Sweet Wishes You a Merry Christmas

May you be a better person than you thought possible.

May happy music fill your heart.

So you can do this.

May you get everything you asked Santa for.

May you recognize the angels in your life.

To help you avoid the demons.

Merry, merry!

I'll be Home for Christmas

I grew up in Syracuse, which just experienced 97 consecutive hours of snow. My first experience of Christmas in Miami was on video.  Watching Andi and Jim on their front lawn, wearing shorts and t-shirts, fighting with the water guns they'd just gotten under the tree, I immediately decided Christmas in Miami did not exist.  

I moved here in 1998.  Sometimes there were decorations and a tree, sometimes not.  Sometimes we'd eat at the in-law's, sometimes a friend's, sometimes at the brother-in-law's, and sometimes at home.  We always exchanged gifts, stuffed stockings, listened to holiday music, drank egg nog, and spread holiday cheer, but nothing in thirteen years of semi-tropical merriment filled me with the excitement and joy I always associated with Christmas up north snow or no snow.  

Supposedly it's bad trying to relive your childhood through your own children.  You get the high you used to feel by seeing something through their eyes, which is fine, but the danger is you might end up resenting the children for not having all the fun and happiness you remember (or imagine you remember).  

Well, screw the danger.  Whether it was Dylan, Becky, or the way the three of us have become a family, I now know Christmas comes to Miami.

We opened our gifts Christmas morning.  Dylan, who wants to be an immediate expert at everything he tries, became frustrated with the Beyblades he got.  If you're unfamiliar, Beyblades are the dramatic re-imagining of tops.  You spin them together in a plastic arena to battle, and the last one spinning is the winner.  

Beyblades are for ages eight and up, and they're tough for little fingers to put back together when they fall apart.  I warned Dylan if he threw another fit about the Beyblades, I'd put them away for two years, until he was old enough to use them.  I was preparing breakfast for a crowd, Becky was frantically cleaning, and if he wanted to play instead of helping, he needed to do it without the drama.

As Christmas approached, Dylan has been a handful and a half.  Both Becky and I have wanted to cancel Christmas at least once.  One fine day, after blowing most of a paycheck on Santa's toys, he decided it was time to see who was in charge around the house while mommy wasn't around.  I stormed into his room and yelled, "Guess what? I fucking AM Santa Claus!  Unless you want me to bring everything back and use the money to fly your mother and I to New Orleans, you better clean your goddamn room NOW!"  

Well, no.  But I thought about it.  Hard.  A few mornings later, Becky and he screamed at each-other.  Both of them ended up crying and shaking with anger and frustration.  

We told ourselves he'd be better once Christmas finally got here.      

Of course, Christmas morning, Dylan threw another fit when the Beyblades fell apart.  I had to put them away, and his snit became a crying tantrum.  Becky and I didn't get upset with him for ruining Christmas, imagining our childhood selves as dancing sugar plums of joy.  I hugged him and told him it didn't mean we didn't love him.  Becky invited him to play with the piles of other toys Santa brought. 

Parenting is one of those things you'll never understand unless you experience it yourself.  By extension, you can't understand your own parents without being a parent yourself.  You might think you know how you feel about your parents, but being a parent will cast those feelings in a new light.  I've never felt closer to my family than while forming my own.  

The Quiroga Clan joined us for breakfast, as well as Carroll, and it was beautiful.

When they left, Becky and I enjoyed our first Christmas waking in the same house.

After twelve years in Miami, Christmas finally found me.  

It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year

Thanksgiving, Thanksgiving, how I love you, and how sad when it all comes to an end.  This year my nephew Jason couldn't make it, but my brother and sister-in-law did.  

We had nineteen kinds of dessert. 

Aunt Val's neighbor had the night off from his job as a prison guard and brought his wife over to Thursday's bonfire.   

My cousin Margaret brought her significant other, Justin. 

My nephew Steven brought his significant other, Reina.

And of course, Clan Curtis / DeSocio / Jacobs finally met Becky, AKA Cleopatra, AKA the Girl with the Pigeon Tattoo.

We drove, and despite car games, awesome sing-alongs, and a two-hour side swipe at Savannah, it's not an experience I care to repeat any time soon.  Particularly the part where we couldn't find a cheap hotel.


We started pulling over in Virginia, going into hotels and seeing what a night cost.  We took turns to stay awake, all the way to Pennsylvania.  Past two am, unable to drive another foot, we reclined the seats and proceeded to sleep in the car.  It was 30-degrees outside.  Those $50 nights at the Loews Becky's sister hooks us up with have us spoiled.  


We're already saving our pennies so we can fly up next year with Dylan, so imagine him photoshopped into these photos.

My sister Cass, her son Johnny, and my sister-in-law Kim

My cousin Shannon and his wife Christina, with my Mom

The group, minus Kim (behind the camera) and Aunt Val (in the kitchen)

My brother AJ, Me, Becky, and my sister Cass

Me, Becky, and Shannon & Christina's daughter Sophia, pre-snowball fight

In the meantime, I'm hoping my family will visit us so they can get to know her better. 

The Turkey Bowl was two-hand touch with just a few guys.  I lost most of Friday to a Labatt Blue hangover, so we missed driving to the Rez.  Becky didn't get to eat any apple pie the whole time.  On the way back, route 95 was choked with bumper-to-bumper traffic from Pennsylvania to Virginia.  I kept saving it for later, so my one serving of corn chowder went bad on the drive back home.  Heartbreaking.

The beauty of being with family is not that the good outweighs the bad, it's that the bad is a mild afterthought.  

Here's to another great year.

My First Christmas

When I wrote this previous post, in the back of my mind I knew there would be other firsts. Not in those terms, exactly, but I knew it was just the beginning of my separation. I had already made it through Andi’s birthday and I had a plan for mine, but I hadn’t even considered the holidays.

Andi has missed Thanksgiving a couple times before, and she rarely took off as much time from work as I did. It’s not like her absence up north was unprecedented, it was just a new kind of absence.

When I asked why no one had mentioned Andi this year, my mother explained, “We wouldn’t say anything because if you got back together it would be awkward.”

Ah.

“Even then, we wouldn’t say anything,” Mom said.

“We’d just look at her,” Aunt Jeri agreed, demonstrating her flinty-eyed stare.

I told them about Becky.

Friday the 25th, I woke up alone on Christmas Day for the first time in my life. I didn’t play music. I made myself a mushroom and cheese omelet. I opened the Christmas gifts from my Aunt Jeri (and the Starbuck’s gift card from Uncle Nicky), who’d drawn my name this year. I brewed coffee and read for several hours. I showered and walked to Books &Books, not to work but to use it as my personal Kinkos.

It was a blindingly gorgeous day, Christmas served up Miami style. Not cold yet, but cool. Periwinkle skies, fluffy clouds. Jeans and t-shirt weather. I passed three fathers helping their sons ride the bicycles they’d just received, one boy far too old to be wobbling on his first bike. I couldn’t help but think of the bike Santa had brought Becky’s boy on Christmas. I also thought of learning to bike myself.

I remember my father jogging behind me. I’m not sure how long I’d been biking, weeks or months, but the training wheels on my hand-me-down bike were raised maybe an inch off the pavement. Dad urged me to go faster, jogging behind me while he held the bike seat steady. Everything clicked. I found my balance. I left dad behind like I’d been shot from a cannon. I remember him trying to keep up for a couple of steps, then giving up and just watching as I biked to the end of the block and back.

I’d like to put a smile on his face, add some triumphant shouting, but all I remember is his hand, letting go, and those two jogging steps he took before standing still. He was wearing jeans.

Walking alone under Miami’s sun, I realized how lucky I am. I’ve gone directly from a family-filled home to a girlfriend’s house to another girlfriend (and eventual wife)’s house. Every year of my life, I’ve woke on Christmas in a home filled with love. This year, I woke alone. But that was important to do, so I could realize the first part.

At Books & Books, I printed some things out and wrapped some gifts. Becky called. Her son’s second Christmas at her ex’s had begun; was I ready for our private Christmas?

“Nah, I’m enjoying my solitude,” I said.

Right. Solitude is great when it’s a state you know will end soon, but you can’t end solitude alone. I told her I’d race her to the Treehouse. I hopped on my bike (which I’d left at work before), the day so perfect I wanted to take a few extra laps around the gorgeous houses on my block. Instead I got home, showered, cleaned up, and ate a bowl of vanilla ice cream drizzled with one of the syrups my aunt had given me.

The syrup gift set wasn’t on my Christmas list, but it’s the things you don’t expect which make the best surprises.

Becky and I exchanged gifts. I thought she was a mind reader, but apparently she had asked what I wanted for Christmas while we were drifting off one night and I sleepily gave her the rundown. Along with all the fun stuff, we exchanged some personal gifts upon which we could hang the memories of our first shared Christmas.

Get your mind out of the gutter, I’m talking about the stories I printed out at Books &Books, which she’d been after me to give her for some time. She says lingerie is a gift more for the giver than the receiver, but really, giving her those stories is a selfish gift. She might enjoy my words, but I enjoy her reading them more.

Becky also drew me a picture and had it framed, a pencil drawing of us together on the beach in Sarasota, enjoying the sunset and each-other’s company. I hadn’t thought I could look on those days with any more fondness, but she proved me wrong.

This was a Christmas I'll never forget.

Christmas with Clan Cleopatra

The Christmas Eve Eve Party at Hilldawg’s was a little north of Miami, so Becky and I decided I should spend the night at her place to save her some driving. We left Books & Books, I packed an overnight bag, and headed up. Becky’s sister was in town from Orlando. Her parents, her son, her sister – all of them were waiting on us to go out to dinner.

When I walked through the door, Cleo Jr. smiled up at me and took my hand. He led me upstairs, down the hall, to his bedroom, and through a doorless frame perhaps a third of the size of a standard door. From the bedroom, the finished attic space looks like a picture you can enter. Inside is a little bookshelf, a cot, a lot of levels, and toys. It’s the kidspace you wish you had growing up.

Cleo Jr. and I flipped through a copy of Mary Shelly's Frankenstein too advanced for his reading level. He liked looking at the pictures, though. For my part, I was amazed at how faithful Kenneth Branagh's adaptation was to the original text. Of course, I’ve never read the original, so all my preconceived notions come from the various movies.

Anyhoo, Cleo Jr. wanted me next to him in the car and at dinner. He didn’t want Becky accompanying him to the bathroom, but me. Becky assures me this behavior is unusual, but I find it difficult to believe I have some kind of special connection with children only manifesting itself now (cats, on the other hand…). I think I’m just lucky enough to meet him at an age when he loves most everyone.

The Eve Eve party was great. Shooting the shit with folks who I don’t see nearly enough, all of us loose with drink. That’s a good night for me.

Some of our friends decided not to pick one Christmas party, but instead to attend them all. Festooned with lights and garland, wearing elf hats and painted shirts, carrying sheet music, guitars, and bongos, these folks caroled their merry way from house to house. They’d stop at one party for three or four songs, mingle a bit, then head out for the next stop. To hear them tell it, they will attend fifty different parties this year. They filmed the whole thing. It was all very Fellini.

On the day before Christmas (Christmas Eve morning sounds off to me), Cleo Jr. roused Becky bright and early. I slept until well past eleven. I’d planned on making Ropa Vieja for Noche Buena at home, perfuming the Treehouse with delicious cooking smells and avoiding the watchful eye of Cleo Mater.

I’d seen Cleo Mater hovering over Becky’s sister when she made rum cake. I didn’t want that kind of scrutiny. Unfortunately, being a non-Cuban on a Cuban holiday making a Cuban dish, the idea of my flying below the radar was ridiculous.

Since they’d begun cooking the night before – on the Eve of Noche Buena - there was room on the stove for my Old Clothes. The kitchen is right off the side entrance, which everyone uses because only strangers use the front door. After “nice to meet you,” the phrase, “I hear you’re making Ropa Vieja” immediately followed, again and again.

Imagine a Cuban dating an Irishman and deciding to make bangers and mash on St. Patrick’s Day. Although I’d made the dish dozens of times over the years, I still felt nervous. Maybe I should have done a practice run earlier in the week. Cleo Mater raised an eyebrow at the method I used to prepare the skirt steak, smiled broadly, and left me to my own devices.

Apart from Cleo Mater’s signature black beans and a mojito turkey, mine was the only Cuban dish on the menu. Becky made Cheesy Potatoes and Beef Brisket. Becky’s sister made a green bean casserole. We had tossed salad to start and bread rolls to wipe our plates clean. A delicious meal, with a large family gathered around the table. Clan Cleopatra reminded me very much of my family during Thanksgiving, except it’s only one night and they serve wine.

The Texan at the table pronounced Becky’s brisket the best she’d ever eaten (apparently brisket is big in Texas, so this is high praise indeed). It was the tastiest piece of beef I’ve ever had. While my Ropa Veija turned out perfectly, it may as well have been cardboard next to the brisket.

I was the only one who expressed this sentiment, but I’m sure it was universal. Cleo Mater had seconds, though, which I’m told is a rarity. At least I made a believer out of her.

After dinner, we stepped outside. Cleo Pater had built a landing in the back yard for his grandchildren. Palms and oaks shaded the flagstone paths and firepit he’d built. He’d done all the renovations on the house himself. As if that’s not enough skill, Cleo Pater pulled out his guitar and sang a beautiful rendition of a Bob Dylan song. I can’t remember which one, but his daughters said they always thought he’d written it.

The group of us gathered around a fire in the dark, drinking, thinking, chatting. Again, I was forcibly reminded of my own family. I thanked Becky’s parents for inviting me, but sometimes words can’t encompass the depths of one’s gratitude.

The hiccup came when Becky and I tried to make it to another Christmas Eve party closer to the Treehouse.

After lulling Cleo Jr.’s holiday spirit down with four Christmas stories, Becky’s lack of sleep caught up with her. She looked so peaceful cuddled up next to her son. I knew we’d be late, but I also felt guilty at the extra three hours of sleep I’d gotten the night before. Being pulled back-and-forth between a promise to attend Akimbo’s party on one side and affection for my girlfriend on the other won Becky a half hour of sleep. Being new to the whole child thing, I’d forgotten Santa Claus. There were presents to put under the tree, notes to write, cookies to eat, milk to drink.

It was Akimbo’s first Christmas Eve in the condo she’d just bought. But by the time we began driving back to Miami, Becky was near to nodding off. Exhausted as she was, knowing she had to drive back home and be up early for Christmas with her family, I couldn’t ask Becky to chauffeur me.

Andi was also at the Christmas Eve party. Andi, Akimbo, and I have known each-other since we were nineteen. Andi texted me, asking if she should leave. I didn’t know how to answer. If Becky just dropped me off, wouldn’t that eliminate any awkwardness? But Andi and I haven’t spoken in so long, was a Christmas Eve party the best venue to start? Plus, how would I get home?

In the end, we didn’t go. Becky dropped me off at the Treehouse and drove home. For the first time, I felt terrible not having a car.

A few days later, Akimbo gave me bag of some of my favorite things (Raven’s Wood Zinfandel, Starbucks, dark chocolate peanut M &M’s, and “He’s Just Not That Into You” on DVD) and I took her out to dinner.

Becky said she knew I didn’t have a car going in, and didn’t blame me for anything. Her family dug me.

All in all, my first Noche Buena was a great evening.

An Off Year

Many large families gather around an event which brings all the extended members together for at least a day. Fourth of July barbeques. Christmas dinners. Annual reunions. Since moving to Miami in 1998, I’ve lost touch with my father’s side of the family. I miss those reunion barbeques in August at my Uncle Don’s house, eating grilled hotdogs and hamburgers, sucking down soda and a dozen different side salads, playing horse shoes and bocce. But travel isn’t cheap, and sacrifices must be made to honor that most sacred of holidays, Thanksgiving.

Aunt Val hosts Thanksgiving every year. We don’t all pull up on Thursday, watch some football, eat, watch some more football, and go home. I mean my aunt hosts. We start arriving on Tuesday. My parents, my siblings and their families, my cousins and their families, my aunts and uncles and their families, and often friends of the family. Tuesday’s dinner is chicken and rice. Wednesday is spaghetti with meatballs and sausage. Thursday is turkey (with mashed potatoes, stuffing, banana bread, zucchini bread, a pickle sample platter, cranberry, gravy, salad, celery stuffed with cream cheese, five kinds of squash, pistachio whip, broccoli, rolls to sop it all up with, and an extra turkey for sandwiches the rest of the week). Friday is ham. Saturday is pork loin. Drinks are milk, cider, lemonade, and Folgers and Starbucks coffee.

Dessert? We still talk about the year Aunt Elly, Aunt Val, and my sister-in-law Kim got overzealous. We had enough pies that we could have taken one a piece, over twenty in all. Each year, we have pumpkin, apple, cherry, lemon meringue, and chocolate. Usually there’s pecan, and at least one raspberry or blueberry. It’s the variations which defy pie logic. Pecan pumpkin. Stawberry rhubarb. Deep-dish apple. Granny smith apple. Cranberry apple. None of this includes cheesecake, ice cream, Val’s brownies, and Elly’s life-altering Peanut Butter Blossoms.

Sunday we make our way back home, driving from as close as ten minutes away and as far as four hours and all points between, some of us waiting for flights back to Florida. Aunt Val doesn’t bed all of us for six days anymore. My cousin Shannon bought a house a few years back, and some of us have taken to staying there. But we remember growing up, how every flat surface of the living room had a body. We make sure the youngest generation is aware of what they missed.

Traditionally, drinking happens after nightfall. My parents’ generation enjoyed tipping a few but stopped the practice before I developed any solid memories of their behavior. My own drinking started at the tail end of my generation’s wildest behaviors. It’s all fairly mellow now. A few beers around the bonfire (there’s always a bonfire Thursday, sometimes expanding to Wednesday and Friday as well) or at Shannon’s, progressing to several beers and a shot or two as the week goes on.

This year we didn’t play Kick the Can during Thursday’s bonfire because the ground was too squelchy. We took a lap around the fire to honor Tota’s memory instead. Let me say, not much of an honor. I can picture Tota looking down and rocking with her powerful laugh that sounded like climbing stairs, up and up and up and up, even as she’s touched by the emotion behind our amateur effort. Our family is not traditional. We’ve never attended dances or ceremonies. Still, we took a lap around the bonfire.

My cousin Ciera, who has been to ceremonies, told us to all move in a slow circle. The last person ran to take the lead, then the new last person ran to take the lead, and so on. I had one piece of Indian music from my CD collection memorized, so I started to sing it. I have no idea what I was saying. We giggled as we moved, gradually getting faster. Eventually, we were racing my sister when her turn came, and she never made it to the front. I stopped singing, and we grew self-conscious and stopped moving.

“I’m sorry, Tota,” Aunt Jeri laughed up at the night sky, tears rolling down her cheeks. “That’s the best we could do.”

This year my brother AJ and my sister-in-law Kim didn’t come. He’s never missed a year. Not once.

Every year for decades, we’ve played a Turkey Bowl. My uncle Mark retired at forty, scoring touchdowns in November, crippled with Rheumatoid arthritis in February. We’ve played Ice Bowls and Mud Bowls, we played two-hand touch in the street one year when the ground was frozen to concrete, and we’ve fielded a full eleven on eleven, with subs waiting on the sidelines. In twenty-five years we’ve never needed one phone call to gather a neighborhood crowd.

Every year starts as two-hand touch and winds up full-contact.  As my siblings, cousins, and my Shannon’s friends from the neighborhood have approached and passed forty, injuries have mounted. But we’ve always played.

Not this year.

My aunts and my parents have been getting up at five for Black Friday’s shopping specials since forever. This year they slept in.

My nephews - eighteen, nineteen, and twenty-two - asked if they could spend the night at Shannon’s. Really, they were asking to party with us. There’s nothing like seeing a kid whose diapers you’ve changed holding a beer to tell you time is passing.

It’s been on our minds for some years, on our lips more often. How much longer can we keep this up? When we compliment Aunt Val on her hosting and cooking skills, she pooh-poohs her efforts, saying she gets so much help that it's a breeze. She says she’ll keep doing it until it stops being fun.

Here’s hoping she’ll always find it fun.

Here’s hoping she lives to be a hale one hundred.

Here’s hoping my generation will be able to host a feast half as decadent, delicious, and filled with love.