A holiday to sink your teeth into

Years ago, the holidays were as tricky as trying to pet a porcupine.

Being married to someone with a large family, it was required to go spend the day and be held hostage by the same holiday rituals: the turkey fired until its meat was the same color and consistency as a cadaver, the vegetables boiled to exhausted surrender, the instant potato twins, gooey and gluey, and the conflict lurking with the same anticipation as a paper cut that eagerly waits for lemon juice.

The family motto was, “Christmas isn’t Christmas ‘till somebody’s crying.”

Like a starter’s pistol, the slamming of doors and the sound of Kleenex being ripped from its cheerful holiday box sounded the shot that the festivities could begin.

In the beginning, the annual holiday death-march included a trip to the local church to get slapped around by some holiday spirit, but the message of peace on earth, goodwill to men lent the same effectiveness as teaching a rock to drive.

Growing up, I was pretty lucky, my mother the Congregationalist and my father, the Catholic raised a daughter who could bounce back and forth between the pageantry of Roman Catholic rituals held in majestic German cathedrals and the simple home-spun friendliness of the Congregationalist’s modern message of praise and celebration.

Even at 12 years old, I knew the only reason my mother went to church was to look at Reverend Baker.

Reverend Baker was the minister at the First Congregational Church, a tall, slender man with movie-star looks. Each Sunday as the processional wound its way to the pulpit, Baker’s romantic resounding tenor sang Cecil F. Alexander’s tune, All Creatures Great and Small and my mother’s spirit was renewed. His boyish looks and sandy-colored hair was too much for my good Christian mother to withstand and he was frequently invited to our home.

My mother was a vivacious, boldly beautiful woman whose French Canadian/Scotch heritage and savagely dyed blond hair gave her confidence no ordinary woman should have. She had a flair for drama and mystery and was used to getting her way. Even at age 40 she could sell dentures to a dog and she learned how to parlay her good looks and big boobs into pretty much whatever she wanted.

Subconsciously, what she wanted was the reverend.

One afternoon, the good reverend and a chaperone dressed as a six-year-old daughter came by the house at mother's beckoning and there we all were, my precocious mother, the reverend, his daughter and me. Congregated outside on the driveway, she was as animated as ever, gesturing in a manner that brought attention to her bosom and hosting a coquette smile, she did everything but bat her eyelashes. Laughing at one of her own witticisms, she threw her head back and laughed provocatively, and at that moment, God smote her for her indecency and her dentures flew out her mouth, through the air and onto the ground. Not one to miss a beat, she bent down, picked up the errant choppers, wiped them once on her slim Capri slacks and popped them back in her mouth, expertly guiding them back to their home port. True to form, she continued on with her monologue like nothing had happened, besting the beast of embarrassment.

Now I knew better than to say anything to the queen of beauty about her dentures. However, the reverend’s daughter hadn’t been schooled in the ways of flirting women and their dental cleavage that leave-age.

“Daddy, what were those?” she innocently asked, pointing to where the errant dentures had fallen.

“Honey, some people have bad teeth and they have to have someone make them new teeth so they can eat and smile and be happy,” he offered.

“But daddy, why did they fall out?”

Mother didn’t go to church as much after that.

Nowadays the Christmas machine grinds on without mother who always worked to make the holiday special, with or without her dentures. She gave classy gifts and always remembered to take the price tag off the gift before she lovingly encased it bright colors and perfectly curled bows. The “keeper of the holiday” has passed from her to me and now my children fly the Christmas machine through all kinds of conditions including their own in-laws and a mum who almost always forgets to take the price tag off the gift.

From my time spent being roasted by the Christmas fire, I’ve learned a few things: remember the true spirit of the holiday season, comfort those who are hurting, don’t torture food and never, ever, flirt with the reverend.

This blog ran on the High Timber Times website on December 22, 2010
http://www.hightimbertimes.com/content/holiday-sink-your-teeth