My husband died three years ago this February, and I know you grew up underneath the same shadow with your father. My son is fourteen, I’m afraid he will never have any joy whatsoever again.
More than anything, I want his Christmas to be awesome, but I am at a complete loss. Does it ever get any better?
Decades ago. The downtown was decorated with tinsel and little plastic bells hanging from streetlamps. Santa and his reindeer were strung across the rooftops of Mainstreet.
The fiberglass Santa had his right hand outstretched in a perpetual wave to passerbyers. Though, something was very wrong with Santa. Very, VERY wrong.
But more about that later.
Anyway, I was in town with my mother. We were shopping for the holidays.
My father had died a few years earlier. My mother was not the woman she used to be. She was sad. So was I.
Also, I had gained roughly fifteen pounds that year
because I was, and still am, an emotional eater. This is why football season continues to wreak havoc on my body. Also, I have had a lifelong love affair with Chili Cheese Fritos.
That holiday season felt like torture. Everyone else was happy, but not us. We couldn’t laugh, joke, or crack smiles.
We were going through the motions, doing what regular people are supposed to do during December. Gifts, festive music, cheap decor, blah, blah, blah.
That day in town, my mother turned me loose in the department store. I had fifteen dollars to spend on friends, foes, and kin.
Oh, how times have changed. Today, fifteen bucks wouldn’t even buy an iPhone charger.
I wandered through the store with no idea how to spend my money. After all, why should I care about stuffed animals, jars of pepper jelly, barrels of popcorn,…