The Holiday Season has been progressing in complexity during my life. The first 14 years were the simplest because we simply shuffled between my dad's family (a special version of laughter and tensity) and my mother's family (the bigger the gathering, the more step-relatives I never knew I had). Complications increased when my parents marriage ended, but after 8 years of that schedule (Christmas Eve in Mansfield with mom, then back to Columbus with Dad for Christmas morning) we had finally adjusted. And then I went and got married and threw in a whole other family on top of it all. This was Dave and I's first year negotiating what, in my family, is already an area of extreme territorialism. Yeah, there were a couple fights.
In the end, my gracious Dave volunteered we spend Thanksgiving with my father's family. For the first time in a few years 3 of the 4 children were going to be at my grandparents' Akron home with most of the grandchildren, so I called my Nana to tell her we were coming and to ask what Dave and I could contribute. "Everybody else is bringing food, but you can bring drinks. Can you afford to bring drinks? Don't bring any pop. You should bring punch. Do you know how to make punch? Here, I can give you the recipe." And - she's off! Not wanting to be greedy, I put my cell phone on speaker so Dave could enjoy the monologue as well. She had just got to the part about which flavor of sherbert ice cream to bring. I grinned at him and laid my head back on the loveseat arm and pretended to listen to her meandering 10-minute instructions for the 4-ingredient recipe.
I hung up the phone to her happy coos about our attendance; the next day I texted my cell-phone-bearing family members asking what they would like me to bring for drinks. I had zero intention of obeying the "no pop" commandment. My inbox filled as I shivered by the bus stop on High Street, awaiting the #2 to rumble up and bear me home after class. My younger brother immediately responded, requesting sparkling grape juice. My father and sister were ambivalently Diet. My Aunt Susan asked me to bring Dr. Pepper for her son Jake, and a couple of bottles of wine "just in case". I laughed sharply through my orange wool scarf. During past holidays my Nana has run off to motels, pouted when her attempts at micro-management have been foiled, and stealthily pulled family members aside for dreaded private interrogations. Wine was an excellent idea.
Dave and I drove the two hours to Akron the next day, bellies leaden with dreaded resignation. The muscles in my shoulders were coiled and aching, a familiar tension. By noon, our car tires were crunching on the white gravel of their driveway; we were the last to arrive. My father's and uncle's cars were pulled against the grey retaining wall between the yard and the drive; the garage door had been pulled up, and the side door into the house was visible. My nerves tripped and tangled while I unbuckled my seat belt, as they always do in that uncertainty before entering the house my father was raised in; past that door there could be, and has been, any number of dramatic scenes. We gathered ourselves and the drinks, and headed toward that old aluminum screen door.
The house was quiet when we walked in (calm before the storm?), the plastic bags rustling around Dave and I's knees as we took off our shoes, our cheeks dry and rosy from the November air. From the kitchen, I scanned the adjacent living room and listened for where people were gathering. The other half of the house is split-level, cream-carpeted stairs leading up to the bedrooms and down to the game room. I heard my brother and cousin Jacob on the lower level as Nana breathlessly descended from the upper level, taking two steps on every stair and tightly grasping the black metal railing. "Hi, darlings!" She always greets people with "darling", the last of her lost Boston accent in the "a". I hugged her; my head was embraced into her shoulder and my nostrils were filled with her powdery scent. Then Dave and I were shuffled over to the closet to get out of our coats; the old Jesus portrait looked down at us from the top of the stairs where he's always been, hues of brown and slightly parted lips. Dave and I had prayed earnestly about the dinner on the drive up. I looked up and repeated my plea as I shoved the corners of a brass hanger into the sleeves of my jacket and headed toward the voices downstairs.
In the end, my gracious Dave volunteered we spend Thanksgiving with my father's family. For the first time in a few years 3 of the 4 children were going to be at my grandparents' Akron home with most of the grandchildren, so I called my Nana to tell her we were coming and to ask what Dave and I could contribute. "Everybody else is bringing food, but you can bring drinks. Can you afford to bring drinks? Don't bring any pop. You should bring punch. Do you know how to make punch? Here, I can give you the recipe." And - she's off! Not wanting to be greedy, I put my cell phone on speaker so Dave could enjoy the monologue as well. She had just got to the part about which flavor of sherbert ice cream to bring. I grinned at him and laid my head back on the loveseat arm and pretended to listen to her meandering 10-minute instructions for the 4-ingredient recipe.
I hung up the phone to her happy coos about our attendance; the next day I texted my cell-phone-bearing family members asking what they would like me to bring for drinks. I had zero intention of obeying the "no pop" commandment. My inbox filled as I shivered by the bus stop on High Street, awaiting the #2 to rumble up and bear me home after class. My younger brother immediately responded, requesting sparkling grape juice. My father and sister were ambivalently Diet. My Aunt Susan asked me to bring Dr. Pepper for her son Jake, and a couple of bottles of wine "just in case". I laughed sharply through my orange wool scarf. During past holidays my Nana has run off to motels, pouted when her attempts at micro-management have been foiled, and stealthily pulled family members aside for dreaded private interrogations. Wine was an excellent idea.
Dave and I drove the two hours to Akron the next day, bellies leaden with dreaded resignation. The muscles in my shoulders were coiled and aching, a familiar tension. By noon, our car tires were crunching on the white gravel of their driveway; we were the last to arrive. My father's and uncle's cars were pulled against the grey retaining wall between the yard and the drive; the garage door had been pulled up, and the side door into the house was visible. My nerves tripped and tangled while I unbuckled my seat belt, as they always do in that uncertainty before entering the house my father was raised in; past that door there could be, and has been, any number of dramatic scenes. We gathered ourselves and the drinks, and headed toward that old aluminum screen door.
The house was quiet when we walked in (calm before the storm?), the plastic bags rustling around Dave and I's knees as we took off our shoes, our cheeks dry and rosy from the November air. From the kitchen, I scanned the adjacent living room and listened for where people were gathering. The other half of the house is split-level, cream-carpeted stairs leading up to the bedrooms and down to the game room. I heard my brother and cousin Jacob on the lower level as Nana breathlessly descended from the upper level, taking two steps on every stair and tightly grasping the black metal railing. "Hi, darlings!" She always greets people with "darling", the last of her lost Boston accent in the "a". I hugged her; my head was embraced into her shoulder and my nostrils were filled with her powdery scent. Then Dave and I were shuffled over to the closet to get out of our coats; the old Jesus portrait looked down at us from the top of the stairs where he's always been, hues of brown and slightly parted lips. Dave and I had prayed earnestly about the dinner on the drive up. I looked up and repeated my plea as I shoved the corners of a brass hanger into the sleeves of my jacket and headed toward the voices downstairs.
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