Ghosts of Christmas Past and Present
m/s Amsterdam, off Oaxaca, Mexico
December 25, 2017
Our string of consecutive years spending Christmas in Tampa was dead. Dead as a doornail. Of that there was no doubt. We must instead carry the chains of shore excursions, happy hours, and dessert buffets we have recently forged in life.
This year, with some initial reluctance, and primarily to accommodate my desire to see the Panama Canal and Holland America’s schedule of cruises through it, we decided to be away for Christmas.
The ship abounded yesterday in carols, lights, food, and cheer. Mass lifted the spirit, after which fatigue pulled the veil of sleep over our eyes.
A foghorn (or perhaps a whale) blew outside the cabin window as hands on the clock signaled 1:00 AM. Peering thru the darkness and over the waves flowing past the ship, I suddenly saw and grasped a hand reaching from above.
“Who are you?”, I asked while being whisked above the waves.
“I am the Ghost if Christmas Past”, came the terse reply as the spirit carried me relentlessly across the Gulf of Mexico.
We soon landed at a small house in the middle of Davis Island in Tampa, thru the windows of which we passed without hindrance.
Standing in the midst of a small, dark living room, I was presented my earliest Christmas memories: of cookie-crumb forensics, of Brett and me waking my mother so she could tip-toe to the living room to confirm Santa had taken the bait we had prepared for him and left the presents he had prepared for us.
As morning evolved to afternoon, we would shift the scene to the home of one set of grandparents, so that by evening we could move to the other.
My recollection is of my mother hosting Thanksgiving dinner for her parents, with them reciprocating at Christmas.
All four of my grandparents’ kids were often present, as on occasion in my younger (and her last) years was my great-aunt Dixie. Brett and I were the only grandchildren, for whom a third round of gifts, the nativity scene (which Rita and I now use as our own), and a large jingle bell hung from a curtain rod were the primary attractions.
For thirty years Christmas, through deaths, divorces, marriages, and births, typically entailed rather large, often raucous but always fun, family gatherings rife with wine, whiskey, and politics, initially at my grandparents’ house on Davis Island and eventually at those of my mother and Jerry on Dundee and the two Hawthornes. Brett even flew home from China one year rather than miss the festivities, only to fall fast asleep on the floor by the tree in deference to jet lag.
Jugs of Carlo Rossi that would never survive Easter (Easter?!? They’d be lucky to see the New Year) and bags of grapefruit that he otherwise would have stolen from my parents’ tree were annual stocking stuffers in my grandfather’s later years. My grandmother could barely hear during hers, but neither her mind nor her gentle, welcoming disposition failed, as Rita or anyone privileged to have met or known her at that time can attest.
Turkey evolved into steak as the Christmas staple, yet the wine and conversation (and debate) flowed in an unending annual stream. Even I (yes, I), upon discovering the editorial page, was once the know-it-all twenty-two year-old who espoused opinions based on knowledge and insights I was certain I had been first to discover. Only after many years did the sharp edges of competing certainties rub against each other sufficiently to dull themselves to mature doubt.
Nonetheless, times and routines change. Particularly since my grandfather died, and for various other reasons, the Christmas crowd has diminished, a reduction to which this year we have contributed. Politics, perhaps mercifully given its current and expanding rancor, became a less prevalent topic, even among the merciless and rancorous Irish.
Alexander and David and Elizabeth and Sarah have recently contributed to, and (I’d like to think) benefited from, the Christmas celebrations we have all shared.
As I sank deeper into reflection on the passing scenes, the spirit jolted me with a tug of the arm, depositing me within minutes back to my cabin as if I had never left.
An hour later, I was confronted and beckoned by a second apparition. He did not take me far. I found myself suddenly at our table in the Amsterdam dining room as our assistant Maître D’, Megan from Indonesia, approached.
“Merry Christmas”, he offered.
“And to you”, we replied. “Have you had a nice Christmas?”
“I have. A wonderful day. Your dinner orders are impressive”, he said as he nodded to Alexander and David. “Most your age order chicken fingers and fries, but would never order escargot or lobster.”
“Thank you”, we replied. “They always enjoy the menu on the ship. Do you have children?”
“Yes, two. Ages three and six months. I was able to see them for two weeks when the younger one was born, and will see them again at the end of the 120-day cruise that begins when this one ends.”
“Wow. That can’t be easy.”
“Not easy, but necessary. You make sacrifices so your children can have an education and a better life, and so they will not one day need to be away from their children so much of the time. So it is OK. Working on a ship allows me to see much of the world. You should work on a ship to see and learn about the world – after you turn 21, but before you have a family”, he said, looking again at Alexander and David. “When you have a family, stay home.”
“You are a wonderful family, and I hope you enjoy the rest of your evening. Merry Christmas”, he repeated, the smile never having left his face.
With that, the spirit returned me to my room, missing my parents and extended family with whom I have been fortunate to share so many Christmases, but grateful for the reminder that, despite frequent separation throughout the year, I am blessed to cheerfully spend, rather than humbly anticipate, this special time with my own wife and two kids.
Merry Christmas,
JD
