit.

The following year this same boy and his friend, Nicky, took it upon themselves to open all the presents under our tree. They claimed they were "helping." More than a dozen gifts from friends and relatives lay exposed, the wrapping paper scattered. By process of elimination, we identified many of the givers. Yet whoever bestowed the battery-powered socks (Hot Sox) remains a mystery to this day.

In any event, those socks came in handy. The following December, four days before Christmas, I took my son to the ASPCA shelter, then located on Highland Avenue in Salem. I wanted to make a donation and, at the same time, teach him a lesson about giving. What was I thinking? We walked out of the shelter with an 8-week-old Lab/husky puppy. I had plenty of time to think about that lesson while staring up at a January moon, waiting for Tubbs to "go toity." At least my feet were warm.

Tubbs wasn't the only family dog who enjoyed Christmas. Gaylord Farquhar, our basset hound, was always looking to score holiday treats. In fact, his sister, Shaddy, owned by my mother-in-law, starred in her own family legend when she grabbed the Christmas roast off the kitchen counter. The family, gathered at the dinner table, was unaware there would be no seconds on the beef.

Gaylord, too, found food sources everywhere, even the Christmas tree. One year the kids did traditional homemade decorations: strings of cranberries and popcorn as well as ornaments made of dough. Basset hounds are not fussy. Gaylord ate it all. Each time he raided the tree, it crashed to the floor, sometimes pinning him underneath. Although it scared him silly, he was back the next day, sniffing out any remaining popcorn kernels or bits of moldy bread dough. The denuded tree became a pitiful sight.

My husband also embraced a family tradition: displaying strings of lights originally from his grandmother's house. "They don't make lights like these anymore," he boasted. Every year he got them out, carefully replacing burnt-out bulbs. However, plugging them in created showers of sparks that resulted in trips to the fuse box.

The ancient lights were threadbare, the material covering the cord ravaged by time and mice. Plugged in, they snapped, crackled and popped. Sparks flew everywhere, including onto Gaylord, sleeping nearby. Before long we smelled something acrid: Gaylord's fur was smoking! My husband grabbed the watering can under the tree and doused him. Only then did Gaylord wake up.

After that, my husband gave up on his grandmother's lights. Whether it was the blown fuses, the mini-shocks he received or the smoking dog, he reluctantly packed them away.

Yet they live on in our treasure trove of family holiday stories. Like the memories of my dad, they glow a little brighter with each retelling.

- Sharon L. Cook

Sharon L. Cook is author of A Nose for Hanky Panky and A Deadly Christmas Carol.