Hodgepodge

 

noun
a heterogeneous mixture; jumble.
                                                       

 

 
My Dad handed my sister the large rectangular present. Wrapped in blue with a white bow, it was the largest gift underneath our tree. Tracey accepted the thing like it was a new born, ironically cradling it in her arms. You could tell her joy from the look upon her face. I have never forgotten her glee. She finally set the gift on the floor in front of her and she grabbed the nametag, ripping it from the wrapping. The inscription read, “To Tracey from Santa.” I was not amused. I had spied my mother, a few hours before, carrying that same present from her bedroom and down the stairs to a waiting Christmas tree. I had spotted it under the tree when I first sat down. She carefully removed each corner and pressed her finger along its sleeve. The over-sized doll fell out and my sister acted like she had just given birth. I didn’t say a word. I sat there witness to the demise. All my gifts from the jolly elf had been corrupted. I finally knew the truth. As I look back on Christmases past, I think of that doll and my sister and my mother in the hallway loaded up with Christmas. I still see the joy in Tracey’s face and Happy Christmas written all over it. I can still feel all that gladness. I can still recall my broken trust. I remember well no longer believing.
 
I brought my trumpet home over the holidays to practice. Music was one of the only things that helped me through my high school years. I wasn’t very good, having just taken up the instrument, but that was the purpose of practice. I already played the string bass and had since public school. Years of music theory and a grandfather violin made for an easy transition to another instrument. On Christmas Eve, just before church, my Mom asked me to bring up the horn from my room in the basement. I had been practicing earlier in the day with my rendition of Silent Night. Honestly, it was more like two dogs mating than some angel’s voice. I am still unsure just why but with my brass instrument in hand my Mom urged me to play. She opened the front door and almost pushed me out. “Play,” she ordered. There are still remnants of that noise reverberating about the streets of my  hometown. More than thirty years later and if you listen carefully you can hear a dying cat calling from the distance.
 
As the only male employee, I was asked to play Santa Claus at the annual Christmas party. At six foot and two hundred pounds, I sure could play the part. I have to admit it was awkward donning the garb. Not only was it very itchy but I wasn’t sure the real Santa would approve. I was on the naughty list and for good reason. Unsure of any morals clause, I decided to take the role. The hat was a little too small for my man-head and the beard required more secure reinforcements. They fixed me up real good just before my entrance. Unlike kids on television, this Santa’s arrival was subdued. There was no collective sigh, no roar, no clapping. Thirty-two children sat transfixed in their own stupor. One by one, each child was placed on my lap. The standard “What do you want for Christmas” met little to no reply. Kid after kid,  it was like a someone had dipped all the candy canes in some form of powdered benzodiazepine. The few that did take advantage, mumbled, or scoffed, and I started to take it personally. Courtney was by far my favourite child at the centre, When she sat on my lap, my voice revealed my identity. Her mouth dropped and her eyes opened wide. You could tell she was going to spill the beans. “Shhhh,” I urged her, handing her two presents as a bribe.  
 
My first partner and I never spent Christmas together. Come Christmas Eve morn and we spent the holidays with our family. We exchanged gifts over breakfast on the day before. Doug had never been good at gift giving. If I wanted a good gift I had to point it out to him so he could secure it at a later time. He sucked at birthdays and at anniversaries but mostly, he sucked at Christmas. I got used to this flaw and appreciated the gifts that he did take the time to give me, no matter how ugly there were. I still have every one of them. Thursday, December 24^th 1992 met the annual routine. Once our bags were packed and we were ready to go, we sat down and exchanged gifts. The few gifts I gave him do not merit more than this mention. He looked like a seven year old when he handed me his square present. I knew right away it was a book of some sort. I’m not a fan of squid and octopus so a guide on how to prepare them seemed far worse than any other gift  he had given me. Even the cover art was gross. He chuckled to himself and then stood and left the room. The box he returned with was wrapped in a simple way. There was no bow, no ribbon and no card. He handed it to me and stood watching, pacing in his place. I can see him smiling in anticipation. He took my breath away. A carved bone Orca figurine sat on a base made of natural wood. I had pointed it out well over 6 months before. I loved it and it remains as part of my home to this day. It’s one of the things I would grab in a fire. It is one of the best Christmas presents I have ever received.  
 
The first time I shaved my head was in September of 1996. Being blond was one thing but having soft and fine hair haunted me throughout my teens and into my twenties. I heard that Muslims shave their heads as a sign of grief and used that as my excuse. I just wanted it gone. I never realized just how cold the head gets without any hair on it. Christmas Eve found me stifled by the Christianity all around me. I needed a break and a cigarette or two. I walked past the spot my grandparents then owned and down York. Street towards the newly christened  kid’s park and soccer fields. When my parent’s built their home in 1980, the entire area across from them was a tobacco field. A fledgling neighbourhood was beginning to settle on it now. The area was upscale considering its former state. As I rounded onto one of the new streets, I got what I had come for. So many lights, so much merry for all the world to see. The walk was peaceful and I was enjoying another smoke when I saw the cop car coming from a mile away. I just kept walking until he flashed his lights and pulled over. When he asked me what I was doing I responded with the obvious. I identified myself and I informed the officer that I was visiting family just over on Scott Street. I dropped my Dad’s name. When he told me that people in the neighbourhood had complained of a questionable character walking their streets, I knew it all was bullshit. As he rushed me away, as he got back in his car, I wondered if I needed to put a hat on to make it back to my folk's safely.  
  
About a month before Christmas 2013, my Dad, a few family members and I spent a day antiquing. Everything was going well until my Dad disappeared somewhere. I just assumed he stepped outside so I followed the path I believed he had taken. He was standing there, stuck to the glass like a kid in the proverbial candy shop. I had never seen him this way. Something had activated his childhood joy and it was written all over his face. For a moment, I was lost in the place he was lost. It was a lovely interaction I will  never forget. The guitar now rests with my mother’s autoharp, in a corner of the room so one can always see. I hope to one day hear them playing sweet songs and sad songs and songs about beautiful things. I hope above hope that I will see them again, that one Christmas we will again be together in a place where everything will be okay. They both must remain there, waiting for the rest of their band.
 
All the rush, all the money and Christmas morning can be anti-climatic. With the gifts exchanged and the piles formed in their place, one can often be overwhelmed that it finally is over. By the point the gifts are given, I usually have a turkey already in the oven for a few hours. It’s not really my day that I care about. I spend a great deal of time and money to insure the right gift and the best representation. I make sure to take the time to get it right, every time. I am considerate with the things I give. Although the day itself can be rewarding, I prefer Christmas Eve to Christmas Day. Every year, near dusk, Ben and I journey to the Avondale Cemetery in Strafford, Ontario. I leave an electric candle burning in a lantern that hangs on a decorative hook. You have to plant that hook in the softer ground of autumn so that it will support things come the frozen ground of Christmas Eve. We journey home searching for light displays and listening to Ben’s choice in Christmas music. At home, Christmas was ready to go and soon so would be dinner. Candy and treats and things for the cat, rest about the place.  Christmas is welcomed in my home. After the feast, Ben turns on It’s a Wonderful Life. What was once only Doug’s favourite has become one of mine. I cherish the film, every year at this time. Throughout the Capra classic, you can usually find Ben wrapping presents just out of my line of sight. Once George Bailey and his entourage finish counting all that money, we switch to the Dickens’s classic A Christmas Carol. We favour the black and white 1951, Alastair Sim version. Along the way I bring out the stuffing mix and I prepare it on the couch for morning and the gut of the bird. Every year it is the same. By the time the films are over and even the cat has had enough, I pass out for 6 hours.
 
Every year Christmas comes and goes and without fail leaves cherished memories and touchstones for one and all. Recalling past yuletide seasons can be a hodgepodge of sorts. With so many to choose from, the cream always seems to rise to the top. There are certain events and specific triggers that repeat over time and Christmas is not exempt. We go back to the familiar, back to a place when we felt safe or comfort or peace. Every year Christmas brings with it complications. I do not let them detour my mission. Once it is Christmas day, I have had enough of the jolly and more than enough of Christmas music.  I start to put it all away come Boxing day.  If you’re looking for me to be merry, it is best to do it by Christmas Eve. After that, you’re on your own.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Photo
 
https://christmasstockimages.com/free/christmas-trees/slides/abstract_tree_lights.htm
 
 
 
 
Sources
 
https://www.dictionary.com/browse/hodgepodge