Traditions 2.0

Before Christmas, one of our local radio curmudgeons did a bit about the importance of tradition. During the holidays in particular, we treasure the rituals that make us feel safe and secure in a world getting nuttier with every headline. Many of our rituals come with us from childhood, and new ones develop as we establish our own homes and families. For me, it’s alcohol and TV shows. I don’t drink so much at any other time of year, and it’s not Christmas until we’ve watched Charlie Brown.

Even at the office, we have seasonal traditions. On the day the fireplace went up, one of my colleagues paused when she saw it, broke into a grin, and announced, “It’s official! Christmas is here!”

It seems Ter and I have ton of them. The house gets decorated first. I get the cards done and gone by mid-month. The big tree goes up on the first Saturday in December (or the last one in November). We watch Jim Carrey’s Grinch on that night, and every other holiday movie/TV show we have between then and the 23^rd, when A Christmas Story kicks of the holiday hat trick that includes Alistair Sim on the 24^th and Jimmy Stewart on the 25^th. We stock the kitchen with Imperial cheese and garlic sausage, mincemeat tarts and eggnog (and my annual bottle of Prosecco). We visit my folks, friends, and a sibling or two ahead of Christmas Day, not to mention getting presents bought and wrapped for distribution at those visits. Our holiday CDs go on heavy rotation in the house and in the car.

You get the picture.

Well, this year something happened. A bunch of things, actually, that interfered with our nicely organized, pre-scheduled, comfortably familiar holiday hoopla. Some switchups were deliberate, like Ter deciding to bake fruitcake for the first time in a few years, but others were, er, forced upon us. We were too bushed after wrestling with the tree to watch Jim Carrey, so the Grinch got put off for a week. My parents were unavailable when we hoped to visit them, and we were unavailable when my older sister invited us to tea. (Happily, those visits happened after the 25^th, though it felt weird having to reschedule them.) We got hung up on some other oddball things that escape me now, but despite some of our traditions being waylaid by circumstance, other things happened to make holiday magic.

It snowed on Christmas Eve. It started within seconds of my return from dropping Treena home after her ritual holiday visit, and it didn’t stop until the street was thick with frosting and our view of Oak Bay had disappeared. Ter put on the cheeseball Christmas tunes channel, and we sat in a candlelit Ocean Room with wine and popcorn, watching the snow and revelling in the unexpected hygge.

We spent the next morning in the same room, opening our presents in the glow of the penguin tree when our habit is to spend Christmas morning with the big tree. Neighbour noise caused that one, but it worked out in the end. In fact, all the adjustments worked. The OR is my favourite room in the house; why not open our presents there? Visiting parents and siblings after Christmas Day was more relaxed than if we’d crammed it in ahead of the 25th. I survived without my jar of clotted cream and discovered the joy of vanilla and cinnamon Bailey’s. Limited rotation of Christmas music didn’t kill us, though it’s too bad we missed running Blackadder’s Christmas Carol and Nation Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation.

Maybe new traditions were born of the pre-empted old ones; I won’t know until next Christmas. I do know however, that despite the hiccups and with the gift of snow on Christmas Eve, ours in 2017 turned out to be quite festive. Traditions are important, indeed they are, but when conditions are right—though they may seem wrong at the time—traditions can also be improved!

The Ties That Bind

My older older brother and his lovely wife recently dropped in for a visit so short there was no point in them adapting to another time zone. A couple of weeks before they arrived, my older sister put out an email saying they’d been in touch with her and hoped to connect with as many of us as they could while they were here—a trickier notion than it sounds, as three of the four west coast siblings still work and the visit was smack dab in the middle of a workweek. Big Sis suggested an early evening potluck at her place. No problem since, while a couple of us live in the sticks, we all work in town. Why not stop by before heading to our respective homes?

I naively assumed the gathering at Big Sis’s place would be attended by the siblings and perhaps our significant others. I couldn’t imagine my parents tackling rush hour traffic so late in the day, and though we love our nieces and nephews, how big a bash was this going to be? I admit, I hoped for something more intimate. I am an introvert. Large social occasions intimidate me and, as my wee sister observed one day at coffee, “when all the Greigs get together, we can be kind of overwhelming.”

No kidding. My parents arrived with my older older brother and, as staggered quitting times came and went, a steady trickle of siblings, spouses, sons, daughters, sons and daughters’ spouses and their children soon had Big Sister’s house full to bursting. What my mother innocently terms her “small family” has erupted into a group not quite large enough to claim village status!

Make no mistake. I love my family. I am the luckiest daughter/sister/aunt in the world. Wee Sis asked me in high school what was wrong with us because we liked our parents. My mother has often said how surprised she was to discover that her family was not as normal as she believed. Didn’t every family get along as well as we did? We’ve had drama, of course. We’ve had sibling squabbles and growing pains and tragedies like any other clan, but on the  whole, we’ve stayed together even into the kids’ adulthood. I mean, the Big Guys are all in their sixties now! Conversation might be a little awkward to start with, but we compensate with lots of hugs until we gain traction and suddenly it’s as if we were never parted. I have every confidence that my siblings and I will remain close even after our parents have moved on. We won’t see each other every day, but we don’t do that now. What we do do is remember we were raised by parents who taught us the importance of family, of the privilege of belonging to something greater than ourselves, and the responsibility we have to keep that going so in the end, none of us will ever be alone.

The mob at Big Sister’s place last week was as raucous and chaotic as I’d feared it would be ... and I’m so glad I was there. It’s magical to be part of something so overwhelming.

With love,

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.

A-OK

The trick is not to believe that everything will be okay, because it won’t. That pesky “contrast clause” in the universal contract pretty well ensures it, and if you need proof, just look at the state of the world around us.

No, the trick is to believe that, no matter what happens, you will be okay. You will survive. You’re human and fragile and riddled with conflicting emotions, but in the end, you will be okay.

Reminding myself of this is all that’s got me through the last few years; it’s probably the best advice I’ve ever gotten (if only I could remember who said it!) When things get crazy beyond my control but that affect me nonetheless, I have taken great comfort in the knowledge that I am not alone. I am safe, I am loved, and I will be okay no matter what. After all, my universe is a friendly one. Ultimately, it’s a good place, so even on this wild ride, I feel as I did in childhood, knowing my parents had it all in hand (though I understand as an adult that they were faking it like mad!) Of course I worry on occasion, hence my “practice du jour” of trusting the positive unfolding of my life in a world dissolving into chaos. Stability comes from within. You can’t rely on anything outside yourself—and before you hit me on the Universe being external, I say unto you: “Wrong-O”! You and I are one with the universe, cooperative, connected particles of energy in motion, independent yet irrevocably united. The universe isn’t the source of global chaos. It’s only providing us with what we’ve asked for, knowingly or unknowingly. That’s why it’s a good idea to be aware of your own energy.

I digress.

Stability comes from within. That solid grounding, the knowledge that I’ll be fine, enables me to ride the proverbial wave of change. It doesn’t always excite me. Sometimes it scares the heck out of me—until the little voice in quiet confidence reminds me that no matter what, I am and will be okay.

With love,

Auto Biography X

“The Power of Mum”

You wouldn’t think it to look at him, but Tiggy, our sweet little SUV, is cursed. He has only required annually scheduled servicing since he was purchased in 2010 and, on the whole, he rocks. Ter and I are madly in love with him. He’s safe, solid, dependable, quick as a lizard, fierce as a tiger, and cute as the proverbial button.

Except after he’s been serviced. Here’s the history:

2011 – Tig’s first scheduled service and I’m sure something happened the next day, but perhaps this is only because something did happen the following year... and the one after that ... and the one after that ...

2012 – on her way to work the day after Tig’s second scheduled service, Ter hears a loud bang! and the steering goes funky. She pulls over immediately to discover the far rear tire is flat as a pancake. When the tow truck arrives, the driver shows her the chunk of metal responsible for the gaping hole in the tire’s tread. Eyes wide, she gasps, “When did I pick that up?”

“Oh, right now,” the guy assures her. The tire is shot but the dealer doesn’t carry that model, so it takes a couple of days (and a couple hundred dollars) to get Tig a new shoe.

2013 – on her way to work the day after Tig’s third scheduled service, Ter is rear-ended when the guy behind her doesn’t see that traffic ahead has stopped. Tiggy weathered it fairly well, but Ter was whiplashed and to this day is still in treatment for it. Tig spent two days in the shop and is sporting a new rear bumper, paid for courtesy of the other guy’s insurance. Needless to say, both Ter and Tiggy are now hyper-nervous about tailgaters. I merely wish that a flame-throwing exhaust pipe was an option, ’cause I’d have ordered one while he was in for repairs.

2014 – on her way to work the day after Tig’s fourth scheduled service (and immediately following a chiropractic adjustment), Ter is merging onto the highway when Tiggy *binks* at her. She’s accustomed to his *bink* – usually he’s signalling that the temperature is ripe for snow, so she’s actually about to say, “Tig, it is not going to snow!” What emerges is a sharp, “Crap, Tiguan! What the hell is this?”

The tire pressure warning light has engaged. Panicked and in pain, she gets him to the dealer, where a technician is corralled to inspect all four tires. The diagnosis is a computer glitch—a fair assessment, since immediately after the tire incident in 2012, the same light went on, Ter had the same panic attack, and it turned out that the computer needed resetting to acknowledge the new tire. Present day mystery solved—but while the car is here, the part they ordered to fix the oil leak has come in, so can she leave it with them for the day?

What oil leak?

Oh, the one that had been discovered during inspection and supposedly fixed the day before. Apparently the service associate thought the fix had been made, but such was not the case. Ter is really steaming now – she has to interview a new finance clerk in the afternoon so she must get to the office. Hand it to the service staff at the shop—they rallied to take care of her and her leaky little SUV. She got a courtesy car and Tiggy got his oil leak fixed. He was also washed twice in two days; more baths than he’s had all winter.

We’re now in the clear … until his next service appointment in 2015.

I’m only superstitious about hockey games, but this after-service curse is getting ridiculous. In a weird way, and perhaps unwittingly but one never knows, I think Mum might be responsible. Years ago, once Ter and I had agreed to replace our beloved Jules, the time came to tell my parents what we were getting. We knew going in that it could cause a ripple because my folks were kids in Scotland during WW II and Tiggy is ...

... a Volkswagen.

Dad took the news pretty well, but my stalwart-rebel-Scottish-nationalist mother was uncommonly reserved. After a while, she quietly confessed, “My dears, I am sorry, but I remember what the Germans did to us during the war.”

Giving the sentiment due consideration, we bought the VW anyway. Gods bless her, Mum says she’s forgiven us (as if we were ever in danger of being disowned—that’s Dad’s gig), but I suspect that deep inside, whenever she looks at our Tiguan, she winces. Ja, he’s German. He nags like a Nazi and makes you sit up straight. He runs like a military machine and thinks he’s superior to every other car on the road … but he’s our little tank and we love him so, Mum, can you please do something about lifting the hex?

Twins Ten Years Apart

Mum holds the bairn while a diligent older brother looks on - 1964

Most boys probably want a bicycle for their tenth birthday. A bike or hockey equipment or airplane models or some other boyish-type nod to their boyishness, especially when one already has a younger brother and two little sisters.

When he turned ten, my older older brother got a baby sister. In truth, we all got her, but for him, as good a soul as he is, it would be fair to imagine he was a little dismayed. Until that day, September 21 had belonged solely to him. From 1963 onward, his birthday was a shared event.

It was also closure, in a way. My parents started their family on September 21, 1953, and finished production exactly ten years later – a notable credit to my mother’s organizational skills. Five kids in ten years. Nice and neat and tidy, unless you count the log jam with my older sibs, who were born within four years of each other and were known collectively by my wee sister and me as “the Big Guys”. I shudder to think how they referred to us when the parents weren’t looking. Managing a litter takes some doing, but Mum and Dad pulled it off like professionals. Sure, we indulged in the usual sibling scraps, vying for position and attention within the pack, but to this day, whenever we see each other and no matter how much time has passed since the last meeting, we always embrace warmly and pick up right where we left off. There is great affection among the kids in our clan.

But back to the ten year twins.

Today, my wee sister turns 50. That means my older older brother is 60. She is here on the west coast. He lives on Prince Edward Island. When we all lived in the same house, he was the best older older brother in the world and she was … well, she was “the bairn” and 50 years later, she still is. I’m less sure how she feels about that than how my folks must feel knowing their youngest is now a half-century old and their firstborn is this close to qualifying for CPP. Physical age means nothing, though, except when the aches and pains set in: get the gang in the same room at the same time and we fall into line in the order in which we were born. He has four younger siblings and she has four older siblings. The three in between love them both from different vantage points, but I’m pretty sure we’re all glad we have them.

I know I am.