‘I did yesterday, actually.’
‘Did you get one from John and Kay this year?’
I have deliberately continued driving past our destination on Lambs Valley Road because I want to show Mum and Dad more of the countryside.
‘No, we didn’t actually,’ Mum says, sounding miffed. ‘First time ever, I think.’
‘Did you send them one?’
‘I don’t have their new address,’ comes her deadpan answer.
‘But you have Uncle John’s mobile number, don’t you?’
‘Yes?’
Blank, unblinking, uncomprehending eyes. I realise I may have to be more direct on this one. ‘You could call, or even text him, and ask their new address.’
‘But I called them back in . . . must have been March or so and I haven’t heard from them since!’ she says.
I don’t bother asking March of which year.
‘And do they know your new address?’
‘I think so . . .’
If I ever ask either of my parents, ‘Have you spoken to so-and-so lately?’ their answer will almost exclusively be a firm no. The last call they made might have been back in 1968, but come hell or high water there is no way a follow-up call to that friend or relative will be made because it’s now ‘their turn’. No excuse negates the obligation for the other person to make the next communication – death in the family, serious illness, redundancy, busyness, a string of grandchildren demanding attention, their phone mysteriously switching to airplane mode . . .
It seems that once you turn seventy, you hit an almost regal status and it becomes the responsibility of every other person on the planet to contact you. This philosophy illogically also extends to my parents’ older siblings who, regardless of seniority, are still expected to be the ones to stay in touch with Mum or Dad. Shouldn’t the oldest person’s stubbornness win out?
I never really grasped this insistence on being the contacted party until our own kids got mobile phones and became more than adept in the science of sending and receiving messages. On a recent Father’s Day, I was truly aggrieved that one child posted me a public message to Facebook and the other sent a text saying they’d call later . . . then never did. Strangely, I started questioning the entire relationship with my children, what I meant to them, and what role I played in their lives when they ‘can’t even be bothered’ et cetera et cetera.
‘Do you think maybe that’s just how young people communicate these days?’ Jeff asked, doing his best to appease the demons operating in my overactive mind.
‘Yes but —’ I began, although no amount of verbal diarrhoea could overcome the cold, hard facts. My communication with our kids is largely written and, up until that particular day in September anyways, had always seemed to suit all three of us perfectly.
In Jeff and my relationship, I’d say I’m almost exclusively responsible for staying in touch with our mutual friends. That’s not an age thing for Jeff, it’s just not something he’s particularly proficient at. Similarly, Mum’s never really been one to spend hours on the phone, or even write letters or emails, so I suppose it’s little wonder she rarely answers my questions about having spoken to so-and-so in the affirmative.
I was shocked recently to learn that Mum hadn’t seen her oldest brother, John, in nearly two years. Lockdowns have played a minor role in that but given they live just two hours apart, I really chided her on letting it go so long.
But this also got me thinking. While Glen may be in Canada most of the time, when he’s here, just how many hours of that precious time do we spend together? And if Grant and I weren’t meeting up at some family get-together designed to please our parents first and foremost, then I could count on one hand the number of times we’ve made the effort to see each other for any other reason. So, when Mum and Dad are no longer here, just how frequently will the three of us make plans to catch up? Will we even do so for Christmas?
* * *
‘If you just throw them all away a few days after the 25th, don’t you think Christmas cards are a bit of a waste of time in this day and age?’ I ask Mum’s reflection.
‘I like getting them,’ she says. ‘Sometimes I find writing them a chore but I now get your father to write to his work people.’
‘Be done with them,’ I suggest. ‘Simple.’
In case I come off sounding too grinch-like, it should be noted that Jeff and I have tried to bend the rules, but usually without much success. While Jude is more than happy to get away with as little cooking as possible, we’re quite content to spend days in the kitchen in the lead-up to make a more memorable meal, as are Glen and James. It reminds me of Christmases spent with my friend Amy and her mum, Janette, and all those wonderful people in our social circle back then, when we played Cyndi Lauper’s Merry Christmas . . . Have a Nice Life album while we cooked, pouring so much love into the food we prepared. Amy and I would sit for weeks on end painstakingly preparing the menu, ensuring each dish we chose complemented the other chef’s. We’d decide on a venue and a theme and ponder the extent of the guest list.
For a few years, our Christmas parties were the stuff of legend, particularly the ‘come as a famous couple’ party on my rooftop in Elizabeth Bay. The sight of Glen and James coming up the stairs in bright yellow skin dressed as Homer and Marge Simpson remains one of the happiest moments of my life. As was seeing Janette dressed half and half as both Bill Clinton and Monica Lewinsky.
These days, while oysters and prawns might occasionally sneak their way into a fancier Alexander Christmas (for the meat eaters’ enjoyment at least), as long as Dad gets his ham, white bread, brown-vinegar-soaked cuey and tommy (cucumber and tomatoes), and his fruit salad, the table could be a cornucopia of five-star cooking and none of it would really matter to him.
As we’re all adults now, there’s not much need for presents for any of us. We’ve fallen into a fifty-buck Kris Kringle tradition, though it’s never secret and often you’ll ask the recipient what they really want rather than waste time and money on something they’ll never use. One year, I invented a whole new strategy for presents. Every person was to spend ten dollars on every adult. The present was meant to be humorous, though of course what can be considered ‘funny’ I now realise isn’t exactly universal. Each person was to open all their presents in front of everyone and, at the end, we had to guess who’d bought the present for us. The person who correctly guessed the most received a fifty-dollar lottery pack. It had the makings of great hilarity but then Glen rightly identified that the gifts would easily be guessable by the giver’s choice of wrapping paper. This would be especially challenging for Mum, as she has stayed with the same green and red print for more or less fifty years, much like our green plastic tree always being trimmed with red tinsel and multicoloured flashing lights.
Bec eventually provided an easy solution and, in secret, we each quickly went and re-wrapped our presents in brown paper. Somehow, Dad interpreted the solution as being Grant’s and henceforth, the year became known as the one where ‘Grant saved Christmas’. He’s very quick to remind everyone of that fact and Bec can’t be bothered to correct him.
We all had quite a few laughs, especially when the gift Jeff gave turned out to be a framed photo of himself – the exact same gift to everyone.
But it took the best part of two hours to come up with a (reasonable) solution to the wrapping paper dilemma and by then the whole fun factor was tarnished. Like a spoilt child I swore I would never try something ‘fresh and interesting’ on Christmas Day again.
Despite my swearing off novelty, it’s the lack of willingness to break with ‘tradition’ that puts me on edge over Christmas. Behind tradition, contradiction inevitably lies. It’s tradition to have ham, but only one person out of eleven really enjoys eating it. It’s tradition to give that fifty-dollar gift – even though most gifts are hardly ever used. It’s tradition to all be together on that specific day, even if it means one couple drives six hours to do so and some of those people aren’t with their own immediate family at all.
Tradition for most people necessarily means surrendering to the status quo. Is there something better? A more enjoyable way to spend time with the people we love? Or is Christmas more than these traditions? A day of giving to those you love and serving your dad ‘his’ fruit salad. Well then, who the hell are we to complain? And just who are we to think Christmas should be about what we want anyway?
When you’re part of a family, there are some things that are expected of you, so you do them. But I’ve promised myself that I will never put any expectation on Lucy and Charlie for how they want to spend that one day every year, because I choose to put their own happiness ahead of mine. Now that that’s in print they can show me this page any year I start to slip from that resolve. But, in doing so, am I denying them the right to rebel against what I consider tradition? Is there really any harm in watching The Sound of Music for the five hundredth time on Christmas Eve? And what’s wrong with inventing a gift-giving game whose rules need explaining twenty-eight times? How boring might life be for them if I don’t send them up the wall every December 25th, just as my parents have thoughtfully done for me?
Attention Twilight Waters Residents:
This month’s field trip will be to watch council workers mow the local playing fields.
Curried egg sandwiches and flasks of tea will be supplied.
Please register your interest below. Due to the overwhelming popularity of this event last year, numbers are now strictly limited.
Thank You,
