Oh, the humanity.
There's nothing like cramming six adults into one space, when four of the six are used to completely running their lives, and two have been married for, what, going on 30 years now? So unfolds the chaos of Christmas in the family C.
Yesterday was the usual running around trying to get last-minute stuff together, going for a run... Before my Grandmother's afternoon visit. I even squeezed in a run. Yes. Me. Ran. Oh, my poor, aching knees. I'm so sorry for doing to that to you. And I'm sorry that I'm going to do it again. It is unseasonably warm here, so I'm regretting not bringing a bike. But, anyways. So.
Grandmother C swung by with her Hungarian "housekeeper" (read: live-in caretaker, but we are too civilized and formal to talk about anything like, god forbid, an 86-year-old woman living on her own in the middle of the woods needing some assistance.) I was put through the usual gauntlet.
Grandmother C: M, do you still ski and play tennis?
M: Well, I try to ski sometimes, but I never play tennis.
GC: Why not?
M: I guess I've just gotten more interested in other things.
GC: So you're
never going to play tennis again? (look of shock/horror)
M: I doubt it, but I might later in life. (Thinking "hell no, it's a sport that MANDATES skirts. Plus, my knees won't stand for it.)
GC: Well, I think it's just a shame, because you're going to meet your husband either on the ski slopes or on the tennis court.
My grandmother is convinced that there is
no way to meet a reputable man if you don't meet him gliding down the blue-diamonds in this year's too-tight snowbunny suit, or flouncing around in proper tennis whites, cordially batting a ball to your girlfriend. She also defines a reputable man to be one who is from a proper family and is either a doctor or a lawyer. Well, I like skiing, but it generally involves hurtling headfirst into trees and yelling things like "bitches! I'll get you next time!" And tennis is fine and good, but I'll be hogtied and called a pickle before I stuff balls in my underwear. Well, in front of an audience, at least (
what?).
So you probably have a fair bit of disdain for my grandmother now. Yeah, I do too, on a lot of levels. But I've learned, through many shouting matches at various holidays and family gatherings, that sometimes, you just can't change people. Especially when they are sixty-some odd years older than you, have lived through two wars (and lost a brother to one) and lost a husband of forty-something years. But then the stories start flowing.
When my grandfather died, I was in high school. My younger brother, B, is three years behind me. As is the tradition, Grandfather C was a packrat, so after he died it was a therapeutic thing for Grandmother (yes, I refer to my grandparents as "Grandmother" and "Grandfather") to throw out all his years of stuff. Grandfather was a medic in WWII, and came back to his coroner's practice. (Now, keep in mind, this was fifty years ago.) As she was cleaning out the basement, she threw out old work boots, piles of frayed and rotting paper (records), and eventually found a stack of neatly-labeled coffee tins. "What's in the tins?" she wondered, as anyone would. Well, on opening one, she discovered... A brain.
Yeah. A brain.
Grandfather had hoarded brain upon brain upon brain. I guess people are not generally embalmed with their brains, or something. I don't know. I choose to not wonder about how he came upon these brains, but at least there's some consolation to the fact that he
was a coroner. Now, as my grandmother is a
lady, and
ladies do not deal with the disposal of body parts, she called her ever-ready son, my father, to please dispose of the brains in the basement. He thought they probably had some scientific value (all the brains belonged to patients who had died of Alzheimer's. Ironically, so did Grandfather C.), so he thought they might be donated to a school. B's science teacher showed some interest, until my brother (by the time this was going on, I had left for university and B was in high school) showed up one morning with a trunkfull of human brains in coffee tins. The teacher realized that this was probably highly illegal, and graciously declined the brains.
I guess the whole fiasco was solved by getting in touch with the current county coroner, and explaining the situation, who obviously has the means by which to dispose (legally) of body parts.
Or a very sketchy drive to the Cuyahoga river. Your guess is as good as mine.
But since then, we've decided not to do too much digging in her backyard.
You should have seen the Hungarian Live-In Helper's face. "What the hell kind of freak show am I living in?" So that was Christmas eve, with dad's mom.
Christmas day was spent here, with my mom's two sisters, and the four of us. My aunts, Z and A, are both single; A by divorce. So I try to get them really sweet gifts every year because they don't have immediate families to spoil the crap out of them like we do each other. Z, A, and mom were three of five, the other two are men. They grew up in a pretty intense house with all sorts of family history I've never been taught (I'm starting to learn about it now... for example, Grandfather R was an Irish Protestant and Grandmother R was an Irish Catholic... This resulted in Grandfather R's mother threatening to jump out the window the night before they married. Anyway, Grandmother R passed on years ago, and I never met Grandfather R.). But I guess when you're five kids growing up in the middle of bumfuck nowhere, you tend to be friend with your siblings. This results in them basically having their own language, which is mighty confusing to my brother, father, and self.
Typical Christmas around here. We gave each other stacks of books. The winner was the three-volume set my mom tracked down for B; "The Destruction of European Jews." B has read more books than anyone I know (at twelve, he had read most of Nietzche's important works.). Even though it is an extremely relevant set of books, it's not exactly overwhelmingly merry. But he was when he opened them... and my aunt struck up a resounding chorus of the yuletide favourite, "It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Genocide." The giving of gifts was followed by the ceremonial political/social debate. I swear, it's like they look for it. I asked my father a very technical question about his job, and it devolved into a debate about subsidized public transportation, which of course turned to agriculture subsidies... oh, it was a mess. Doors were slammed, yelling happened, but an hour later we were all gathered around dinner. It's the usual.
My brother has, in some sort of "be nice to animals" epiphany, become a vegetarian. So this year's meal was extremely vegetarian-friendly. Vegetarian to my mom means store-bought salads and lasagna, but it's the thought that counts. It does, however, annoy me that up to now, I was responsible for making my own meals at family gatherings (I figured it was more than fair. Mom prepared a meal, I chose not to eat it, so I had to fend for myself.). I've been doing this for over ten years now... Probably closer to twelve. But B becomes a vegetarian and suddenly there's 10 additional veggie dishes at the table. But, hey. He's the golden child, and I know how to cook.
Ah. Family.
Merry Christmas to all, or whatever the heck you may celebrate (a day off if nothing else).
I took mucho pictures, and will post them when I'm not on (gasp, horror) dialup. Seriously, people still use dialup. Shudder.
