The day after Christmas my family (Kris, Phil, Sophie, Jake, Bun, Matt, and Mom) and I took a trip to St. Augustine and stayed in a cute little coral-colored beach house. It was bitter cold when we arrived on Sunday afternoon, and I was worried …
On Christmas morning I got up really early and planted 12 Shi-Shi Gashira sasanquas under the pindo palms near our pond. I was running around in the sparkling dew, petting Maggie and Babs in between plantings and wishing them a merry Christmas. Greg was sitting …
Christmas Eve was so exciting–because it was the beginning of everything, the beginning of all the fun, the beginning of all my days off, my sweet, precious vacation. I spent the morning happily cleaning up cat throw up.
Kris and I met at Mom’s house before driving over to La Fiesta to meet Dad for our traditional Christmas Eve lunch. Kris is always so funny. When I first saw her, she was rolling her eyes and she said, “Sophie and Jake are being particularly loathsome today.” And just then, as if on cue, the kids burst out of the house, screaming.
They were so excited about Christmas. They were just beside themselves with crazy joy. They were so wound up, they fought all the way to La Fiesta. Jake already had a big cut on his face–because he had fallen into his bedside table when he was “attacking” Sophie. (He loves to jump on her and grab her and wrestle with her. )
“Santa’s watching!” Kris yelled. And then when that didn’t work, she said, “I’m cancelling Christmas!” But the kids just blew her off.
Dad, Bun, and Matt were already sitting down when we arrived at La Fiesta. I sat next to Jake, and periodically he’d elbow me in the ribs with all his might.
He also hogged the salsa. He pulled the little cup toward himself and said, “Hands off!” So all the people sitting around him (me, Kris, and Sophie) were forced to eat dry chips.
Kris took a dry, crunchy bite: “Boy, this sure could use some salsa,” she said.
Jake ate a little salsa. Then he opened a pack of sugar and downed that.
“Ah, just what Jake needs!” Matt said. “More sugar.”
Dad started asking me about my trip to England, and I was doing so bad with my storytelling.
“It–it was cold,” I was said, grinning like an idiot.
But Dad persisted, asking in his cheerful, nervous way (we all get our shyness from Dad): “W–well, okay, but did you see anything?”
“We saw some . . . um . . . castles!” I said. I was being so boring. I’m always kind of nervous around Dad because we don’t see him very much. Plus, sometimes I get stage fright when I have to tell stories in front of more than one person.
I faced a lot of obstacles to my storytelling. Jake was elbowing me in the ribs. And meanwhile, Sophie sat across the table, adjusting her tie in a hammy, cheesy sort of way and raising her eyebrows at me rakishly. She perused the drink menu (she’s nine). “I think I’ll have a Lowenbrau,” she said to Kris.
But I went on valiantly, haltingly: “We saw Warwick Castle,” I said. “It’s the best castle in England. Castles are smaller than you’d think, but otherwise they really do look exactly how they do in fairytale books.”
I talked about other English things too, in my uncertain, boring way–Tudor architecture, treacle. . . .
“What is treacle?” Bun asked.
“Um,” I said, “I don’t really know.”
Then the food arrived.
“Could you please stop talking, Leslie?” Jake requested. “I’d like to eat my quesadilla in peace and quiet.”
Kris motioned for him to cut it out.
“I’m serious, Mommy!” he cried, and he broke a chip in what he obviously hoped would be a very serious, threatening way–but the salt flew directly in his eye, completely undermining his dignity. Sophie and Kris and I died laughing. He’s so little, only seven, and he has the chubbiest cheeks and roundest, bluest eyes. It’s impossible to take him seriously.
Dad is always totally oblivious of the kids and their shenanigans. He said, “So, Lez, were the plants completely different in England or did you see a lot that you recognized?”
“Don’t answer that, Leslie,” Jake said.
Kris was so mad at Jake; she was shooting daggers at him with her eyes.
“Um, I saw a lot of azaleas and rhododendrons. . . .” I said.
Jake elbowed me in the ribs again, nearly knocking the wind out of me. He kept leaving the table in a huff and going to sit with “the classy people” (complete strangers). Well, he didn’t really sit; he just strolled around the restaurant, his head hanging shyly. (He’s very shy, except around the family.)
I droned on about England, and Jake came back to the table in a different frame of mind.
“Now where is this England place?” he asked cheerfully, conversationally, munching on a chip.
“Right over there,” Matt said, gesturing to his left.
“All I see over there is a fireplace!” Jake cried.
“Jake,” Kris said, “don’t play the fool.”
But that’s what I love about Jake. He’s always playing the fool, entertaining us.
Our table was the craziest table in the whole restaurant. We started opening presents, and the wrapping paper was flying. Jake and Sophie had made Dad some very large, awesome cards. Jake’s said, “Marry Christmas!” It was his best card yet, done in several colors. (Usually Jake just picks up a gray marker and sticks with it. )
Matt was observing the whole chaotic card-opening scene, and he muttered to me, “Somebody needs to tell Jake your dad’s already married.”
Jake and Sophie gave Dad a picture of themselves. And Dad gave Sophie a knit hat with owl eyes, and Jake an entire set of Diary of a Wimpy Kid books.
Sophie put on her owl hat and for the next five days I never saw her again without it. Jake started reading his books aloud to us at the table. Then he remembered La Fiesta’s spacious, empty patio, and he dragged me outside to play tag. I was all dressed up in fancy shoes and a skirt, but there I was, chasing him madly around the tables. His cheeks were bright pink. Sophie joined us.
“Sophie’s playing!” I cried.
“You got your facts wrong,” Sophie said in her sassy, faux-tough-girl way. But I tagged her, and we ran around under the patio’s giant lemon tree, which was like a huge umbrella (it was ornamented with big fat golden real lemons).
Bunny came out too and wanted to take pictures of Jake and his new books. (Sophie ducked back inside.) Jake posed for one picture. “Okay,” he said to Bunny, “now you’re playing tag.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Bunny said sweetly, teasingly. “I thought I might take a few more pictures of you.”
“Me too,” I said. “I’d love to get some more shots of you reading.”
“Nope,” Jake said. “You have to play.”
Bunny took some pictures of the beautiful lemons dangling above our heads (it was such a sunny, dazzling day). But Jake was losing patience: “You said you would play, Bunny.”
“Did I?” Bunny said in her teasing, coy way.
“Yes, you did. I heard you,” Jake said. His cheeks were so flushed.
Bunny and I took just a few more pictures, and Jake somehow managed to fall over backwards in a chair. Then a table fell on top of him.
“Are you all right?” I said.
Jake was so embarrassed. (He’s so little and clumsy–and so proud.) He tried to cover for himself. “I was just trying to get your attention!” he cried.
“But are you okay?” Bunny asked.
“No! I’m bored! I want you to play tag with me!” Jake yelled.
“But I don’t know if we should really be playing out here, actually,” I said. “It might be dangerous. You know. Furniture is falling.”
Jake crossed his arms and stuck out his bottom lip. Then he stormed off after issuing these parting words: “I don’t know why I should hang around you selfish people if you’re going to be so selfish!”
But five seconds later he was back, trying not to smile: “I’ll give you one more chance, Bunny!” he cried.
So we played tag again and knocked over a few more tables.
“We’re going to get kicked out of here,” Bunny said.
Jake was mad when we tried to bring the game to a close. “Stop being so selfish, you selfish people!” he cried. “Why did you even ask me to come out here on this patio if you’re not going to play?”
“Uh, we didn’t actually ask you to come out here,” I said.
After a while we said our farewells to Dad, and Kris, Sophie, Jake, and I went back to Mom’s house. There, Jake and Sophie opened their presents to each other. Jake gave Sophie a big fuzzy hot pink and green pillow from Justice, and some nail polish that will change color with her mood. Sophie gave Jake a cuddly frog-shaped pillow. (Jake loves frogs.)
They were both so completely happy and satisfied with their gifts.
I said, “How did you guys know the perfect thing to get for each other?”
“I just saw the pillow,” Jake said, shrugging in a sweet, humble-but-proud sort of way, “and I thought, ‘Maybe Sophie will like this nice pillow.’ That’s how I did it.” (Jake was so proud of his gift to Sophie; Sophie is really the most important person in his life.)
The kids stayed at Mom’s and “snugged” on the couch with their new pillows. And Kris and I drove around to secondhand stores for a while, looking for bargain outfits.
Then we came back and we made a Christmas Eve feast: vegan chili, potato soup, homemade crackers, crescent rolls, cornbread, and all kinds of Christmas cookies. We also served Rob’s vegan sweet potato pie. (Rob doesn’t spend Christmas with us, but he did leave us with pie.)
I played the burrower’s unfortunate owner, brought to ruin by this very unruly pet, and I sought the advice of Bunny, who played a famed (in her own mind) burrower trainer. The trainer was very full of himself and kept talking about his wide experience.
“Now, sir,” Bun/the trainer said to me, “what are your ambitions for your burrower? I’m the world’s foremost trainer of burrowers. Perhaps you recognize me. I’ve been featured on the cover of Burrower Fancy 10 times.”
“I–I just wish my burrower wouldn’t break all my furniture,” I said meekly. “If she would only leave me a chair to sit on, I would be content.”
Sophie, the burrower, made little boxing motions at me. She wrinkled her nose in a menacing way.
“And–and maybe if she wouldn’t spit out all the food I give her,” I said, “maybe that would be nice. Then the house wouldn’t get so messy.”
Sophie broke character and said, “Let’s say you have a clip of the burrower spitting out the food.” And then she spit a pistachio across the table.
“You see?” I said to Bun, the famed burrower trainer.
“Well,” Bun sighed, “I may not be the man to help you. Your ambitions for your burrower–they’re rather, uh, . . . limited, in my opinion. Now you see, I work mainly with circuses–renowned ones–and the better-known fairs and sideshows. I don’t simply teach burrowers to behave, you understand; I teach them to perform. On stage. Tricks, specifically.”
“Tricks?” I said.
The burrower snarled at the trainer.
“Yes,” the trainer said. “I’m talking tight-rope walking, juggling. Trapeze. There’s solid demand for burrowers in the circus–especially your Russian circuses. Not to mention the lucrative sideshow circuit.”
“Do you think my burrower could be trained?” I asked. “Do you think she has potential?”
Sophie bared her teeth at the trainer and growled. Then she broke character again: “Tell the trainer I like to steal,” she said. “Tell her I’m good at it.”
“My–my burrower is wonderfully gifted at stealing,” I said. “She–she always steals my paycheck. Every week. That’s why I’m so hungry and dressed in these rags.”
“Well, sir,” the trainer said, “today is your lucky day! There’s always a need for pickpockets at the circus!”
“W–would this be a full-time position?” I asked.
“Twelve hours a day!” the trainer cried merrily.
“And the rest of the time?” I said. “H-how would my burrower be occupied? Burrowers are such lively and intelligent creatures–they do need to be occupied, I know.” (I was trying to placate my burrower, who was presently hissing at me.)
The trainer replied cheerfully, “She’d be confined to the boxcar in chains!”
“Well, that would save my furniture a lot of wear and tear,” I said.
The burrower was squawking and making an angry face. She smacked me with a baguette.
“And, sir, I’d never see her again?” I said hopefully.
“Not unless she escapes,” the trainer replied. “And in that case, I’d suggest you change all your locks and hire a bodyguard.”
After Kris and Phil and the kids were gone, Bun, Matt, Mom, and I sat around in Mom’s cozy little TV room, talking about old Christmas memories. Matt told us some funny things about his family.
“We always went to midnight mass,” he said.
“Did you dress up?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he said, “but then you’ve got to remember that I didn’t own a pair of jeans until I was in the sixth grade.”
His parents were pretty tough, I think, and strict. They were good Catholics.
He told us his family’s Christmas Eve snack was always “Velveeta on Ritz crackers.”
“Was the Velveeta melted?” I asked.
“Nah,” he said.
Mom remembered how her family always went to midnight mass, too, and then when they got home and all the nine kids were in bed, her mother (playing Santa) would put up the Christmas tree all by herself and decorate it and set out all the gifts.
“She didn’t start putting up the tree until one o’clock in the morning?!” I said. “She must have been up all night!”
“Well, people didn’t have so many decorations back then,” Mom said. “But we had some. So yes, it must have been a lot of work.”
“You never saw the tree until Christmas morning?” I asked.
“No,” Mom said, “but it was wonderful walking in there like that and seeing it all decorated.”
“It didn’t give you a whole lot of time to enjoy the tree, I guess,” Bunny said.
“No,” Mom said. “But my father wouldn’t have had it any other way. He was cheap, and if you waited till Christmas Eve you could get your tree for next to nothing. Now it might be a pretty cruddy tree, but . . .”
Mom was being so much fun, talking and laughing. We went out driving around to look at Christmas lights, just like we did in the old days, when Bun and I were kids. We drove through Huntington Estates, an ordinary subdivision that, each December, transforms itself into an enchanted Christmas village. Houses were outlined in lights, and fairy lights streamed down from the dark live oak branches like magical moss. We were oohing and ah-ing.
“Isn’t it great that it never gets old–looking at Christmas lights?” I said. “That you’re always amazed and delighted no matter how old you get?”
We went to Oven Park next and walked around in the lighted gardens–and I thought the same thought I think every year: that maybe heaven is like Oven Park at Christmas, full of glittering lemon and grapefruit trees, camellias draped in fairy lights, and music.
I never finished telling you about our trip to England. So here it is, my last installment, and the topic is Shrewsbury, a wonderful little Tudor town full of topsy-turvy timber-framed buildings, some black-and-white striped, some yellow-and-white striped.
On Saturday Kris and Sophie had a Christmas crafting party. It was a freezing, gloomy, dark day, so it was so nice to spend it inside Kris’s warm, cozy house, which was all decorated with lush garlands and wreaths and a big sparkly Christmas tree.
I was looking through my old journals yesterday once again and I came across this funny old memory of Sophie and Jake when they were practically babies (four and one). Those two have always been my favorite comedy duo. Even when they were still in …
I’m back to writing about our England trip again. We started our second day in Ludlow with a vegan version of a typical English breakfast–roasted mushrooms and tomatoes, canned baked beans, hash browns, hot tea, and very sour, very delicious local apple juice. The apple …
Kimels love silly, cute, toy-like ornaments. And laughing a lot at tree-trimming parties.
More Christmas dorkiness