The Christmas Letter
Decades ago, there was a social custom of sending a Christmas Letter. The Christmas Letter was a document sent out every year where one would chronicle the events of the past year to people who were friends of the family but who lived far away or for whatever reason weren’t in regular contact. With the advent of constant contact via all the various forms of technology currently cluttering the ether such a thing is an anachronism. However, I still receive the odd holiday missive and I try to write a little something extra to those who I don’t communicate with frequently.
Sometimes the letter contains good news. This year for example we found out a waiter friend of ours from Montreal who we don’t see anymore since he quit his job at the restaurant and he lives outside the city is marrying his partner. This is the kind of holiday news that warms the heart
Of course, there’s also the other kind.
When I was growing up, my mother was good friends with a woman who lived across the street. Her name was Lori. When I was very young, mom used to take me over to Lori’s house while they had tea or coffee and talked. We’d have to leave when Another World came on which was announced by Lori saying “It’s time for my story”.
Like a lot of kids in the 70s, I had a rock collection. One of Lori’s hobbies was collecting and polishing stones. They had a whole tumbling and polishing thing set up next to their garage. I remember one afternoon I spent in her back yard happily bashing garnets out of the rock they were embedded in. One terrible day while Lori and her husband were out the house burned in a fire caused by the chemicals they had stored for this particular hobby. I still remember how distraught they were when they got home. Still, they rebuilt and stayed in that house for several years after.
Lori was also the first person who gave me fresh vegetables. I hated vegetables as a kid because all my parents ate were canned vegetables. I can’t blame them, in America in the 1970s nobody knew any better. The post-war convenience revolution (i.e. the move toward everything being quick, easy, instant processed food to be quickly heated and eaten in front of the television) dovetailing with the women’s lib movement dovetailing with the “if she’s not gonna spend time cooking dammit if I will” male reaction to said movement had created a nasty cultural by-product: the attitude that kitchen work was drudgery, a task beneath the modern, on-the-go late 20th century American. Sure you still had immigrant grandmas and a few hippie types that still believed that preparing tasty, fresh food was an act of love but that attitude was trampled in the majority of American homes.
Lori was still a bit old fashioned. I don’t remember her being any kind of a great cook but she still cared enough to prepare food with some fresh ingredients. So it was that she served me the first green bean dish I ever liked: the simple yet classic preparation of cold green beans, sliced red onion and balsamic vinegar. For years after that I would ask for “Lori’s green bean salad” which eventually led to an ill-fated attempt to construct it using a cold can of green beans that put me back off the veg for years.
Lori got a bit of local notoriety during the media coverage of the tornado our block experienced during Hurricane David. I still remember her standing out in the street telling the reported that “I saw it comin’ through rayit’chere” in her Roanoke, Virginia accent.
Eventually her husband retired and they moved back to Virginia. She was invited to my wedding but didn’t make it, instead calling the catering hall on the day to wish us well which was, I thought, I nice gesture. We exchanged brief Christmas letters each year. A few years ago we didn’t get a card and I feared the worst, though I was philosophical since I figured Lori was a few years older than my mother and, well, time brings the inevitable to us all. However, after Christmas we got a belated card from her saying her husband had been sick and that they didn’t have time to send cards this year. I was relieved.
Last year we sent them a card and got a card back with a note from Lori’s husband. It said: “My beloved wife will be spending Christmas in heaven with your mother.”
I stared at the card for a long time. I remembered all the things that I’ve just written here. Then I hung the card with the others. Memories are a gift of this season as much as anything. Enjoy them as best you can.
Sometimes the letter contains good news. This year for example we found out a waiter friend of ours from Montreal who we don’t see anymore since he quit his job at the restaurant and he lives outside the city is marrying his partner. This is the kind of holiday news that warms the heart
Of course, there’s also the other kind.
When I was growing up, my mother was good friends with a woman who lived across the street. Her name was Lori. When I was very young, mom used to take me over to Lori’s house while they had tea or coffee and talked. We’d have to leave when Another World came on which was announced by Lori saying “It’s time for my story”.
Like a lot of kids in the 70s, I had a rock collection. One of Lori’s hobbies was collecting and polishing stones. They had a whole tumbling and polishing thing set up next to their garage. I remember one afternoon I spent in her back yard happily bashing garnets out of the rock they were embedded in. One terrible day while Lori and her husband were out the house burned in a fire caused by the chemicals they had stored for this particular hobby. I still remember how distraught they were when they got home. Still, they rebuilt and stayed in that house for several years after.
Lori was also the first person who gave me fresh vegetables. I hated vegetables as a kid because all my parents ate were canned vegetables. I can’t blame them, in America in the 1970s nobody knew any better. The post-war convenience revolution (i.e. the move toward everything being quick, easy, instant processed food to be quickly heated and eaten in front of the television) dovetailing with the women’s lib movement dovetailing with the “if she’s not gonna spend time cooking dammit if I will” male reaction to said movement had created a nasty cultural by-product: the attitude that kitchen work was drudgery, a task beneath the modern, on-the-go late 20th century American. Sure you still had immigrant grandmas and a few hippie types that still believed that preparing tasty, fresh food was an act of love but that attitude was trampled in the majority of American homes.
Lori was still a bit old fashioned. I don’t remember her being any kind of a great cook but she still cared enough to prepare food with some fresh ingredients. So it was that she served me the first green bean dish I ever liked: the simple yet classic preparation of cold green beans, sliced red onion and balsamic vinegar. For years after that I would ask for “Lori’s green bean salad” which eventually led to an ill-fated attempt to construct it using a cold can of green beans that put me back off the veg for years.
Lori got a bit of local notoriety during the media coverage of the tornado our block experienced during Hurricane David. I still remember her standing out in the street telling the reported that “I saw it comin’ through rayit’chere” in her Roanoke, Virginia accent.
Eventually her husband retired and they moved back to Virginia. She was invited to my wedding but didn’t make it, instead calling the catering hall on the day to wish us well which was, I thought, I nice gesture. We exchanged brief Christmas letters each year. A few years ago we didn’t get a card and I feared the worst, though I was philosophical since I figured Lori was a few years older than my mother and, well, time brings the inevitable to us all. However, after Christmas we got a belated card from her saying her husband had been sick and that they didn’t have time to send cards this year. I was relieved.
Last year we sent them a card and got a card back with a note from Lori’s husband. It said: “My beloved wife will be spending Christmas in heaven with your mother.”
I stared at the card for a long time. I remembered all the things that I’ve just written here. Then I hung the card with the others. Memories are a gift of this season as much as anything. Enjoy them as best you can.
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