“Tradition is not the worship of ashes, but the preservation of fire.”
Gustav Mahler
Her nose was gone. They cut it off. She’d need to wear a prosthetic when she went out. If she went out.
Cancer.
We were in route to see her, but Grandpa turned us away. She didn’t want to see anyone and neither did he.
It was Christmas Eve.
We pulled over. No plan.
“Do we head back?”
Mom was crying. About Grammy but also being turned away. That relationship was complex.
It was cold outside. Colder than I remember California. The breeze had a smell to it. Gilroy. Garlic capital of the world. Signs all over town. They were proud of that garlic.
“What are we doing?”
It had been a long drive south from Washington. We were all tired. Now we were stuck. We were spending Christmas Eve in Gilroy. Shit bag motel. That’s how these trips always went.
It was getting late, so we checked in and were happy to have a place to be. I always liked hotel beds, tight sheets. Never made mine at home.
It had a pool too. Not heated. It looked clean though.
Woman at the counter said the Mexican place across the way would be open. We leapfrogged across the highway and in.
Feliz Navidad.
The story my mom tells from that night is not about getting stuck in Gilroy, or Grammy’s face. She loves the story about dessert. We remember what we want to remember.
After fajitas and margaritas, the waiter asked if we wanted the complementary dessert. He’d get as big a Christmas tip as Mom could muster.
I asked, “What is it?”
He said, “It doesn’t matter. It’s FREE.”
We all had a good laugh. He made a good point. Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.
In my defense it was some sort of pudding, and I should have taken a pass.
A tradition was born from that. Christmas Eve was Mexican and margaritas. No pudding. We didn’t adopt the road trip to Gilroy or the shit bag motel either.
See how we do that?
We borrow from the past, ever so carefully, and make these things traditions. Sometimes superstitions. The sights and sounds bring us back. It’s time traveling but we do make edits.
You’d think these traditions would last but mostly they don’t. Get married, see what lives. Have kids, a few more get buried. New ones are born though.
These days we head downtown on Christmas Eve. We get hot coco, hit the waterfront, ride the Great Wheel, then walk to Pike Place Market for lunch. Except when we don’t. This year it’s a no go. We’ll look at pictures.
That tradition wasn’t durable enough. Didn’t survive. Maybe it wasn’t a tradition after all. Time will tell.
Sometimes we listen to Tommy Dorsey because my grandfather always did. Except I don’t really remember that. We listen anyhow. Seems like something he’d like.
I do remember tapes of Charles Dickens, The Christmas Carol. My Dad liked the old radio version of it, starring the great Lionel Barrymore. The adults would get toasted, we’d get a big fire going, lights low. It was nice.
“Old Marley was dead as a door-nail.” It would begin and my dad would chuckle. Memories flooding in no doubt, and that Bacardi flooding in too.
Tradition.
“Humbug.” Someone else could chime in. Laughs.
“An undigested bit of beef…a fragment of an underdone potato.” It continued, through the opening monolog.
We don’t listen anymore. I tried it with my wife. It didn’t stick. Maybe I didn’t miss Dickens, I missed my dad. And the fire.
A few years ago, we had meatloaf on Christmas Day, people had fun, so now it’s a meatloaf tradition.
And so it goes.
Traditions. Stories we tell ourselves. They keep us together. They keep us talking.
Sights and sounds. Smells. The tree, the ornaments, the food, the music, and the people. Traditions keep all of those going and they open the mind and help us remember. And that is a good thing.
But play this game with me. Think of five people you admire. Dead or alive. Five people you’d like to hang out with for a while, or for eternity. How many of them are traditionalists?
My list? Mark Twain, John Lennon, Richard Feynman, Pablo Picasso, and Walt Disney. Others may come to mind, but that’s a fun list. Not sure how many of them are meatloaf guys. The point is we worship the trailblazers but fall back to the safety of our own traditions. It’s a conflict that needs resolving. We misunderstand tradition.
So, try this, and don’t be so superstitious, you’ll still have a great holiday.
Pass on Tommy Dorsey, or whatever you listen to. It’s music that makes the tradition. It’s the sounds of the season. Make a group playlist. Make your own music. Go to a concert or watch one.
Pass on A Christmas Carol. It’s great, and so is a trip downtown, but really, it’s the time and the group and the laughs. Go for a ride, head to the beach, hit the slopes, play a game, share a meal, have a drink. Be together and tell stories. Call Dad, throw him a quote, “a bit of underdone potato,” and make him chuckle. He may throw one right back.
The next day start planning something new for the next year.
Pass on the meatloaf too. I’m pro-meatloaf, but it’s not what makes Christmas. The smells and the taste and the teamwork. That’s what’s good.
The mistake is to exchange the past you see through squinted eyes, for the present that’s so clearly right in front of you. Changing out what might have been for what certainly is. If you are willing to have it.
“Happiness,” as Hyman Judah Schachtel said, “is not having what you want, but wanting what you have.”
Traditions can help. Just make sure to keep the fire and leave the ashes.
