Most of our family’s traditions come from my family. I think that’s because I’m the girl. But our New Year’s Tradition comes from my husband. It’s quite simple, and I’d like to share it with you. And I will even add, Try This At Home, for good measure.
On the stroke of midnight,
Open the back door –
to force out all the BAD luck.
Open the front door —
to let in the GOOD luck.
The rest is optional, but we always:
Drink a toast to the New Year.
Kiss anyone who happens to be nearby – especially Cooper the dog who might not be there to kiss next year. (I wrote and posted this for New Years Eve 2011/12, and Cooper is still with us for 2012/13!)
Hope for all the best for all we care about in the New Year.
This year I will of course add to family and flesh friends a wish the happiest, healthiest of new years to all my blogging buddies.
Happy New Year – may your good luck always be stronger than your bad.
***
Yup, this is a re-tread. I will probably post it next year, too.
Last year, when I posted this tradition, some of my bloggin’ buddies worried that they weren’t going to be home — that their doors would not be available at midnight. That they were at a party, or at someone else’s house (“Hey,” some said, “we don’t want to give THEM all the good luck!”).
Relax!
If you are out when the ball drops, or traveling or your own personal doors are unavailable to you, you have my official permission to improvise. You can do this at Midnight in your own home; in somebody else’s, in a hotel — wherever. Or you can wait and carry out the tradition when you get home, after you have put down your suitcase and relaxed a minute. There is no expiration date/time stamp on it.
The following is a story that I submitted to The Green Study’s funny Christmas Story contest. I found out about it through C4C, Company For Christmas, when Michelle of The Green Study and I met. And I won 2nd Prize! See Michelle’s post here for the other winners.
Thanks, Michelle for hosting the contest and for being part of C4C!
* * *
Jacob was 8 years old, and still believed in Santa with all his heart. No matter how many of his friends showed him just why Santa couldn’t possibly be real, Jacob found it in his heart to believe.
It was getting awkward. He was 8, and big for his age. Nobody else in his class still believed.
It was 1999, and my husband, John, our 8 year old son Jacob and I were living in Geneva, Switzerland, where English language books were extremely expensive. So naturally, in early December, Jacob’s teacher announced that the entire class needed to get a particular and particularly expensive dictionary by the beginning of 2000 for home use. Locally it was tres cher. But we found it for a reasonable price on Amazon.co.uk. Being good parents, we ordered it.
It arrived two days before Christmas. And on Christmas Eve, I wrapped it up.
“I’ll take the hit for this one,” I told my husband, knowing that Jacob would not appreciate getting a dictionary for Christmas.
“Nah,” said John. “Mark it from Santa.”
I didn’t think much about it, but I followed John’s suggestion. Santa had another gift for Jacob.
When Christmas morning arrived, Jacob got great gifts from Santa: an electric car race track, skiis and one more present.
“Feels like a book,” Jacob said, eagerly opening it. And then he looked at the cover.
“There’s no such thing as Santa.” Jacob cried. “Santa would never have given me a dictionary.”
Will my son, Jacob, succeed in life? Will he pass Spanish? Will he become a useful member of society or will he remain in the basement until he is dragged off by the Health Department?
But today I learned that I have one more worry to add to the pile. You see, now I have to analyze his text messages for clues about his health.
Shit.
Yup, it’s true. Because today in an article I found on Reuters.com, I read that there is a new malady, called “Dystexia.” It’s when a person texts back nonsense in response to a regular, ordinary question. And it can involve a trip to the emergency room.
The article linked to above, talks about a husband who realized that there was something wrong with his pregnant wife when her texts didn’t make sense. She was rushed to the hospital and they found out she had had a stroke.
Now if you have a child, aged 8 to 25, you’ve already figured out where I’m going with this.
Because personally, I think I’m going to start worrying when my son’s text messages start making sense.
Unless, of course, he wants money. Then I’ll be sure it’s him and that he’s broke in a whole different way.
Around here where I live, there are always a bunch of shiny new cars on the road on Christmas Day. Lexuses. Mercedes. BMW.
It’s so annoying to see the conspicuous consumption. Folks who, on top of every other luxury they already have or have gotten that morning, need to have a brand, spankin’ new luxury car. Jeez.
Well, that’s how I felt until today.
Today I’ve decided to jump on the “gimme” bandwagon and demand a new car for Christmas.
Now, there are three problems with my new plan.
First, I don’t know quite how to convince my husband that I’ve changed my mind. You see for years I’ve been commenting on how disgusting, decadent and indecent it was to expect someone to buy you an expensive car like that. It’ll be tough, but I’m pretty sure I can convince John of my new found fondness for fenders. I am quite an actress, you see.
Second, I’m not sure exactly where we’re going to come up with the money. But it’s never all that tough to come up with $100 K in cool cash around the Holidays, is it? We can cash in everything for it because I’m worth it.
The third and last problem is the most difficult one.
I’m really not sure how I can drive my current car to the dealership to trade it in without John seeing the enormous dent I decorated it with this evening.
I wonder if I can trade my car in for a used AMC Gremlin. That’ll impress the neighbors.
She told the story every year with a warm smile on her face. Sometimes her eyes got a little bit misty.
“It was 1943, and the War was on, and your father was in the Navy, on a ship somewhere in the Pacific. We never knew where he was. Like all the other boys I knew, he was in danger every day. We lived for the mail, we were terrified of unfamiliar visitors in uniform. A telegram sent us into a panic. And ‘I’ll be home for Christmas’ had just been recorded by Bing Crosby. It was Number One on the Hit Parade.”
That’s how Mom started the story every time.
Of course I’ll Be Home For Christmas was Number One that year. Everyone, or just about, was hoping that someone they loved would, in fact, be home for Christmas. That all the boys would be home for good. But all too many people were disappointed. I doubt there were many dry eyes when that song came on the radio that year or for the next few.
Mom and Dad got engaged right around Pearl Harbor Day, but the War lengthened their courtship significantly because Dad enlisted shortly after the attack. It was to be a long war, and a long engagement. But Mom was in love with her handsome man. If possible, I think that Dad was even more so.
Mom, Circa 1943
My Dad was drop-dead gorgeous, and I have heard that in his single days, he was a bit of a ladies’ man. Every girl in town, it seemed, had a crush on Dad.
Dad, Circa 1943
In fact, my Aunt Sally once told me that she had been manning a booth at a church bizarre one Saturday in about 1995, when an elderly woman came up to talk to her.
“Are you Freddie E’s sister?” the woman asked Aunt Sal.
“Yes I am. Do you know my brother?” Aunt Sal responded.
“I did,” she sighed. “I haven’t seen him since we graduated from high school in 1935. Sixty years ago. He was,” she stopped to think of just the right word, “… He was dream-my.”
“He still is,” Sally quipped.
One day not long after after Mom had passed, Dad and I were looking at some pictures I hadn’t seen before.
“Dad,” I told him with wonder looking at a particularly good shot, “You should have gone to Hollywood. You’d have been a star.”
“Nah,” Dad said. “Mom would never have gone with me. And once the war was over, well, I wasn’t going anywhere else without her.”
Dad circa 1935
Dad never quite got over feeling lucky that he had Mom. And he never stopped loving her.
But back to Mom’s story.
“It was Christmas morning, 1943, and I went over to visit Dad’s mom and dad. Grammy E’d had symptoms of Parkinson’s Disease for seven or eight years at that point. She could still move around (she was later, when I knew her, almost completely paralyzed), but she could barely talk.”
Mom continued. “But your Dad’s mom was singing ‘I’ll Be Home For Christmas.’ Well, she was trying to sing it, any how. She kept repeating that one line, over and over again. ‘I’ll Be Home For Christmas.’ I thought she was crazy.”
“You see,” Mom would say, “Your father had somehow managed to get Christmas leave – he was coming home! He wanted to surprise me and wouldn’t let anyone tell me he was coming. He was expected any minute, and there I was, trying to leave. But I couldn’t stay. That song made me cry; Freddie was so far away, and in so much danger. I couldn’t bear hearing it.”
So Mom left after a while, she had other people and her own family to see. Later Dad caught up with her and they spent most of Christmas together. Both of them always smiled at the memory. Dad was home for Christmas that year, just like in the song. It was a magical year for them both.
Mom was always touched by Dad’s surprise and by his mother’s loving gesture in fighting back the paralysis that was taking over her body to try to get her son’s girl to stay. To sing when she could barely speak.
“I’ve always wished I’d stayed.”
We lost Mom on Easter of 1997, and Dad really never got over her passing.
The song and Mom’s story took on an even more poignant meaning in 2000. Because on Christmas of that year, Dad joined Mom again for the holiday. He went “home” to Mom for Christmas again, joining her in the afterlife.
Even through the sadness of losing Dad on Christmas, I always have to smile when I hear that song. Because I can just see the warmth in Mom’s eyes now as she welcomed Dad home. This time, I’m sure she was waiting for him with open arms.
FiftyFourandAHalf 