Another Christmas is in the books, and a new year is just around the corner. Before this holiday season is officially over, I wanted to take a moment to share with everyone what I think about when I hear the word, “Christmas.”
Christmas is a time for family. At least, that’s what I’ve always been told. When I was little, that was the explanation I was given every time I got tossed into a car for the ninety-minute car ride to my grandparents’ house. However, I have since come to learn that my parents were absolute hypocrites. Christmas, to them, was a time for family … unless a better offer came along.
In 1984, at the age of eighteen, I found out the cold hard truth about my parents and their dedication to family during the holidays. It was my first year of college and I had just come home for the winter break after finishing my finals.
I remember talking to my dad and asking him about our plans for Christmas. I mentioned driving down to visit grandma and grandpa for Christmas dinner, and he said we weren’t going to be doing that this year.
“We’re going to drive the motorhome down to Pismo Beach and camp by the ocean for a couple days instead,” he told me.
Well, that sounded fantastic. I was very excited by the news, so I said, “Terrific. When are we leaving?”
My dad gave me a puzzled look for a moment. Then he told me, “No. I think you misunderstood what I was telling you. Your mother and I are going to Pismo Beach. You are going to stay home and feed the cat.”
I laughed. I thought he was kidding.
He wasn’t kidding.
On Christmas Eve, we opened presents early because my parents were jumping in the motorhome and leaving first thing in the morning on Christmas day. I opened several packages of underwear and socks. I think there was even one box full of toothpaste, deodorant, and shampoo just to make the evening extra depressing.
After that bit of sadness, we sat down to enjoy a meal of overcooked ham and something that vaguely looked like a Jell-O salad. While we ate, my dad handed me a Christmas card. I quickly tore it open, hoping to find money, but the only thing inside was a note with a phone number for their campsite in case of emergencies. I think my dad noticed the disappointed look on my face, because he patted my arm consolingly.
“We already pay for your college. What more do you want?”
My dad always knew just what to say to make me feel better.
The next morning, I woke up to the sound of the motorhome pulling out of our driveway and cruising away.
Merry Christmas.
I figured at least I wouldn’t go hungry. My mom told me she had stocked the freezer in the garage with all of my favorite frozen foods. This was actually good news. Because of the way my mom tended to destroy real food, frozen meals were a real treat in our household. I started to get hungry a little after noon, and I wandered out to the garage to check the freezer. That was when I realized that my parents must absolutely hate me.
My mom’s monster of an Oldsmobile was parked in our garage, with the nose of the car pulled right up against the freezer door. My parents kept all their car keys on the same ring, so the key to the Olds was in my mom’s purse on its way to Pismo Beach. And the car was an automatic transmission, which meant I couldn’t even shift it into neutral and try to push it away from the freezer.
In desperation, I grabbed the handle to the freezer door and pulled on it. The door came open about three inches. I could just see through to the contents inside, but there wasn’t enough space to get my hand inside. I could see the food, but I couldn’t reach it. True to her word, my mom had bought all my favorite stuff. Of course, I wouldn’t be eating any of it in the foreseeable future.
That moment in my life was what a psychiatrist might call “a good place to begin our session.”
I could imagine my parents driving south to their beachside destination, laughing about how their starving son was back at home staring through a crack at all the wonderful food he wasn’t allowed to eat. The devil would be standing behind my mom, patting her on the back and saying, “Yeah, that was a good one. Wish I’d thought of it.”
Christmas that year wasn’t a total loss, however. Mostly, yes. But not total.
A couple of very dear friends heard about my plight. (They heard about it because I called them on the phone and complained very loudly about how much I hated my parents at that moment.) Wes and Kristine dropped whatever Christmas plans they already had and came to rescue me.
They picked me up and took me out to dinner at one of the few places open on Christmas day. The food was bad, and the service was worse, but it was better than starving to death in the garage. Wes even had to pay for my meal since I was flat broke. My parents figured that since they had left all that wonderful food at home for me, there was no need to give me any money.
Or maybe, that was just part of their evil plan.
My friends came through for me though, and that night is still one of my all-time favorite Christmas memories.
I know how that sounds given all the things that went wrong, but I believe that a little bit of good can often outweigh a lot of garbage. At least I hope that’s true, otherwise my own kids are completely screwed.
They say when God closes a door, he always opens a window. Or in my case, when God hands you crappy parents, he makes sure you have good friends.
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