Tag Archives: Christmas Eve

Hurray, Hurray, It’s Boxing Day!

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photoChristmas was a genuinely Big Deal in my family’s household when I was a mere stripling. Not only were there the churchly obligations and celebrations inherent in a pastor’s (that would be Dad’s) profession but there was being in a Norwegian-American extended family quite fond of eating, partying and jamming into one or another of the aunts’-and-uncles’ homes, all thirty or forty of us, to mark the occasion with the annual family gathering of the season. There was the feasting, of course, with mountainous platters of lovingly baked Hardanger and potato lefse*, meatballs, and all of that tasty stuff, not to mention all of the traditional cookies–rosettes, fattigman, sandbakelser, krumkaker and the like–enough to get kids and adults alike surfeited with sugar for the rest of the week. There were the much-anticipated visits from Julenissen, who in a stunning development was a dead ringer for Gramps at his jolliest and arrived bearing a big burlap sack full of surprises stuffed into other surprises, and all secreted in a multitude of newspaper-mummified little packets that had to be carefully unrolled, unwrapped, unfolded and unwrinkled from the mass in the sack, one by one, to reveal anything from a single nut in its shell to a dime-store toy to a larger gift earmarked, one for each specific kid among Granny and Gramps’s–ahem, I mean Julenissen’s–much-loved passel of holiday-hyper children.

At home, Christmas Eve was the biggest day of the season, thanks to the Norsk roots on both sides of the family, and always included the midnight candlelight service but also usually had its own bit of household festivities, not least of them the opening of the gifts; only the Santa stockings were reserved for that “lesser” festival of Christmas Day morning. Perhaps the most distinctive Christmas Days were in the years when we would have some of the family, often from Dad’s side, at our house since they weren’t always at the big gathering of Mom’s much more extensive family. Then, if Dad’s relatives were with us on Christmas Day we might well do another post-Norway-inspired deed, moving the Christmas tree into the middle of the living room and circling it slowly, hands joined, while singing a couple of old Norwegian Christmas carols. Lest you get the wrong idea here, we were so far from the von Trapp family as to mostly stumble around in our circle, forgetting half of the songs that we only half understood anyway (the pantomime bits that went with the songs were the best part, for all that), and on two occasions our beloved great-Auntie Ingeborg tipped the tree right over. But of course it was entirely worth it to get through that ritual to reach the package-unwrapping mania that followed, so we dutifully did our attempted tree ‘song and dance’ without too much impatient grumbling. After all, the tree might get tipsy yet again if Auntie was with us, one hoped.

Christmas Day, if it risked being anticlimactic after the big splashes of family visiting and diet-busting and gift-giving on and before Christmas Eve, wasn’t without its own attractions. First and foremost, it was a day when we were allowed to recover somewhat quietly from all of the foregoing extravagances, always rather oversized and glamorous in our eyes because of the time spent with our crowd of cousins and the general extremity of differentness from the rest of the year. Not that we slept in, I imagine, because despite the family focus on Christmas Eve we young twerps certainly didn’t object to getting a morning surprise from the depths of those stockings we’d hung up by the fireplace, along with the expected in-shell nuts, coins and orange, the latter best enjoyed by rolling the fruit against a hard surface to release its juices, cutting a small square opening in the side of the orb and stuffing a sugar cube in the hole through which to suck sweetened orange juice. After the hurried discovery of the stocking-stuffers we could concentrate on Christmas breakfast; the best and most traditional of the offerings on that morning would be a big pot of Julegrøt, a sweet milky risotto-like rice dish best enjoyed with plenty of melted butter and cinnamon and sugar, with a blanched whole almond buried somewhere in the pot to provide the lucky recipient with a particularly excellent year to come.

All of this tells you that I came from family traditions with no special recognition of the Feast of Stephen, let alone a clue to the existence of the great traditions of Boxing Day. When I first heard that name I might be forgiven for having thought it was a reference to the fisticuffs that followed less congenial families’ stressful Christmas Eve and Day events, and later for thinking it a reference to the pugnacious behavior of those returning and exchanging imperfect or disappointing Christmas gifts to a thousand thousand overworked retailers. It was both a pleasant surprise and a relief to discover that while both of those aspects were undoubtedly real in some unfortunate lives, Boxing Day was happily celebrated in many more households than those where it was feared.

This year’s Boxing Day at our house will be spent in rejoicing at the chance for a peaceful recovery from the unusually busy return this fall to a combined university-plus-church choral season of ‘all choirs all the time’ for my conductor husband, as we’ve been happily immersed in that good craziness now since September. So I think it’s time to introduce yet another optional definition for the day’s name, perhaps, something along the lines of a ‘Day for willingly Boxing ourselves into the house incommunicado and attempting to reverse the effects of all the wild busyness and cheerful excess that has gone before’. With that, I bid you all Peace!

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See the Blazing Yule Before Us! Or just past, or a year away . . . or, well, see the coziness and great pleasure of holidays well spent!

* Tomorrow: a recipe for Mama’s Justifiably Famous Potato Lefse

The One Person More Lost than Me

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photoMom has taught me a whole lot of things. One of the most useful is how to turn one of my most frustrating shortcomings into a strength.  It’s a skill I’ll still spend the rest of my life polishing, but having been taught the basics, I know what I need to practice, and that is a tremendous boost.

My lifelong shyness and social anxiety rose to a not-at-all-surprising high level when I started college. The small university I attended was hardly an unknown element to me, as my parents and a couple of other relatives, as well as some friends, had attended there and my older sister was already starting her junior year there when I arrived. But being predisposed to fear and intimidation as my responses to all social situations, I was guaranteed to struggle with extra doses of my old hauntings by the terrors of interpersonal experience in the new to me surroundings, with a roommate I met the day we moved in to our shared dormitory space, all new classmates, new teachers and administrators and a neighborhood where I’d never more than visited briefly before.

For the most part, I muddled through just as I’d done since I was old enough to know how to be afraid of new people and situations, and even had, as always, plenty of the enjoyment I was capable of having. I did acquire a number of grand new friends, including my roommate, who turned out to be a fantastic companion and like-minded girl. I took classes that challenged and intrigued me and I dragged up enough courage to participate in some events and extracurricular activities that broadened my scope significantly. I was surrounded in my living quarters in an all-female dorm by a cadre of terrific young women who bolstered my puny sense of self and cheered me on like the best of good neighbors.

But one day, as the first year progressed, I was visiting informally with a handful of those girls and we got into a discussion (as college coeds still often do, from what I’ve seen) about First Impressions. One of the girls, to whom I will be eternally grateful, let it slip that on first meeting me she had thought, and had since learned that others had too, that I was Stuck Up. That’s the simple classification among my tribe of someone who thinks herself superior to others and disdains and dismisses them. I was dumbstruck.

She went on, hastily, to add that on getting to know me she had realized that the reason I often refused invitations, that I didn’t look people in the eye, and that I evaded interactions and conversations instead expressed a defensive retreat into my giant ossified shell of shyness and my fear of all things new and unknown and that, in fact, she and others really enjoyed my company. That was some consolation, but realizing through her honesty that I projected an image far less benign and far more distancing than I guessed, I knew I’d have to somehow wrest my way out of the armor I’d built around myself and at the very least learn to act the part of someone with social skills even if I didn’t have them.

Naturally, I went whimpering off to Mom. And she surprised me by going beyond the sympathetic and consoling mother needed in the conversation. I’d never imagined that this person I’d always known as having not only a mother’s authority but a certain status as both the recognized Favorite Mom among all of my friends over the years and a kind of built-in First Lady of all of the organizations in which she participated, not least of all as the pastor’s wife–that she had another side, one not so entirely different from my own. That she had been deeply intimidated by being expected to play the roles of guide, hostess, chief female church member, community do-gooder and cheerleader, and all of the other philanthropic and social leadership parts inherently assumed by others to be part of her place in the world. And that, when Dad was busy being the speaker, preacher, chairman, boss and whatever his role of the moment happened to be, she was stuck in meetings and receptions and services and classes full of strangers who expected her to carry not only her own weight but that of whatever they thought was required for the occasion.

I almost wilted, thinking of what it must have been like for her.

But then she imparted the piece of wisdom that ‘cracked the case’ for me. I got the MacGuffin: social anxiety and extreme shyness assume that I am the center of the universe. That the rest of the world is watching me and is dependent on my doing or being certain things for its success and happiness. And that I am suffering the most for the cause. She put it in much more tactful terms, I’m quite certain, given that I was a flimsy excuse for an ego, a fragile not yet twenty year old still unable to see my path in everyday life clearly.

I think what she really told me (from which I extrapolated the above) was the incredibly handy ‘trick’ she’d learned for coping with all of these unreasonable social and activist demands. When you arrive, immediately look for the one person in the room more uncomfortable and more out of place than you. Even when you’re absolutely sure it’s not possible, there’s always someone more scared, more intimidated, more inexperienced or at the very least, who thinks that they are. It’s true, by the way; I’ve seen it proven over and over since. Go and gently introduce yourself and ask this person about him- or herself. Make this person the most interesting part of your life while you’re there.

That’s it, really. Suddenly, it’s not my job to be perfect or achieve the goals of the event or even to be interesting or brave; it’s my job to make another scared person feel more welcome and at ease. I don’t have to spend any energy on worrying about how I look to others or whether I’m doing what I’m supposed to be doing, because nobody with an ounce of sense is going to argue that taking care of someone in need isn’t what we’re all supposed to be doing, that recognizing that there’s someone whose need is greater than our own isn’t precisely the most attractive thing we can accomplish, and that a friendly smile isn’t the most fashionable item anyone can wear for any occasion.

I fall down on this effort often enough, still, and do my well practiced imitation of an additional pillar holding up the dimmest corner of the room. I haven’t Saved anyone else from the brink of doom through my heroic attempts to cheer them up for a half hour. I still have impressive dramatic skills in making faux pas and pratfalling my way through the day and then doing my best to make the earth swallow me whole.

But afterward, I remember to quit imagining myself the cynosure of Creation, let go of my need to be correct and impressive and likable and spend my energies on helping someone who doesn’t know Mom’s useful little technique to feel more correct and impressive and likable. I will put on my shiny smile and play the role of somebody better than me and hope that someday, if I practice it hard enough, it will become second nature and I won’t even have to work at it at all. It makes me smile just thinking about it.

If you happen to be headed to yet another office holiday party or first-of-the-year reception any time soon, you can test this theory yourself. Thank my mom. Or, if you happen to subscribe to a certain story that is commemorated on this very night, thank the Person who became most vulnerable of all in order to protect and rescue everybody weaker.

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