Dad, holding court with the family on Christmas, as Dad so often did, 2023
Emery and Thomas, Christmas, 2024
My thoughts on Christmas this year are to get through it. Get through the holiday that I usually look forward to, starting on the day after Thanksgiving, when I haul the red and green boxes in from the garage while trying to remember what goes where. There is always a sense of relief when the empty ornament and decor boxes are back in the garage, the task completed, and for the next month or so, my house is transformed. The joy. A dark room at night with a lit tree. I love Christmas and have decorated for the holiday since my first apartment, when I was in college. I’m not looking forward to Christmas or the ten days that follow. I didn’t haul the boxes out of the garage or put up a tree this year. I want it to be over, and it hasn’t even begun. On the heels of Christmas is New Year’s, when the nightmare I’ve been living for almost a year began. I have a lot of dates coming up that I need to get through.
A few weeks ago, I went to get a Christmas tree with my son, Thomas, and his family while I was in Portland. While I was watching the employee tie the tree onto the top of the car, a particular memory came to mind; one I hadn’t anticipated, nor was I ready for it. I held back my sobs, trying my best to participate with enthusiasm in what should have been a fun outing with Thomas and his family. I recalled the first Christmas in the house that my family now refers to as the divorce house. It came with its challenges, starting with the Christmas tree. Picking out the tree had always been something we did as a family, whether it was cutting one down or buying one in a lot. I knew it wouldn’t have the same festive feel that year as it had in the past; I just wanted a tree: no fanfare, no hot chocolate and carolers, just a tree. Emery and I had been at Home Depot and decided, for efficiency, to get our tree there. It was bitterly cold, and we had had a day of snow and ice, so the tree was chosen quickly, without comparing it to other trees that might have had a better shape. I wanted to check the chore off the list and get out of the cold. After I paid for the tree, I asked the cashier where I should park so the tree could be secured to my car.
“We don’t do that,” the cashier told me. “For insurance reasons. The customer is responsible for attaching the tree themselves.”
“Me? You mean I was supposed to bring rope?”
“Well, I suppose we could give you some rope.”
I was waiting for the “but maybe we can make an acceptation for you and is this your daughter?”
It didn’t come. She wasn’t going to help this newly single woman and her daughter in Christmas tree distress. It was close to closing time, and I could sense her anticipation of clocking out and going home.
The tree was too big to fit in the car, but Emery and I dragged it there, not exactly knowing what we would do with it once we got there. Luckily for both of us, we saw an employee who looked to be high school-aged, standing around, trying to look busy. I flagged him down and begged him to help us. He was quick to say he couldn’t and started in on the insurance issues. I told him I’d tip him. A lot. I had no idea what that meant, but it got him moving, but not before he looked around to see if anyone was watching. He told me he’d be right back with some rope. And for twenty dollars, or maybe it was more, I don’t remember, he secured the tree while Emery and I waited inside the warm car. The young man had no idea of the heroic gesture he had just made, and I have thought about him every year since, when buying my tree. The following year, I started the tradition of going to the places with the carolers, hot chocolate, and men who would load your tree and wish you a Merry Christmas when they were done.
Once home, Emery and I dragged the tree inside, only to realize that the back half of it was covered in ice. Why hadn’t we noticed the ice when we selected the tree? Or when it was being secured to the car? Perhaps because Emery and I were warming up in the car, likely listening to Celine Dion’s Christmas CD, while the ice-laden tree was being tied on. This realization wouldn’t come until the tree was in the living room, melting on the new hardwood floors. I looked at Emery, and we both shrugged and shook our heads, not sure whether we should laugh or cry.
“Beach towels?” Emery asked.
“Yeah, beach towels, because we can’t put it in the garage because it’s too cold out there and the ice will never melt.”
And so, with a pile of beach towels circling the tree like a tree skirt to absorb the melting ice, we set the mess aside, roasted Brussel sprouts, and settled in for the Gilmore Girls because that’s what we often did in the evening. The tree eventually melted and was decorated, and life moved on. A few weeks later, after all the presents had been opened, I found a wooden crate containing three bottles of barbecue sauce that looked like it had been hidden under the tree. I asked my family and the workers who were still finishing up some projects in my house about the crate, but no one knew where it had come from. Someone, I don’t know who, gave me an untagged gift of spicy kindness that Christmas, and I still wonder who it was. Because I’m not a big BBQ sauce fan, I gave the sauce trio away, but kept the heartwarming feeling of someone’s quiet generosity.
Christmas, 2024, was the last time I had a face-to-face conversation with Emery. The next day, she was struggling with the flu, along with the rest of her family. I went to her house a few times to bring food, but she insisted I stay away as she was afraid I’d catch what they were all struggling with. The first thing she said to me at our gathering at Mom’s retirement place on Christmas evening was,
“No one told me I looked prettier than a hundred-dollar bill, Mom.”
“No one told me either, sweetheart.”
My Dad had three girls, two granddaughters, and one wife. He loved complimenting his girls, and from a very young age, whether or not we deserved it, Dad’s way of telling us we looked nice was to say we looked “prettier than a 100-dollar bill!” The irony being, I doubt Dad had seen many hundred-dollar bills in his lifetime; still, it was his gold standard, and his compliments were always appreciated. It was our first Christmas without Dad—our first Christmas of not being compared to a hundred-dollar bill. Then Emery told me that she had had a dream about Gramps the night before.
“He came to me in my dream, and I told him I felt bad because Christmas was the next day, and I hadn’t bought any gifts. He told me I had all the gifts I needed. I looked down and saw I was wearing a red coat with big pockets. He told me to look in the pockets, and I’d find everything I needed. And he was right, Mom, everything was in the pockets of the coat.”
I’ve thought about the dream and the red coat with everything she needed in the pockets. Emery often had relatives who had passed come to her in dreams, so this wasn’t unusual, but I can’t help but think Dad may have really been with her. Ten days later, I think it was my Dad, her Gramps, who helped her cross over. Emery’s dream about Dad feels like a gift to me now, given that it was our last conversation of significance. It was honest and weighty, with an almost poetic quality.
Before we said our goodbyes at Mom’s, I pulled Emery aside and said, “I think you look prettier than a hundred-dollar bill, Emery.” She smiled and said, “You do too, Mom.” I knew she was missing her Gramps, and corny as it was, we both missed being compared to a hundred-dollar bill.
Thanks for taking care of my girl, Dad. She really was as pretty as a hundred-dollar bill and even prettier on Christmas
Despite the joy and the beauty of twinkling lights, December has become a very heavy month for me. One day, one holiday, one anniversary at a time. I’m going slow.