Landmines of Christmas Past

Christmas. 

Is there any holiday more full of emotional landmines than this one? All month I've been fighting to keep the memories at bay- to delegate them to the portion of my mind where they are happy and non-threatening. I want to be able to decorate my Christmas tree and listen to music and watch movies without collapsing into a sobbing heap on the floor (or couch). Not too hard to ask, is it? Apparently, it is. 

My first, short marriage ended badly. I had moved out of our apartment and into the spare room at my parents' house, and was trying valiantly to stay in the holiday spirit by writing Christmas cards, listening to Manheim Steamroller, and making fudge. The Sunday before Christmas I stayed home while Mom and Dad went to church, and that morning my husband came to talk to me. We sat on the floor in the hall and cried. And, because Christmas makes me sentimental, and I wanted to come home so badly, by the end of the day I had moved back to our apartment. Unfortunately, the holidays ended and our problems didn't. The Christmas tape wasn't strong enough to keep us together.

Perhaps to counteract the painful memories of before, I decided that two days after Christmas would be perfect for my second wedding to take place. That year, Christmas was exciting and romantic, full of plans and Mariah Carey songs and B & Bs. For many years, Christmas was everything I had always wanted it to be, and my husband and I created lovely family traditions and memories with our two daughters and our extended families. Add an idyllic small town, usually snow, and a century-old house to decorate with white lights and greenery and how could it go wrong?

But it did, and the time came that I found myself celebrating Christmas back at Mom and Dad's, in that same spare room I'd inhabited years before. 

Time brought into my life a new love, a new house, some potential new holiday traditions.. but I couldn't let go of the past. Eventually, we came to the painful conclusion that it wasn't working and, five years ago today, after what should've been a romantic Christmas Day walk in the park, we had our last huge fight and I tearfully moved back into the spare room.

Today, as I walk the dog on a freakishly warm and very quiet Christmas morning, I reflect on my strange tendency toward the dramatic during this time of year. Last year I was able to go back to my ex's house and celebrate Christmas with my grown daughters and their families, eating our traditional breakfast of scrambled eggs with mushrooms, and laughing over the story of how Santa landed on our roof one year and woke us up (it's true!). It was lovely, and I knew, even as it was happening, that it was also likely the last time we would be together like this as a family with no new spouses or significant others. This year, everyone is scattered, creating their own traditions, and I am alone in my little house. I could be curled into a ball on the couch, tormenting myself with the memories of what was and what I can't have anymore, but I'm not. This year, although alone, I am at peace. I will take a long walk later, maybe watch a movie, probably read, and enjoy some wine. 

And when the untamed memories of the past snap and snarl at me, I will speak soothingly to them, so they will become less threatening. Perhaps next year, it will be even easier.  

Online Dating

He’d been waiting. I was there a bit early, but he’d already decided what to order and drank half a glass of water by the time I got there. Hesitating at the door, I told the staff I was meeting someone, but I didn’t know what they looked like. Then I saw him across the room, waving me over. It had begun.

The photo on his online profile made him look like a learned man, a professor of sorts, in a camel-colored jacket with a well-trimmed beard. Nice smile. His emails were well-written and articulate, and in my head, I had created a personality to match. He would laugh a lot, we would share ironic observations of the world, talk about farmers’ markets and museums, share stories of our lives, and lose track of time. I would be late home because we’d decided to go for a drink and the afternoon got away from us. Later, he’d teach me to two-step, and I’d show him around the WWI museum in Kansas City. I imagined he had many online girlfriends, and I was being scheduled into a free spot on a Saturday.

As I sat down, I saw a man much older than me with a grizzled face (was he trying to grow a beard, or did he just decide I wasn’t worth the effort of shaving?) and a sweatshirt hoodie. He launched right into a barrage of questions, not mentioning he’d already decided on his lunch until the waitress came back a second time for mine. He suggested going across the street to a bar he liked after lunch, and I agreed, but mentally I was already counting the minutes until I could escape. This wasn’t going to work, and I knew it immediately. I struggled to find conversation topics, but he was opinionated and even when he asked me what movies I would like to see, he deflected my choices to a Clint Eastwood movie he was interested in, but I could care less about. I told him of my hearing disability and that I don’t really go to movies that much because they were difficult for me. He laughed at this and asked if I’d spent too much time on a tractor- when he laughed her revealed bad teeth, and I had to look away.

At long last, we finished lunch and I suggested we go for that drink (the sooner we did this the sooner I could leave), and we set off across the street in the cold winter wind. I have a long stride, yet I struggled to keep up and not trip on the brick pavers, him oblivious to the situation. I became angry at that. What man on a first date doesn’t match his stride or at least make sure he wasn’t leaving a woman behind to be smacked by a car? Even my old boyfriend (much taller than me) would slow down and take my arm. Wasn’t that in the Gentleman’s Handbook somewhere? At least he held the door for me-sort of- and we entered a gloomy bar, populated with a smattering of daytime drinkers and a vague smell of smoke and stale beer. The bartender greeted us and told us to just tell him what we wanted. I began to look at the beer menu (wasn’t that what we were here for?) but my companion threw me a curve by ordering hot chocolate. He didn’t ask me what I wanted but shouted at the bartender his order. I quickly got up and went over to the bar. “A whole milk latte, please,” I told the bartender, and returned to my seat. More awkward conversation: A thinly veiled disparaging questions about what my daughter thought of GMOs; a no- so-disguised hostility at the high-end grocery store where I worked; and questions about our farm and why it was so small. I burnt my tongue drinking my coffee before it was cool, so badly did I want this date to come to an end.

At last we were done, and we walked (me trotting to keep up) back to the parking lot. Surely, he could see that this wasn’t working. He’d asked me my afternoon plans and I’d smoothly responded that I was going to see my baby granddaughter; surely, he realized we hadn’t clicked? I thanked him for lunch and the coffee, and I was flabbergasted when he asked me to go out for dinner and a movie. “Maybe,” I heard myself say, even as my mind screamed NO! “We can talk about it.” The world’s most awkward hug and it was over.

Driving home, Dave Matthews Band blaring on my stereo, I asked myself if this was something I was willing to do again. Not with him, but with anyone I was matching up with online. I knew, statistically speaking, I had to go through numerous first dates before I might land with someone I really liked, and who liked me back. But did I even want to exert the effort? Did I even care that much? I knew the answer before the song ended. No. No, I did not.

The Fall

A beautiful day...somewhat windy, but it wasn't going to deter me from getting bedding plants and having fun, digging in the dirt. Anticipating the afternoon's activities, I bounced down my front steps without paying attention to the wire I stake my dog out with. I felt it wrap around my foot, and for a brief second before I felt myself hurtle into space and slam onto my knees on the sidewalk, I had one clear, lucid thought. "Shit."


The fall seemed to take forever. The landing jarred my teeth and the pain shot through me like a knife. I rolled to a sitting position and held my knees, eyes closed, cursing a blue streak. I opened my eyes and stared at the knobs under my jeans. I was alone and afraid. So afraid. The "what ifs" began to parade through my head: What if I'd busted my kneecaps? What if I needed to go to the emergency room? What if I needed surgery? What if I couldn't walk? What if I couldn't work? Who would take care of me?


Gradually I became aware of a white construction truck that had pulled up to the curb. A man yelled out of the window, "Are you OK? I saw you fall...do you need help?" I wanted to be brave and wave him on. I didn't want to be needy and pathetic. But it hurt, oh, so much.


"I don't know," I yelled back. "I don't know."

He came up to me, stopping within a few feet. A nice-looking man about my age, with gentle eyes and a concerned look on his face. "Do you need help to stand?" he asked. "Yes, I'll let you help me," I finally said.


Grasping my wrists, he pulled me steadily to my feet, waited while I got my balance, then let go. I tested my legs. It hurt, but I could move. I could walk. I told him I thought I'd be alright.


"I'm Tom," he said, and pointed to his truck, which had the name of his construction company on the side. "If you need help, you can call." I thanked him, profusely, and assured him I'd be fine. There's no way I'd call him, a stranger, to come back and help me. Still, I memorized the name on the truck. After waiting until I limped up the steps and sat in my rocker on the porch, he drove off, with me waving and smiling bravely. Then I slowly went inside.


That's when the tears came.


Tears because I had fallen, to be sure, but mostly tears because Tom had shown me compassion. And because he was a man. And he was strong. And made me feel safer and less vulnerable. And I miss having that in my life. I don't want to admit it, but now that I have, does it make me any less independent?

Chance Almost-Meeting

I saw you today.

After almost four years of living in the same city and never catching so much as a glimpse of you, I was standing outside of the grocery store where I’d gone to pick up medicine for my baby granddaughter, and there you were. As I was standing there, trying to remember where I’d parked the car, you drove by- so close that if I’d so much as stepped off the sidewalk into the parking lot you would’ve either had to have stopped for me or run me over. But by the time my mind took all the images and memories and emotions and unscrambled them to form a coherent thought: It’s you- you had driven by.

I saw you not look at me. I saw you stare straight ahead with the unlikely resolve and focus of a man whose only goal in life was to find a parking spot on a Saturday afternoon at the grocery store. I saw your jaw clench, and I knew that you had seen me. It would’ve been impossible not to- I was wearing my ridiculously bright green jacket and standing by myself on the sidewalk about three feet from your truck as you drove slowly by. Yes, you had seen me, and now you were ignoring me.

Even so, I took a few steps after your truck and raised my arm in a pseudo-wave. In case you looked in the rearview mirror. In case you hadn’t seen me and were clenching your jaw because you had been baking and needed the one item you were out of and now you had to drive to the grocery store to fetch it. In case you wanted to say hi. In case you were willing to forgive.

But I realized that if that were the case, I would’ve seen brake lights. I would’ve seen you roll down your window and lean out to call to me. I would’ve gone over to your truck to tell you to go ahead and park, I’ll wait. And, in true Dan Fogelberg style, we would’ve exchanged pleasantries, given each other a quick synopsis of what we’d been doing since the Horrible Christmas Day that I moved out, and maybe would’ve decided to go grab coffee after you’d bought whatever it was you had come for.

There were no brake lights. No flash of recognition- I didn’t see you there! No window rolling down.

I walked to my car and stood next to it, watching you stride across the parking lot with the head-down determination not to look up and see me watching you, and you quickly went through the automatic doors. I considered going back in. I considered stealing behind you in the frozen foods and touching you on your sleeve. You would turn, and perhaps smile-Oh my gosh, how are you! And we’d talk.

But I know you very well. I know when you are angry and I recognize the closed-up body language of Don’t Touch Me. I’m familiar with the way you shut me out and refuse to talk to me as punishment for some real or imagined slight. I remember the consequences of approaching you when you were like this, trying to communicate. To appease your temper. To ask for forgiveness, even when I had nothing to be forgiven for. And I remember my fear.

I do not have your phone number any more, and I will not email you at work. I will take this chance almost-meeting for what it was: A reminder. This is why you left, my mind whispers. Just drive away. And so, I did.