Christmas Day Endorphins

Looking out across the fields from the far end of the cricket pitch. The dead tree is as permanent a fixture as is Lord Nelson’s column in Trafalgar Square, London. Country lanes spike out from here, connecting walkers to villages and pubs.

Upon our mid-day arrival at Bill’s family’s house on a blue-sky Christmas Day, we immediately struck out for the cricket pitch.  When the sun appears in England, you act fast. A couple days before we flew to England, I remembered how muddy the boys’ sneakers get on these walks and quickly sorted out low-cut boots for both of them to take.  Snow boots are too hot and rubber Wellies are too cold. The boots with leather soles that wrap up the lower portion of the shoes worked a wonder for this muddy outing.

Our brother-in-law Graham takes the helm in the kitchen for abundantly amazing Christmas dinners.  On Christmas Eve, he baked the gammon and prepped the vegetables: carrots, potatoes, parsnips, broccoli, cauliflower, and brussel sprouts.  He made black olive and caper tapenade from scratch, plus two gravies, cranberry stuffing, Yorkshire pudding batter, and little sausages wrapped in bacon.  Given all this prep the day before and throughout Christmas morning — and having just put the turkey into the oven for our evening dinner — Graham joined us for the walk.  

We looked like a motley crew walking along the gravel path: four of us in winter coats, one in a lighter coat, and Liam and I in short-sleeved t-shirts. Every body reacts differently to 45 degrees and bright sun.  The fresh air brightened us up and invigorated our step, and in our minds, the hour-long walk made more room for Christmas dinner.

Back at the house we kicked off our boots and shoes, put the kettle on for tea, and moved to the sitting room. We returned from our walk with twenty minutes to spare until the Queen’s Speech started at 3 p.m. As long as I’ve been part of the family, watching the Queen’s speech on Christmas Day has been a steadfast anchor in Bill’s family. We may eat early or late, we may walk before or after Christmas dinner, but the Queen’s speech is a spike in the ground around which the rest of the afternoon spins, particularly when June was with us. Bill and Anne’s mum was a true dedicated royalist.

Following a live version of “God Save the Queen” played in the castle, the Queen’s five-minute speech started with historical highlights from the year: the 50th anniversary of Apollo and the 75th anniversary of D-Day. Video clips supported the speech throughout, like the one of Queen Elizabeth and German Chancellor, Angela Merkel, exchanging smiles in greeting. The Queen’s voice-over of that scene was “...faith and hope over time bring harmony and understanding…“ In this brief speech, Queen Elizabeth thanked the many charities and public protectors, and she acknowledged the new generation taking on major world issues, like climate change. The final family scene was of four heirs to the throne stirring up bowls of Christmas pudding in front of the Christmas tree. The seven-minute video of the Queen’s speech is worth the time, for I’m not summing up all that it encompasses in English pomp and circumstance.

The Christmas table preset in daylight when the garden and blue sky drew the eye outside. In the evening, the twinkle of lights and candles created a coziness inside the conservatory.

With the sun setting at 3:53 p.m., the twinkling lights in the conservatory, where we would be eating, transformed the room into a place of calm and magic.  The Christmas table was pristine. My sister-in-law Anne is a visual merchandising artist and has worked at John Lewis, a major English department store, for over twenty years.  Her Christmas tables look as stunning as the Christmas windows at her store.

The gold runner down the table was accented by a little lit tree in the middle of the table. Gold and white napkins, rolled and folded neatly in half, were tucked into Dartington wine glasses.  Gold Christmas crackers brightened each of the Denby dinner plates, the collection of Bill and Anne’s mum’s best pottery; it was reminiscent of the many Christmases celebrated with June. Silverware laid to the sides and above the plates reflected the sparkle of the lights.  

As the final push for Christmas dinner was underway, I sorted out drinks for Will and Liam.  I opted away from pedestaled wine glasses on the table and headed for the cupboard housing the coffee mugs.  I was intercepted by my sister-in-law with an eyebrow lift in jest, yet she meaningfully said, “You’re not going to put a coffee mug on my table, are you?  Here, how about these?”

She held out two narrow-based pint beer glasses etched with beer logos.  I lifted my eyebrows and thought, beer glasses? And said, “Maybe something with a wider base?” 

We settled on short-stemmed crystal brandy snifters.

The back and forth to and from the kitchen started with moving all plates to the warmer in the kitchen, two pitchers of gravy to the table, and vegetable bowls to the table.  The turkey, ham, bacon-wrapped sausages, and stuffing, plus Will and Liam’s steaks, would be served up from the kitchen; all the vegetables would be dished up and served family-style in Denby bowls that would line the center of the table. On one trip, movement on my sister-in-law’s feet caught my eye. I lifted my eyebrows and said, “You’re walking around with toilet paper stuck to the bottoms of both of your slippers, and you’re telling me not to use mugs on the table?”  

To which neither of our eyebrows could lift because our faces were pinched with laughter.  Paralyzing laughter. She nor I could move. She managed to eke out the words “paper towel” and “wet floor,” but the scene had been set and couldn’t be unseen.

Our sons drew nearer to see the spectacle of us and wondered out loud what was wrong.  In all the seriousness of preparation for Christmas, our untimely and out of character outburst of the giggles concerned them.  Only she and I could have explained the whole story, and neither of us could.  The string of communication between the two of us built this sketch into an inexplicability. We moved in turns toward the bathroom to regain our composure.

Hours later while she and I sat in the kitchen, the memory flicked, and I was caught up reliving the belly laugh.  Without a word as to what had set me off, she quickly caught the bug. Each of us was immobilized by the memory, barely catching a breath between chortles of laughter. Again, concerned boys and men came to our side.  

Any game we had played for a bit of good cheer could not have come close to our Christmas Day burst of endorphins.

A Strong Pencil Tree

That missing week this year between Thanksgiving and Christmas is pinching me!  The number of days left between now and Christmas is fewer than the number of tubs of Christmas decorations in the loft.  Consequently, I’m skipping over the tubs of Santas and Christmas-y snowmen.  I’ve decorated the mantle above the fireplace with snowflakes, pinecone trees, and wooden skis – all things that will hold us through the winter season.  They will stay put until April when Easter pushes us through the snowdrifts.

On the shelves where all the Santas usually gather, we’re displaying Christmas cards from friends and family.  And wherever there are safe spaces for burning wax, I’ve tucked votive candles or tapers into the mix.  In the coming nights, my goal is to light the candles as I did on the first night after decorating all day.  Their flickering light is quiet and peaceful.  Simple and calming.  

With only two weeks until we travel to England for Christmas, I decided to put up an artificial, skinny, pre-lit, pencil tree.  Every year, we put a real tree up, and it was tough to let that tradition slide.  However, I remembered that last year the tree we bought from the tree lot drooped and started shaking off ornaments a week before Christmas.  The needles turned brown and dropped.  No matter how much water we put in the tree stand, it was simply done.

In a move so quick it startled Bill and the boys, I dismantled it: I took every ornament off and placed it on the living room table, grabbed the tree from the top and tipped it over, lugged it to and through the door and out to the curb.  Needles and water sprayed everywhere from the wood floor and carpet through the back door and all over the deck as I maneuvered it out.  This was the normal tree-removal procedure – only it usually takes place on January 6th.  With the dead tree out, I set up three little fake trees that I scavenged from the barn loft and re-hung all the ornaments.

So this is not the first year we set up a fake tree.  I had ordered the pencil tree, a very skinny fake tree, a couple years ago thinking I would put it up in the dining room and make it a themed tree, perhaps all snowmen or Hallmark ornaments or the big glass baubles from Aunt Marsha.  Instead, its slight silhouette is in the living room, filling only a quarter of the space our very round Frasier firs usually take up.  I was near tears putting this pitiful thing up.  Its main branches dropped down into place and then I fanned out the smaller branches to fill in the gaps.  Rather than flimsy live (but dead) wood, each branch is wire and shaped easily into place. 

As I felt the strength of the wire, it became clear what ornaments would be hanging on the tree.  I wouldn’t be gathering four tubs of ornaments and picking through them to hang a variety from each tub on the tree.  The handmade lightweight ornaments, the kids’ ornaments, the plain glass balls, and the thin glass icicles are taking a rest this year.  The theme is practical: I have a tree with strong branches; I would be hanging only heavy ornaments – the ones that didn’t all make it on the soft branches of our past real trees. 

I hauled up from the basement one small but stout tub labeled: “heavy ornaments: Aunt Marsha, Aunt Mary, clay, metal, wood.”  In past years, only a handful of these ornaments would fit on the tree, tucked inside where the thicker branches could support their weight. Not the case this year. I’m liking this little change in tradition with “our Aunts’ tree.”

Wishing you merriness and light…

A Warm Winter Air Bubble

My family was in Iowa celebrating Thanksgiving and Christmas over the long weekend.  The house filled as the weekend approached; we were celebrating Christmas on Saturday.  On Thanksgiving night, our sons and three of their cousins were spread throughout the living room on the couches and on a queen-size air mattress, plus one sleeping bag.   In my logistical planning of where all those teenage bodies – plus one a bit younger in age but a teenager in spirit – would land to sleep, I had one free bed in the room where Bill and I slept, and I thought it would be fine for our younger son Liam.  Not so. 

“Mom, I’ll miss out!  Just grab a sleeping bag for me, and I’ll sleep on the floor next to the air mattress.”  So his long-legged body stretched out as he planned, virtually under the Christmas tree.  And close to the action of giggles and whispers long after I had gone to bed. 

Any more, I bow out quietly with a good night and little direction for when the crew should go to sleep.  This was a short three-day visit with the cousins together.  Rather than “Lights out in ten minutes!” direction, I found myself quietly thinking, “Make the most of it.”

Most mornings around five, Dad and I met at the kitchen table.  We dared to turn a light on, knowing the glow would shine into the living room.  We had limited whispered conversation until Dad turned the news on at six and sat close to the TV to hear it.  By seven, a couple other people had joined us and only the soundest of sleepers stayed asleep in the living room. 

After our Christmas celebration, families dispersed.  Sunday night, Will and Liam were left alone on the couches.  Monday morning I woke up at four.  I thought if I left the lights off that Dad might stay in bed.  I made coffee by the light of my phone.  Rather than wrap myself into the glowing light of a screen, I decided to just sit quietly in a soft chair in the dark for a while. 

With the heat set around 64 degrees, I wrapped up in a fuzzy blanket.  The only sound was that of the forced-air sporadically coming through the floor vents.  How many times had I sat hovered over that vent on dark winter mornings?  Forty years ago, my siblings – my younger sister and two younger brothers – would get out of bed around six o’clock on school days.  The first one up would turn the thermostat up a bit to get the hot air flowing through those vents, then grab a big blanket or quilt.  That would go over the vent and capture the air in a kind of flat balloon.  In minutes, there would be four of us tucked in around the edges sharing this warm cocoon.  We would have smaller blankets wrapped around our backsides to keep the opposite sides of our bodies somewhat balanced in warmth.  We wouldn’t speak; we were like reptiles with a single goal: laying in the sun to warm up. 

Along the path to this pocket of heat, someone would’ve closed the bathroom doors so that room would be toasty when it was time for my sister or me to shower.  I remember little conversation about who would shower.  Perhaps something short like, “I went first yesterday, so you go first today.”  Neither of us looked forward to breaking out of that warm tub of air.  But 6:20 was the first shower shift.  We could both make it through the bathroom and get on the bus at 7:20 if we stuck to that 6:20 start time.

Since we had the air encapsulated under the blanket, we could get the furnace to run for a solid twenty minutes.  None of the warmth registered on the thermostat across the room from where we were tethered.  The ten-foot journey from the vent to the bathroom door was icy.  Yet when we opened that bathroom door, the warmth of a sauna would hit our faces.

We don’t huddle over that air vent any more, but we can drum up the same early morning warmth in the bathroom.