A Christmas Memory

My husband Dan and I have a holiday tradition that came about somewhat unintentionally and has now become known as the Misfit Thanksgiving. It began when we moved to Flagstaff fifteen years ago and shared a house with several over-wintering river guides. The Misfit Thanksgiving offers anyone away from family a place to go to share a meal and celebrate our collective good fortune. The guest list grows by word of mouth, resulting in a hodgepodge of friends, friends of friends and the occasional visiting sister or foreign exchange student making us thankful to be a part of the Flagstaff community where anything goes.

But Christmas is another story. It is harder to blend our inherited traditions into a misfit holiday. I struggled for years to find meaning in Christmas as an agnostic adult. Without candlelit church services, a tree to decorate or children of my own writing lists for Santa, the meaning was obscured. 

Trying out agnostic adult Christmas

My early attempts to create traditions lacked the authenticity of those from my childhood. I longed for the anticipation I shared as a little girl with my sisters counting down the days then combing the woods with our Dad for the perfect tree.  For an entire day we would sift through the tangle of tinsel, unwind strands of lights and dust off the needlepoint wise men, a sparkly French horn, and an assortment of crude, handmade ornaments while my mom heralded the story of origin for each of them. For some reason going home to Vermont and trying to revive our traditions with my sisters as adults leaves me inexplicably disappointed and depressed.

Dan poses as Indonesian Santa for Christmas on Seraya Island, Indonesia.

Several years ago Dan and I were on a road trip to visit his family in Wisconsin for the holidays.  We were listening to NPR’s This American Life featuring a story written and read by Truman Capote. Capote’s distinctive high-pitched southern drawl describes a time when a young boy, the narrator, Buddy, celebrates the Christmas season with his childlike and somewhat eccentric elderly cousin, who he refers to as his “friend.” They live with their dog, “Queenie,” and several other relatives who are religious and cranky. They are each other’s best friend.

The story chronicles their annual tradition of making fruitcakes for people who have “struck our fancy,” like Franklin Roosevelt. They employ Buddy’s old wicker baby buggy to collect pecans and save their pennies for an entire year to purchase the finest ingredients, including a portion of whiskey from the feared fish fry and dancing café owner Mr. Ha-ha Jones. The spare and heartfelt handcrafted Christmas world these two unlikely allies create among hostile relatives and limited monetary resources is told with tender, sharply observed details. Buddy and his friend search through the “scented acres” to find the perfect tree, and secretly build each other handmade kites only to later lament how badly each of them wanted to get the other a bike and chocolate covered cherries.

As their kites cavort Buddy’s friend gazes at the sky with a sudden realization: “I’ll wager at the very end a body realizes the Lord has already shown himself. That things as they are; just what they’ve always seen was seeing Him. As for me, I could leave the world with today in my eyes.”

In the cocoon of our car, staring out into the stark, winter landscape we clung to every word finally reduced to tears when it becomes clear this is their last Christmas together. Buddy gets shipped off to military boarding school and the cousin grows old, lonely and eventually passes on. There is something about the story that wrenches your heart open and fills you with gratitude for all that you have, and all that is yours to share. But it is also dreadfully sad too, because it recollects the longing and sadness in the loss of the past, a time that cannot be revived.

I finally found a Christmas tradition that makes sense to me.  Now every year we listen to Truman Capote read this story and I am transported back to that moment with Dan and to my childhood Christmas memories.   

To listen to this recording visit This American Life's website.