Merry Christmas to Youbou

We think it’s about the prezzies. We run around like headless barnyard fowl and dig ourselves into debt for things we hope will fix us permanently within people’s hearts, or prove to them how fixed they are in ours, and it’s almost a guarantee that on Christmas morning, if the planets are aligned and you were in psychic tune with the Universe while shopping at the mall, you’ll be a rock star for the moment.

And that’s okay. It happens to everyone and everyone does it. We all have those magical moments when something we’ve always wanted is gifted with love and gratefully received, and vice versa. Once in a while, a gift will stay with you for years, as fondly remembered as the person who gave it to you, though I’m willing to bet the majority of things given and things received can neither be recited nor matched to the proper person before two Christmases have passed.

And that’s okay, too. Tangibles are truly fleeting.

We remember traditions because they happen every year. Traditions, I think, are more important to us than the prezzies; we just don’t realize it.

When Ter and I lived in our gorgeous old Victorian suite, my mother once said it didn’t feel like Christmas until she and Dad came to us for our annual holiday tea. I have to say, we decked those halls in spectacular magazine-spread style, and it was a pleasure for us to host the parents for a visit over seasonal savouries and sweets each December.

One of my most memorable holidays, however, happened the year my parents were unable to come because Mum went down with a hella cold and Dad was on the brink of following suit. At the time, they lived 90 minutes out of town, over the Malahat and left on Highway 18, and it made no sense for them to try and travel all that way for a couple of hours with us, especially when neither of them was in partying health. It was disappointing, but also the wiser course.

On Christmas morning, after we’d opened our presents and had our breakfast and spoken with our loved ones both in town and out, we decided on the spur of the moment to go see Mum and Dad. Why not? It was a beautiful sunny day, we had no other plans, and it bugged us that they were both sick at home on Christmas Day.

So we loaded their gifts into the Camaro, blasted up the ’Hat and turned left on Highway 18. One of the things I loved about Jules was how he proved the theory of time slowing as speed increases. I swear, the faster he went, the slower the scenery seemed to flow past the window, and in top gear, he was all but airborne along that stretch of asphalt.

Right off Hwy 18, with the forest closing in on a twisty-turny road, Porky Pig’s rendition of “Blue Christmas” came on the r-r-r-radio. Between laughing and singing along, we arrived at the parents’ place in seemingly record time. Dad was so surprised to see us at the front door that he forgot to feign dismay. We ambushed Mum in her sickbed (she drew the covers to her eyes and ordered us from the room before we caught what was catching), then sat with my father in the living room until, unable to keep herself in isolation, Mum joined us for a cup of tea and a present exchange.

I don’t remember what we talked about or for how long we stayed, but I do remember the joy I felt at surprising them that Christmas. It was one of the happiest holidays of my adult life.

And though I don’t recall what we gave them, I’m pretty sure my prezzie was a bottle of Bailey’s.