HE SAID…SHE SAID: HOLIDAY ANGST

HE SAID…

By JOHN DeMERS

It comes as a terrible shock – and even more unbelievably, it comes as a terrible shock year after year after year – that I really don’t know what I love or hate about the holidays, and that I don’t have a clue how or where I’d most like to spend them. The end result is that, one or more times each year as the festive days tick down, I find myself wishing I’d accepted a speaking gig on a cruise ship and gone off someplace with lots of sunshine all by myself.

As Rocky used to say to Bullwinkle, however, “that trick never works.” Turning back the clock to when I was still married and our four children were still small, there was the whole, disempowering concept of Santa. How could Santa find us in Cabin 3215 on Capri Deck, we’d surely be asked by one or more inquiring minds who’d obviously never heard of a passenger manifest. And where would he put all those presents, if not under our own oversized Christmas tree beneath our own oversized suburban cathedral ceiling?   

Of course, the whole Santa Thing doesn’t carry much weight anymore, but so many other issues have rushed in to take its place. Access, among them. At various times in recent years I’ve had to buy overpriced holiday airfares home from Colorado, Massachusetts, Pennsylvania and Indiana, and now wrestle with the numberless miles between here and New Zealand the same way I once wrestled with the numberless miles between here and England, Italy and South Africa. Last week, one of my daughters expressed interest in a job in Barbados. Maybe we should simply pack Christmas up and travel to her.

Still, whether it’s a lounge chair under an umbrella on the beach outside Bridgetown or maybe Cabin 3215 on Capri Deck, I’d expect the same challenges. How many savings accounts can I hand over to airlines to get people here through blizzards that cripple entire continents? And how many ways can I think of for Santa to get presents down the ship’s smokestack through whatever black clouds smell like the spaghetti we’ll be having for our holiday dinner?

SHE SAID…

BY HOLLY BERETTO

John, I vote for Christmas in Barbados. The best Christmas my family of four had was when we ditched the whole “make-Christmas-dinner-for-14-people-at-our-house” and headed up to Bartlett, New Hampshire for a four-day skiing trip. We had Attitash and Mt. Cranmore practically to ourselves on Christmas Day. It was great. And who cared, really, if Santa came or not? We had miles of ski slopes stretching before us. (As it happens, Santa came just fine, delivering a Nintendo to my kid brother and a pile of books for me.)

Since I’m the only one that left our family enclave of Rhode Island, I’ve grown used to not spending every holiday with my family. When I arrived in Texas since 1997, I worked in TV news, which doesn’t stop for holidays. My first Texas Thanksgiving and Christmas were spent working. Far from being depressing, I saw it as simply what was expected. Someone had to put the news on the air.

But holidays always pull out nostalgic feelings. Family, food, fun. Over my years here, I’ve adapted my holiday celebrations, and they mean a lot less about the where and the what, than they have about the who. For nearly 10 years, my partner and I have hosted a “waifs and strays” Thanksgiving dinner, gathering together all the pals we have who are away from their families, who aren’t coupled or who don’t have anything more interesting to do. My friend Rebecca often does the turkey and makes this fantastic raspberry pie. We handle the sides and the wine and a fantastic time is had by all.

Going into this holiday season, I’m not overwhelmed by over-materialistic messages or over-scheduled madness. In the end, it doesn’t matter if we use the “good” plates for Thanksgiving or just decide the cracked everyday ones are ok. No one cares if I make beef Wellington for Christmas dinner or order Domino’s.

What matters is being together with my family – the blood one, and the one I’ve created for myself with dear friends and the Love of My Life – and knowing that holiday happiness can never be bought at any store or wrapped up in a bow.