Crashing through Christmas

By Sean Pearson
Despite my valiant attempts over the years to spare you from the questionably dysfunctional Christmas chronicles of my youth, I currently feel the urge to share. (And not in that “let’s-all-validate-each-others’-feelings-with-a-group-hug” way.)
I’m not sure if this new “touchy/feely” me is a product of mid-life angst, or simply my being caught up in the sentiment of the Christmas season and all that “giving” stuff.
Either way, is it really fair for me to keep all that family holiday memory magic to myself?
I didn’t think so either.
Regardless of what I’m about to tell you, please try to remember that I was a relatively healthy – albeit unfortunately clumsy – child growing up.
At some point, in the early annals of my life, and much to the chagrin of my older sister, I developed something of an allergy to Christmas trees. My sister would tell you I willfully made some kind of pact with Satan to never allow her to have a “real” Christmas tree again. In reality, it was just a breathing issue. Rest assured, however, that my continued “barking” cough and subsequent gasps for air were equally as irritating to her. Luckily, she didn’t start punching me in the stomach until after I turned 4.
I have no idea what kinds of trees were involved in the making of this “allergy” that turned out to be croup. I have since had a variety of live Christmas trees in my house with no problem. I just don’t tell my sister that.
Hmmm … until now, that is.
Merry Christmas, Sis.
I will certainly give you that there is little sadder than a pukey-green, 1967, “stunningly lifelike,” plastic and wire Christmas tree. We tried desperately to camouflage it with a variety of shiny garland, handmade ornaments and enough tinsel to make the dog gag for a week after Christmas.
It didn’t work.
Kids in the neighborhood quit coming around. My parents would no longer throw Christmas parties, and began drawing the drapes by 4:30 p.m. And my sister delighted in telling those few visitors and family brave enough to be seen in the presence of a “faux” tree that I was the reason for our metallic misery in the corner. The torment and shameful shadow cast on me over the years was almost unbearable.
And then I turned 3.
I remember 1968 as being a pretty tough year. (OK. Really, I don’t remember much of anything before last Thursday.) Oh sure, there are snippets here and there, but the rest is muddled somewhere in my brain among obscure grammar facts, all my addresses since birth, confusingly intricate movie plots and a deluge of detailed dreams.
Christmas of ‘68 brought on my bout with chicken pox. I think it wasn’t long after that I developed an allergy to bubble bath. I no longer have that allergy either.
Not that I take bubble baths.
Perhaps that was too much information.
As a kid, Christmas at my house was a lot of fun, putting up lights and hanging stockings. We painted wooden tree ornaments while my mom baked in the kitchen to the sounds of Mitch Miller’s “Sleigh Ride” and “Let it Snow” in 70-degree Louisiana weather.
There were no white Christmases in the bayou, and some of them cajun folk had never even so much as seen snow. It’s a whole other world down there. In fact, if you ever get a chance to read Howard Jacob’s “Cajun Night Before Christmas,” it’s well worth five minutes of your time.
(I think that was a pretty obvious digression on my part. Let’s see if I can successfully segue into something relevant.)
Still, as difficult as it was to acclimate to Christmas in the bayou, it was still better much than the Christmas wars in Tulsa.
I won’t drag you through some of the mud that was Christmas at the Pearson’s, but having three grandfathers who were all postmen in the same room on a holiday can be relatively – um – boring?
Apparently, however, I was simply too young to understand things like “tone of voice,” sarcasm” and “tension so thick you could cut it with a knife.”
Trust me, I came to know them all quite well later on.
Holidays soon became organizing schedules and visitations around who could get along with whom. It was pretty complex. Uncle Rufus couldn’t run into Grandma because he would say something about her green bean casserole. Aunt Roberta still hadn’t gotten over the time Cousin Thelma dated her boyfriend in high school 43 years ago. The twins had restraining orders against each other.
And when Auntie Vi was going to launch into a 20-minute medley of Cabaret show tunes was anybody’s guess.

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