A Different Kind of Holiday Letter

 

Hello everyone!  I'm taking a short break from decorating the house for Christmas to send you all a little bit of a holiday letter.  I can't promise you it'll be entertaining, but I guarantee it's not like any other holiday letter you've gotten.

We all get those letters this time of year, right?  Susie's on the honor roll. Jimmy's the starting QB.  Bob got promoted twice this year and to celebrate we took the whole family to Italy. And Sharon, well Sharon just wrote a song that got recorded by Blake Shelton (or insert some musician you like) so they all moved to Nashville and live next door to Keith Urban and Nicole Kidman.

Meanwhile, in your life...It's a shambles.  One kid's failing school, one kid dropped out of college, you lost your job and thanks to Covid, your husband's restaurant closed and he hasn't left the couch since 2021.

Normally I'm able to rise above all of the Facebook Comparisons and all that.  My kids are awesome, my husband is a pillar of any and all communities, and I'm perfectly happy living in the suburbs with my little job and my little writing hobby.

But this year I noticed something, especially last Wednesday night as we were driving to Hubby's mom's place for Thanksgiving:  I'm blue.  I'm not feeling the excitement and energy and joy the holidays usually bring me.  All I can feel is overwhelmed and...blue.

I know I'm not alone.  So many of my friends experienced devastating family losses this year of a spouse, a child, or a parent.  Maybe some of those losses were not shocking, because of age or illness. That doesn't matter.  There's one less person sitting at the table this year. 

Some of my friends and family experience the breaking of a relationship.  Or divisions within the family due to politics, religion, and whatever else we humans allow to come between us and the people around us. Some of us, many of us, okay, this would be me, lost a job and hard a really, really hard time finding anything to replace it.  Even now, while I like my job, it's not fulfilling our financial needs, and things are a bit tight here. We're not broke; but redoing the kitchen has been put on hold...for about the fifteenth year in a row. 

I don't have to look too far, either, to see people very, very close to me battling mental illness and suffering. I look at the younger generation, my children and their friends, and I wonder if we are addressing mental illness better now than we did when my grandmother was with us and so burdened and anguished with her schizophrenia, or if there are actually so many more people out there doing battle with the noises and pains no one else can hear or see.

Even saying the words, "Merry Christmas" or "Happy Holidays" has become a reason to be angry.  Let me tell you all this, my friends: I am a Christian, and I celebrate Christmas.  So if I say, "Merry Christmas" to you, I'm not making a political statement or judging you in any way. I'm saying it because, to me, even now in my state of blue-ness, Christmas is just the best, best, best thing and I want everyone to experience the bestness of it all. (And yes, that includes celebrating the birth of Jesus.)  

Conversely, if I say, "Happy Holidays" I'm warring on Christmas or trying to cut the Savior out of the celebrations.  I'm acknowledging that there are many other religions and celebrations this time of year and that I respect the right of others to celebrate what they believe how they believe.  (I don't understand why on earth every single religion in the world doesn't decorate in pretty twinkle lights this time of year, but that's just my thing. I love twinkle lights.)  I'm not trying to do away with Christmas. I'm wishing those around me a happy holiday, no matter what you celebrate.

But saying it here, I know it's just a drop in the bucket compared to all the yelling and shouting and unkindness out there. And friends, it's gotten to me.  

It's all gotten to me.  

My kids have struggles that never seem to end. And those struggles aren't public.  So the outside world doesn't really know just how awesome Peaches and Skippy really are.  The world sees what it sees and judges thusly.  

Hubby used to love his job. Now, he still works for the same company, but he lost the position he loved thanks to Covid. Instead, it's all remote, all day.  All day he sits at his desk in the house, working endless hours. The overtime is great, it almost makes up for the fact that I'm working halftime.  But toll it's taking on his heart is great, and it's got me down.  He spent too many years working jobs he hated when the kids were little because he had to. He shouldn't have to put up with all that.

As for me, sure, I like my new job.  But it's a job.  And, thanks to losing the job I loved for seven years this past spring, a move that didn't completely come out of nowhere, but really left me brokenhearted because not only did I lose a job I loved, I lost friends I loved, friends who got to keep their jobs, are still working at the same place even now, and they don't talk to me...and I have no idea why.

I had a job in the late summer that seemed possible.  But it sucked the lifeforce out of me.  A healthy adult shouldn't be going to bed at 6PM.  I made some friends there, friends who have stayed with me even though I only worked there seven weeks.  So that's a plus.  Now I have this new gig, and it'll turn into something, but in the meantime I don't feel like I'm pulling my weight around the house. The house, which is always a mess. Something's always broken. But I'm overwhelmed by it all.  I'm writing, because I'm afraid if I don't, people are going to look at me and say, "what is it you do all day?"

  

There is excitement for the holiday season, sure. In church this morning we talked about putting lights on the tree and how beautiful it is and how, "The darker the night the more beautiful the light." Of course, we were talking about the light of Christ in a dark world, but I went hope and started stringing a crap ton of twinkle lights in my living room. They're going to be able to see my tree from space.  I mean, if they drilled a hole in the roof. Oh, wait, there's already a hole in the roof.

Friends, I'm not complaining.  That's not what this is about. I wanted to let you all know that everything around here isn't a laugh a minute. I try to make it so, because if I didn't laugh at myself, I'd spend more time crying, and honestly, I'm what you'd call an ugly crier. Like really ugly.

I guess what I'm saying, in this completely introspective, depressing little tome, is that if you're feeling blue right now, during the holidays, it's okay. It's normal. If you feel like your family isn't as good as all the families on Face book, hey, you're not along feeling like that. 

When I was a kid, my parents got dozens of Christmas letters but one stood out in all those years.  It was a teacher friend of my mom's.  And one year the whole letter was about illness and surgeries and puss and snot.  We called it the depressing letter. Forty years later, if mom says the woman's name, I ask, "She's the depressing letter lady, right?"

My point is, let's get real, people.  You want your distant friends and family to know what's going on, be honest.  Or if you can't be completely honest, at least don't lie.  There was a Christmas letter one year my parents got where the mom raved on and on about her five children and their accomplishments. Not one word about the husband. Not one.  My dad asked if maybe the husband died. No, he didn't.  She just couldn't find anything to brag about with him.  I mean...

Got nothing earth moving to say? How about telling your friends you're making it from day and to day and you're praying for better times?  How far would that go toward making your friendships, your real friendships stronger?  I get letters from relatives where it's, "Oh this kid was amazing and that kid cured the common cold." When we get letters like that, Hubby and I throw the letter in the middle of the room, get a walking stick, and beat the letter on the floor.  I'm not even kidding.  Brag too much, your letter gets beaten with a stick in our house.

Friends, it's okay to be blue. I am right now.  But let's not hide it.  Let's be okay not being okay.  Let's lean on each other, and on our faiths.  Let's find what unites us, even if it's just all of us admitting we pray for a blizzard so we don't have to go to the family gathering.

    Above it all let's all have 

AND  

If I have to eat Turkey, can it be this part?

 

            

Happy Thanksgiving to you all! This year I’m thankful, again, for so many things, but one big one is that yesterday, thanks to my commitment to the Nanowrimo challenge here in November, I managed to finish the first draft of Abracadabra: A Max Marchino Mystery.  True, it’s the most messed up first draft I’ve ever written.  It’s a mystery, and I was fairly positive no less than five times during the writing who the guilty party would be. I was wrong every time.  But the good news is that I didn’t make any changes along the way so now, during the second draft work, I get to make sure I have all my literary ducks in a row.  That should be fun.  Oh, and for more funsies, I also changed the names of half the characters at least once. I put all my trust in the find and change feature on Windows.

            Yeah.  So that’s sure to be fun.

            Anywhoo, I’m not here to bemoan my rough draft woes. It’s Thanksgiving which means it’s time for another tale from my younger years.  Or, as some people like to call it: stories that make it clear why Sarah is the way she is.

            We in America take a moment to pause in November to give thanks for the blessings we’ve been given.  And for football.  And for shopping.  And yes, we also stuff ourselves with way more food than anyone needs.  But mostly that thankful for blessings part.

            I'd like to pause in all this thankfulness to lodge one tiny little complaint:

            Turkey is gross. Why do we have to make turkey and pretend to like it?

            Oh come on. Turkey, 364 days a year, is the meat you eat when you're not supposed to eat meat.  It's the healthy option when your cholesterol is out of whack.  It's the preferred selection when you're trying to lose weight.  Turkey, to put it bluntly, blows.  Especially the white meat.

            Who decided white meat was so great?  I remember sitting in a restaurant with my one of my Tantes (that's a German word that means "aunt" and it's the word my family has always used for the sister or sister-in-law of the grandparent.) and she ordered a chicken dinner, but was very specific that she only wanted white meat. And all I could think was...WHY?  

            The white meat of any fowl is, without exception, dry, tasteless, and pointless.  There's a reason boneless, skinless chicken breast is the choice of dieters everywhere.  It's zero on the taste scale.  In order to make white meat of a turkey or a chicken taste good, you have to inject it with stuff, rub it with stuff, and stuff it with...stuff.

            You know who doesn't have to do that?  People who eat dark meat.

            How do I know dark meat is better?  Because God didn't put all the much dark meat on a bird.  God, well, the one I worship anyway, has always been sort of a 'you don't want too much of a good thing' sort of deity.  (And before you get all up in arms, my Christian friends, I'm not talking about the general plan of salvation or Jesus. I'm talking about dark meat on birds.  Calm yourselves.)  Need money?  Sure, but not too much. Need a house? Okay, but not too big. Need dark meat for Thanksgiving?

        Oh yeah, God said, but only two legs.  Maybe some on the wing, but a turkey wing is going to be such a big, bony affair, no one's going to bother with it.  

        Now, my favorite part of a chicken is the thigh. But do turkeys have thighs?  Nope. So, on a turkey,  the only source of delicious, moist, flavorful dark meat that doesn't turn into a knot of rope in your mouth while you're trying to chew it are the two legs.

        That might be enough for a normal family with a couple kids and a bunch of grown ups who all want the white meat.  (I don't know who they think they're fooling.  Sure, eat the white turkey meat.  But when you dump 8 gallons of gravy on it so you can choke it down, guess what?  The scale isn't going to give you credit for eating white meat.)  But my family was a little different.

        Thanksgivings for me growing up almost always included at least one of my mom's brothers, if not both, their wives, my grandparents, and my seven cousins.  When you throw in my brother, that's nine kids.  Nine kids begging for dark meat.  Nine kids and two legs.

        Jesus could have made it work, but my mother and my aunts? Not a chance.

        one other thing: In order to save time and space on the table, my mom and aunts ALWAYS made the turkey the night before thanksgiving, then cut it up and served it on a plate, with white and dark meats segregated into little piles on the platter.  And here's how we got served.

        the adults: Who took white meat.

        The babies and wee little kids the adults had to serve: who took dark meat.

        My older cousins who walked faster than I did from the kids' table to the main table: Where they got dark meat.

        My brother and younger cousins who, unrestrained by the parental admonition: "You're old enough to know better" would run to the big table where they got, yes, you guessed it, dark meat.

        And that left good old Sarah.  Sarah, who lived under threat of losing TV privileges if she embarrassed her parents in front of the family. Sarah, who was, by nature, not as loud or forceful as the rest of the cousins.  And Sarah, who, by the time she got to the table, wound up having to eat white meat because all the dark meat was gone.

        But, before you feel sorry for that little girl, ponder this: I might not have been as loud, or as forceful, or as amusing or smart or pretty or talented as the rest of the bunch.  But I was lightyears ahead of my cousins in one area:  Creative problem solving.  Given enough information and time, I can solve the crap out of any problem (except for most of my own LOL) in a way that few others have thought of.

        These days I use my power for writing.  But when I was a kid, before I got serious about entertaining people with the written word, I used my powers to solve my little kid problems in creative ways.  

      Which is how, the year I turned nine, the turkey NECK became my favorite part of the Thanksgiving bird. I remember that first neck even now, all these decades later. We were at my aunt's house.  She'd made the bird the night before, and was finishing up the carving. The next step in the process for her was to make the gravy out of the drippings in the roasting pan.  I peered over the edge of the pan and saw a long, sort of tube-shaped meat-covered thing in the pan.  My nine year old brain couldn't process what I was looking at, so I asked the adults.

        "Oh that's the neck," my aunt said.  "Go ahead you can have that."

        I don't know if you know what a cooked turkey neck looks like, but I will tell you that eating that first neck was an amazing, eye-opening moment in my culinary life.  the meat on the neck takes work to get at and there's literally only one way to do it: you much gnaw on it. There's no polite way to eat the meat off a turkey neck.  It's all knotted and twisted around the neckbones.  But it is the loveliest, tenderest, most flavorful part of that stupid bird.

        So there I stood in my aunt's kitchen, gnawing on the thing and ripping the juicy strips of dark meat away from those tiny bones.  And then at dinner, I didn't have the sad face. I told the adults, "I do'nt need any turkey. I ate the neck!"

        Admittedly, that first year everyone laughed at me and my parents scolded me later for being weird and embarrassing them.  (I'm going to take this moment to point out that my childhood foibles, while embarrassing, couldn't hold a candle to what my brother was going to put them through in his teen years.  But that's another blog for another day.)  Every year after that, however, the neck made its way to the platter of carved meat and then on to my plate. And yes, my cousins mocked me for looking like a dork while eating neck meat. Please. My entire life was a string of one group or another making fun of me. At least with the neck meat I was getting something good out of it.

        Even now, I'm an old lady, and I still request that I get the neck, and only the neck. Let the kids or the adults with taste buds have the legs. I'll take the neck every time.

        Of course, if we could, as a collective mind, give up the notion that turkey is the meat for Thanksgiving, and maybe we switch it out with a nice rack of lamb or a big pork shoulder roast, that would be great.  But until then, as long as I'm forced to eat turkey, it's going to be the neck. 

        

Happy Thanksgiving everyone!