This year, on Christmas Eve, my husband and I will be watching the 1951 version of “A Christmas Carol,” the one with Alastair Sim.
We will get to the part where Scrooge, properly humbled after his ghostly encounters, will appear at his nephew Fred’s house in time for dinner. Scrooge will hesitate by the drawing room door, afraid to go in, afraid he may not be welcome, and the maid will nod encouragement to him. Sometime during this scene, my husband will turn to me and say, “That maid’s a babe.” Then I will say, “Yes, she is.” Pause. “And she’s probably dead now.”
I could have told you that my husband would do this last week. I could have told you this in June. It’s one of those things we have done every year for so long that it’s simply impossible not to. Call it tradition, I suppose, and add it to the list. It just wouldn’t be the holidays otherwise.
Tradition will also mean that we will cut a fresh Christmas tree. We will go to Pike National Forest, spend the better part of the morning hiking up steep, snow-covered hillsides, crossing ravines, and craning our heads back trying to gauge what the top 8 feet of that 16-foot tree will look like in our living room. We will inevitably decide that the first one we spotted that morning, the one we’re sure is by some boulder that was next to some other, bigger boulder, is the one we want. We always think we’ll be able to find it again. Usually we’re wrong. But, in our futile attempt to find that one, we’ll somehow find another and bring it home and declare it perfect.
Again this year, I will bake 97 dozen spritz butter cookies.(Once I discover batter not only on the kitchen wall but also in my hair, it will feel like that many, anyway.) I will re-read Dickens’ “A Christmas Carol,” a chapter a day, timing it so that I get to “God bless us, everyone,” on Christmas Eve. I will refuse to go to a mall after Thanksgiving, thereby forcing my holiday shopping to be done prior or by mail order. This isn’t so bad, really. I’m on every mailing list imaginable and end up getting catalogs from companies that sell, among other necessities, things such as a “stunning” wall hanging of birds hand-carved from monkey pod wood. Makes for a good threat: “Be nice or you’re getting the monkey pod wood carving in your stocking this year.”
When I was a kid, I thought that my friends who went skiing on Thanksgiving or spent Christmas on a beach in Florida were the luckiest souls alive. I imagined that one day I’d pop over to Paris for the holidays just because I could. I’d happily miss listening to my father’s Little Wally Christmas polka albums, or having to smile through those family portraits my mother wanted. I’d give up the turkey, the ham, the cranberries, the stuffing, the mounds of mashed potatoes, and the pumpkin pie just to eat Crepes Suzette and drink café au lait. I’d luxuriate in the peace that comes with no obligations. Who wouldn’t?
Actually, as it turns out, me. I am the kind of person who needs the lights on the house, the presents under the tree (to be opened Christmas morning, of course), and the chestnuts roasting on the fire after all. As we unpack the ornaments, I want my husband to say, “Look, remember this one?” so that we can both spend a few minutes reminiscing.
If this is boring or predictable, well, I guess that’s me, too. I’m not above changing a holiday menu or getting creative with the decorations. But I can no more watch “It’s a Wonderful Life” without getting choked up than I can jump on a plane and leave all of this behind. Tradition is the thread that holds my life together throughout the year. Everything from singing “Happy Birthday” to cookouts on the Fourth of July to stockings hung by the chimney with care.
There is a reason my husband gives me a box of chocolates the day after Valentine’s Day and a reason we have club sandwiches every year on our anniversary. There’s a story behind each that, through the years, has become part of our shared history. And isn’t that what tradition is? A consistency that provides us a measure of comfort in a sometimes uncomfortable world.
So, this year, we’ll eat and drink and spend time with family and friends. We’ll give money and food to those in need. We’ll wish for peace on earth and goodwill toward all. We’ll count our blessings.
After all, that’s tradition, too.
Lynne Stoecklein is a Colorado Voices columnist from 2003.
