Looking back on holiday tradtions

I know that kids usually think divorce breaks up a family, but it was something that never bothered me; it was something that seemed “normal” to me. I bragged to kids in elementary school about how I got to celebrate my birthday twice — two cakes and double the presents. I bragged about how at my dad’s house, I could eat ice cream for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. And I bragged about celebrating every holiday twice.

Celebrating Christmas was the best part in having a separated family. I would celebrate Christmas Eve at my dad’s house and Christmas day at my mom’s.

My dad would always pick out a scraggly Christmas tree– uneven branches, pine needles falling off, and gaps between branches. If this was my mom’s tree, this would never go down; she needed hers to be perfect. When it came to decorating the tree, it was my brother and mine’s canvas. My dad would watch as we would string various colors of garland and lights around the tree. We would throw ornaments in random places, always breaking a few in the process. Then, we would argue of what would go atop the tree; I always wanted the angel, my brother the star. Somehow my dad made it possible for both the angel and star to sit atop the tree. When we were finished decorating, the tree looked like a beautiful holiday wreck.

Christmas Eve at my dad’s house was something spectacular when we were young. We would open the door to his apartment, presents piled to the ceiling. There was no order after we saw this; we would race to the boxes, ripping the paper off like a lion tearing through its prey. After the chaos was through, wrapping paper would litter the living room, while we began to play with the toys we liked best. But gift giving wasn’t over. In another room, my dad usually had a present for the both of us. I remember one year it was a hamster, another year a chinchilla.

When I was sixteen, my dad died. There was no cause, no explanation; one day, he was just gone. It all began with a phone call, one I will remember for the rest of my life. It was around 3a.m. on Friday the 13th when the phone rang. It was my step-mom on the phone and she straight out told me my dad was dead. I didn’t cry or ask questions. I went downstairs woke up my mom and listened from the top of the stairs to their conversation.

Since that phone call, Christmas Eve has never been the same. I often wonder how the holiday would be today if my dad were still alive. Would my brother and I still have the freedom to massacre the tree with our mismatched decorations? Would there still be presents piled high to the ceiling? I guess a gift I still hold on to today are those childhood memories.

Short URL: http://www.themountaineer.org/?p=1117

Posted by Amberlee Miller on Dec 9, 2009 Filed under First-Person. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0. You can leave a response or trackback to this entry