The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

 
Popularity has its price.  Especially at Christmastime. And especially if you have a reputation for hospitality, home cooking by several generations of homemakers, and a free room or two (or, if not, living room sofas and couches) for guests who seize the privilege of becoming short-term houseguests instead of being (as one put it) “overcharged prisoners in a hotel or motel full of discontented strangers and wailing children.” 
 
Which is why, at this time of year, friends and relatives make a beeline to our home. They view it not only as a economic plus, but as the epicenter of  their Christmas getaway. In recent years, more and more guests are arriving earlier and earlier to ensure their place.  “The more, the merrier,” as one said who agreed to a mattress in the garage.  
 
“There’s nothing like waking up in the morning after a lovely sleepover,” a woman confessed gratefully, “and being welcomed by your kitchen helpers to a special breakfast or, for late risers,  a delightful luncheon, or for very late risers,  a memorable dinner, with you and all your other charming guests.”
 
Well, that’s one one way to put it. Or you can be like Uncle Oswald, who pays no compliments and prefers   liberal doses of Southern Comfort to help him endure his Christmas stays. The number of sweet-voiced carolers who arrive on our doorstep for performances make him put his hands over his ears.
 
There is little I can do to improve life for my grouchy and grumpy uncle, but because Christmas and Hanukkah fall on the same day this year (a phenomenon sometimes referred to as Chrismukkah), I decided to cater to guests of different faiths by putting a red-and-green lighted Christmas tree, topped with the star of Bethlehem, in one window, and a blue-and-gold-lit Hanukkah tree, topped with the star of David, in another.
 
The trees flank a long holiday table that Octavia set for me with a candle-bearing menorah and a shimmering array of Christmas candles, latkes, yuletide tidbits, donuts, dreidels, and just for fun (or a reminder of what Octavia expects from me), matching figures of a meek Santa and his authoritarian Mrs. 
 
“And what are you cooking for us?” asked a guest who wanted even more. 
 
“I’m not!” 
 
All meals are prepared by a squabbling and competitive crew of grannies, moms, daughters, sisters. cousins and aunts who compete for the honor of top chef, as if my overcrowded kitchen was host to some sort of culinary Olympics.
 
“I’ve got a dish you won’t believe,” one told me confidentially. “It’s from a very old recipe and it casts a spell. When I put it on the table with its irresistible aroma—presto!  They’re spellbound. They have to have it.” 
 
Males are not welcomed once the women take over. When I tried to visit my refrigerator for a peanut butter supreme sandwich, they frowned and scowled at the nerve of my intrusion and ordered me out of their cooking marathon.
 
“Can you tell me the secret of your cooking?” I asked one who politely urged my departure.
 
“Homemade with love and butter. Now please get out of here and leave us to our culinary sorcery or Agatha over there may turn you into a gingerbread cookie. She has a recipe for that, purportedly created by a witch—and the temperament to use it.”
            
Witchcraft in my kitchen? One never knows. Especially if one is a male. Of course I don’t believe in such things, but just to be on the safe side, I cut short my curiosity, abandoning all thought of a peanut butter supreme.
 
2.
               
Although every woman is glad to be part of this Yuletide melee, one in particular can never be found there. Aunt Myrna, a healthy, wealthy and wisecracking elder, always schedules a departure to a faraway global destination in order to avoid family reunions and disputes. 
 
“I suppose I can’t possibly persuade you to join us for Christmas?” I teased her as she solemnly shook her head. “Where to this time?”
 
“Antarctica.”
 
“If it wasn’t you, I would think you were kidding me.”
 
She wasn’t. But after you’ve been almost everywhere in the world from Machu Picchu to Marrakesh and from waving atop the Great Barrier Reef to waving from the top of a camel at Luxor and the Pyramids, the South Pole was one of her few remaining options.
       
“I suppose I don’t have to remind you that you won’t find Santa unless you go north to the other end of the globe?”
 
“I’ve already sent him my season’s greeting card and my gift requests.” 
 
“Why the South Pole?”
 
“So I can immerse myself in a new world of wonders. I’m going hiking, camping  and sailing there. Got myself a fashionable parka, stylish knee boots, thick winter gloves, and a goggled mask for stormy weather. Perfectly dressed for adventure.”
 
“And shaking flippers with the penguins? Well, be careful and don’t slip on the ice.”
 
“And you, dear boy? What are you immersing yourself in this Christmas?” 
 
“Well, I’ve been working hard, watching TV football playoffs, trying to remember which team is which, and what player plays for what team, until I fall asleep from mental exhaustion and take a nap that could make me miss dinner unless unless someone wakes me up.” 
 
“Just as I thought.  Sleep in heavenly peace!” 
                                   
3.
        
My artistic ladyfriend Octavia called me to say she had two tickets to “The Nutcracker” ballet waiting for us. I agreed, more for her sake than mine. But on the night before the performance, she called to say she’d came down with “A slight case of the flu,” leaving me with two tickets for which I had little use. She urged me to see the show and contact her to tell her all about a performance that she clearly regretted missing. I reluctantly agreed, donated one of the tickets, and took a seat to see what this holiday standard was all about. 
 

I soon realized that ballet wasn’t my thing and dozed off, awakening in time to see dancers waltzing about in the confetti snowflakes of a fairy tale world colored by iridescent whites and ice-blues.  It was clever of the stage designer to make it appear as if the dancers were inside a snow globe, swirling and spiraling to a waltz with unexpected elegance, I couldn’t quite grasp how young Clara’s nutcracker could turn into a prince. Was it a dream? Magic? Wishful thinking?

 
I left the theatre wondering what would have happened if the original storyteller (E.T.A. Hoffmann, 1816) had lived long enough to meet the original composer (Peter Tchaikovsky, 1892) who set it to music for the imperial ballet of St. Petersburg, where it premiered.  Would the two creators have exchanged compliments or expressed misgivings about one another’s work? 
 
Put a writer and his interpreter together and you can expect fireworks.  I took that idea to a writer friend of mine and asked if he would like to steal my idea for a book that could perhaps make us a holiday profit.
 
“Just one little problem with that,” he said. “Hoffmann died 70 years before The Nutcracker premiered. So much for their meeting—and your book, Got any other ideas?” 
 
“How about a detective story with Santa investigating the mysterious death of one of his elves? Murder or mishap? Malice or misdemeanor? The case is entitled “12 Clues for Mr. Claus”—-one clue a day for the 12 days of Christmas—told in 12 brief chapters.  Easy read, mesmerizing mystery.”
 
“Ho, ho, ho!  Now you’re talking sense. Let’s get the party started!”  
 
4.
 
Christmas is almost over now, but the trees and lights and decorations remain bright as if no one wants the holiday to end.  My overflow crowd is in no hurry to depart and some have even decided to stay for New Years.  Joy to the World!  I’d consider turning off the lights and heat to hasten their exit, but who wants to play Scrooge?  I’m tempted to move elsewhere, but on the other hand, the kitchen witches have promised me a jingle bells merry morning casserole if I keep out of their business and ask no questions. It beats peanut butter. 
 
The good news is that I have just received a message from–guess where?
 
The South Pole.
 
Aunt Myrna says she is alive, and not only alive but well, and not only well but flourishing. The adventurous explorer  says she’s taken a dip in the polar sea, scaled a glacier, and made loving friends of every one of her huskies on the dog sled team.
 
Not only that.  She wants to take me with her next year to ski in Iceland or perhaps chase Bengal tigers in India—–“if you are willing to give up televised football and intrusive holiday guests and relatives in order to see what life is really like.”
 
She’s taken a liking to me, and from the hints she’s dropping, there’s a chance she may name me the heir to her estate. Just what would I do with her millions?
 
I’m already considering buying a football team and contending for a title.
 
But Octavia has already asked me to consider purchasing a ballet company with a stage designer gifted enough to create the illusion of a snow globe for its December spectacular. She is here with me now, due to a fire in her apartment house. Owing to the abundance of guests and the shortage of sleeping quarters, the two of us are sharing a bed and trying to ignore the blaring music, dancing, stomping, shouting and whooping from the floor above us which the guests have apparently converted into a holiday jazz club. 
 
All of which makes sleep and conversation between Octavia and myself utterly impossible, which you can see for yourself in the illustration that accompanies this story. 
 
Now try to imagine what it will be like here on December 31. Octavia is not waiting for that. 
 
“The time has come!” she yelled in my ear. “Now get rid of them. Throw them out. Every last one of them, including the guy in the garage. It’s them or me. Now decide!”
 
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3 Comments

  • WOW!! Howard, you’ve said so much about the “Holy night” and the “Eight days” without even visiting a Church or a Temple.
    Mel

  • A fun tale for the season! Christmas is a time for many parties, events and to be near loved ones and friends. It is fun to get together for a fun occasion, but you also might get in a little bicker sometimes with someone for no reason. I like all the little vignettes and learning about the characters.

  • Thank you Howard for bringing such warmth and joy to the season.
    You are still my favorite writer! (…and always will be)

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