December 17, 2016 — I vaguely remember the last Christmas before my family moved to Canada. I was five then. Our present was a blue and white record player, with blue and white speakers that folded over onto the top. It was a fabulous present. I’m sure there were other presents, but that’s what I remember. And I remember playing records on it nonstop, the musical story of Cinderella mostly, and this musical story about a vain boy who fell down a well. I’d tell you the point of that story, but by 2016 standards, that story is racist. How it wasn’t in late 60s standards, I have no idea.
The Christmases after, all spent during the six years my family lived in Canada, the entirety of my elementary school years, form my memories and my impression of this holiday. I’ve written before about the mission to discover the identity of Santa Claus, how I believed in Santa because there was no way my parents, who couldn’t afford anything (for example we would get only one pair of boots for winter, one pair of shoes for summer, plus one pair of tennies, which meant if you wanted dress boots, you played in the snow in your tennies), could afford all the stuff my brother, sister and I would get on Christmas. Those presents from my childhood were my parents’ wish, my mother’s especially, to make up for the difficulties of our life. We had poor living conditions for two years, inadequate clothes (from frost damage, the tips of my ears still get uncomfortably painful when it’s just 60 degrees), water on the floor every morning in my basement room, a borrowed car (a really cool one though), no boots for a good six months in the coldest winter on record. I would shine my brown and black oxfords every day to get off the water spots from the snow. But we had Christmas. My parents saw to it, the kind of Christmas that makes one believe in Santa Claus until they are 12. In my adult years, shortly before she died, my mother told me it wasn’t that much. She said I didn’t want that much. I beg to differ. I wanted everything; I methodically documented it on a long list. And my memory was that I got everything on that list, well everything except the puppy I always asked for.
Things were to change though, and change fast. By the third year of our stay in Canada, we lived in a good apartment in a nice area of town. We had the kind of friends one understands are desirable, ones with doctors for parents and such. I always knew the sacrifices that were made for this. My father spent years in the freezing cold and newly made oil fields of Northern Alberta, places you had to bring water and leave the truck engines on and lights on constantly so the engines didn’t freeze, then later to have what I understood to be the boss job in the city. We saw him more, but still he was gone often. I’m not sure you all know what I’m talking about, but vendors give their customers presents at the holidays. I get presents from vendors. Mine are little silly things, calendars, an inflatable solar light; what is that, anyways? My dad’s presents? They were substantial: Hickory Farms sausage and cheese boxes, those were the best. And they came every day! It makes me wonder now what exactly my dad was in those years to get such good vendor-presents? Then again, I do remember seeing these places he worked. I remember him being the man with all the answers. Only now are those words said here: tar sands, things like that. My brother tells the story about some man he met in business who, upon hearing my brother’s name, asked if he was related to the name for the man I call Daddy. My brother acknowledged the relation. The man said my brother could have anything he wanted because “that man is a G__ Damn legend.” I suppose I had some idea of that over the years, the later years, the years when my wardrobe consisted only of clothes bought from Neiman Marcus, when there were 14 cars in the yard of the fairly modest house we finally got, modest because we also had a farm we spent weekends at (farm italicized because even the smallest part of that place is now called some word for something bigger than a farm, but I never will use that pretentious word). It wasn’t to last though. Things are volatile; that’s what I like to tell myself, although really, what my life has shown me is that there is no real reward in this world. From what I’ve seen, the people who make real money and get to keep it (and not have a lightning storm explode their plant and take them out, or any number of ridiculous things I could write about), are not the smartest nor the brightest; they are the toughest and the meanest. They are the people who make money off the efforts of little people. Smart, to me, is not what the world rewards now. It’s something so different, but then again, that might be a topic for another day.
It is from that mindset that I’ve lived for the past few years, surrounded by mean, except on Christmas. Even mean takes a break on Christmas. Okay sort of…. Sometimes mean calls on Christmas, but it’s okay not to answer the phone on that day, especially when everyone knows you’re Christian, and after all, I do have the most Christian of all names. For whatever reason, on Christmas, I remember it all. I remember every present, every amazing time, the riches, the failures, the parties, every time there couldn’t be presents (there many of those later), and I remember my fiercely strong family gathered around, happy just to be together. There’s something about being together that ties it all up in one neat little package (metaphor intended), a package containing the purpose of Christmas. For all of the wild roller coast ride that my life was/is (for better or worse, I am my father’s daughter), the purpose of Christmas is still the same – to feel special, a feeling that comes from the history of everything — the good, the bad, the hard, … and the puppy that was always on the list.
And that brings me to what Christmas means to me now. You see, somewhere along the way I lost it, lost what it meant to me. I can tell you when, exactly, and there are two different ones: Christmas of the 21st year of my life, and Christmas of 2009. In 2008, my mother had a heart attack. She was in and out of the hospital, from September 2008 through the end of 2009, a total of 14 times. She was a Medicare patient though, and in this country, medical care is dependent on what kind of coverage one has. Just before Christmas 2009, we believed she was doing better. We were delusional, but that’s what we believed. In 2009, my brother was going to drive with her to my home in Los Angeles, a place my mother had never seen. This meant everything to me. They planned to set out on the day after Christmas, planned, because on Christmas 2009, my mother had a heart attack, again. She went into the hospital and then developed pneumonia. They released her too soon. That’s Medicare for you. She came home, but died in a few days, a little over a month after that Christmas. And, for me, Christmas died with her.The last Christmas I had with her was 2008. It was a terrible recession. I had driven my car to spend time with her. Christmas that year was sushi as she was not able to stand. If you’re wondering, about Christmas of the 21st year of my life, my parents separated just before that Christmas, the year after my father’s (and every other small Texas independent) oil and gas drilling company failed, poetic really. It was the last of those Christmases like I grew up with. I made that one, but that’s an entirely different story, and a really long one; perhaps for next year, if we’re all still around writing here. After my 21st Christmas though, they were different; my mom still trying, as always, but different. My siblings do a good Christmas though, wildly succeeding for their own children, thankfully. Still, for me, given the tragedy of 2009, Christmas 2008 was the last I even tried to have. That’s the year I took my six-inch tall Christmas tree, a present from a gift card from my mother, and planted it in my yard.
Since then, I have tried to sleep through Christmas; I’ve gardened (touching the Earth is very therapeutic for me); I’ve gotten the occasional cut tree, put lights on my house, and presented gifts to my pets. Sometimes I couldn’t do anything at all; remember the mean people who have money don’t like to part with it at Christmas-time. Least you think this article is sad, okay it is, I offer you this. It’s 2016. It’s the first year I’m going to try to do this again. I’m going to try Christmas. That tree I planted in 2008 is taller than the house now, so it’s time. I have absolutely no idea what it means now. I remember what it was though. It was Santa. Then it was the benchmark for the end, twice. But it was also the best present I ever got. Remember? The puppy. Weren’t you wondering if I ever got a puppy?
A series of things triggered the memory of the puppy. Yesterday, a picture of my dog Shakespeare popped up on my Facebook feed, a memory from two years ago. A couple of days before, I said yes to my brother’s pleas for me to come, about the fifth time he had tried in that week, me never taking him seriously. I texted my sister after my brother and I had made the plan, and received about 50 smiley faces as a return text. I am nervous though. Where will I stay? What will it be like without my mom being the head of the family? Then…. Shakespeare’s picture was there on my screen as if to tell me none of that matters. It was a message from my angel. Even while they are alive, I think my dogs are angels, and I can’t live, can’t function, without living with an angel. And because of the ties to Christmas between Shakepeare and my current dog, Jasper — one died and one was born just before Christmas 2014 — I remembered the best present ever. Yes, I got a puppy.
Mind you, by the time I got my puppy, we already had cows and horses on our place in the country. No doubt that was good. Most girls don’t know they want a cow, although they should because cows are great, but what girl doesn’t want a horse? I had that … and lots of beautiful land to ride him on. Still, every year, I would ask for a puppy, promising anything and everything — the puppy will ride on the floor of the car; the puppy will stay completely out of the way; perhaps a small breed?
It was the day after Christmas. There was snow everywhere, and it was cold. I was 14, no longer believing in Santa. My dad picked up the Dallas Morning News, and without saying what he was doing, called out these words: border collie puppies, and a price. He said to me, “how about a border collie? I didn’t see how the border collie was going to fit on the floorboard of the car, but I dared not tell him. After my jumping and screaming for joy stopped, we went to this place. They had two puppies left. We spent about thirty minutes chasing one around who didn’t want to be caught so we could choose between the two. That puppy then went under the dog house. The other was constantly laying under a wire of the fence, ice hanging from his face and fur. I walked over and picked him up. I said “he’s fine.” He didn’t have good markings; he was mostly black, only one small white diamond for his “collie” mane, but to me he was perfect because he seemed like the one who wanted to come with me. Sure, he didn’t actually do anything … because he was frozen, but it was far better than running away, his looks less relevant to me than his soul, the soul I did not then recognize as an angel. I wonder what happened to that other puppy, but the puppy we took home that night, the puppy who spent every night from there on out under my bed where I hid him, became the center of our family. Riding on the floorboard, no way! In the summer heat, the dog was in the middle of the front seat and would turn the air conditioner vents to his face. Peppe, that’s what I named him. Peppe, incidentally the smartest dog I ever encountered, that was my best Christmas present ever. And I thank my dad for that. Who needs Santa Claus anyway? Not when one had parents like mine.
So what of Christmas 2016? It’s a bit scary for me. I feel like it’s the start of a new era. I have absolutely no idea what it will be like, this Christmas controlled by my siblings, with the emphasis on their children. But I have my dad, Santa, better than Santa. And hey, I am going with my puppies, my birds and my bunny, about half of whom also came to me around Christmas. Hum, I sense a theme. The only catch is I don’t know a song for this theme of Christmas puppies. I think the only one that comes close is Little Drummer Boy, a song of giving the gift of thought, of love, of life. Maybe it suits me now, someone who got so very far away from Christmas. And anything with Johnny Cash works for me. So with that, I simply say, shall I play for you….
And Happy Christmas to all, even those who never grew up with it!
Video of “traveling Birdie” (aka “me” and my traveling pets) courtesy of rci808.