The three stages of holiday tragedy
I can't tell you exactly how many people have come up to me and told me that those first holidays after a death in the family would be really hard. Dear friends, trusted coworkers, and practically strangers have all at one point come up to me to make this point. I hold no grudge, though I personally think it is a little cold to walk up to a friend, coworker, or stranger and say "Hi, you're life is going to suck this weekend. Have fun and see you Monday!"
They also have no idea of what they speak. I guess they are imagining the Normal Rockwell paining of the whole family sitting around the table smiling at the giant roasted turkey. Does anyone really have that kind of Holiday Season? Be honest.
My life before dad dying has had exactly three holiday season stages. They went like this:
Stage one: Between the ages of too young to remember and my teens we had a big breakfast where dad would cut a smoked ham and we were a family for just long enough to polish off our grits. Then dad would say "Have dinner ready by the middle of the day", and he would leave. Mom would be alone in the kitchen where the forces of good and evil battled over her mortal soul. I'm not kidding. I heard voices...terrible voices... I sat in front of the TV watching parades trying not to notice my mother speaking in tongues to the turkey and casting dark magic with the giblet gravy. Dinner would be ready promptly between one and three PM. Dad would stagger in at about five PM, pass out on the couch and wake up still drunk at about seven PM. We would all sit down and eat a cold thanksgiving dinner. In truth mom and I picked at it because we had been picking at it since it was done. Dad would proclaim that it was the "best ever", then pass out on the couch in front of the TV. we couldn't hear the TV for his snoring.
Stage two: I was older, and so was dad and his friends and their interest. Rather than gather in someone's tool shed or garden barn to drink they all had wood heaters now. So after the big breakfast with the smoked ham dad would pile me into the truck and we would go to some woods somewhere where there was some free wood to cut. Meanwhile mom was left in the kitchen to wage holy war against the forces of holiday tradition. All dad's friends would join us in the wood cutting. They would cut until about noon, I would load up everyone's trucks with the wood they cut. Then the drinking would begin. Just before dark someone realizes that their truck still hasn't been unloaded, so they all break up and drive drunk with a truck loaded heavily with firewood. Good times. Dad would always help me unload- or at the very least show me where he wanted it stacked. If he was sober enough to help me unload he'd go into his shed after unloading to make sure he was good and stinko before the big meal. It is now dark, mom would be a nervous wreck, the meal would be cold, dad would proclaim it was the "best ever" before passing out on the couch in front of the TV. Happy Thanksgiving.
Stage Three: I was in college, and would come home for the holiday. Dad stayed home, and often helped in the cooking of the feast. Mom would fight for God and heaven in the kitchen and dad would cook and drink in his garage kitchen. There is a whole other complete story I could tell about the stages of The Man Kitchen and I promise I will one day. Because dad was at home, we would actually eat the meal hot. Dad who is drunk would proclaim this the "best ever" and go pass out on his recliner. I would eventually get tired of Dad's snoring and mom's war stories. Then I would go hang out at the Pizza Hutt with my friends for hours leaving mom to pick the bones of another holiday tragedy.
Norman Rockwell was never invited.
Yes. This Thanksgiving was different. This year I brought my wife, we ate at my wife's least favorite restaurant (it was the only one open). Then we came home and all tried to get along while mom obsessed over getting the house ready for Christmas wringing her hands the whole way. I think she feared that if she stopped for just one second she would be forced to realize that dad wasn't there and melt down. My wife was melting down because my mother wouldn't just sit down and shut up for five minutes. I was melting down because that's what happens to solid rock when you surround it with that much molten mettle. Because I'm so stoney, hopefully neither of them noticed me melting while all of their melting down was happening.
At any rate I commemorated this holiday season much like my dad would have. I showed up hours late with a truck load of wood. But hey, at least I was sober.
