I haven’t written in a little while. Call it writer's block, which sounds exactly as generic as I’ve felt.
But at least it’s Christmastime.
My family has a weird history with Christmas.
You should know we grow up very poor and very religious. I know I’ve gone into both of those parts of our life, so I won’t dive too much into it again.
As a result, we don’t have the regular Christmas memories that I expect other people have. Christmas was always about Jesus and about family, and never about presents or Santa. It wasn’t even really about decorations. My parents were very protective of my twin and my birthday (eight days before), so we didn’t ever decorate or get a tree until after that.
One of my very favorite Christmases, we were too poor to get a tree. My oldest brother, having much more sympathy for my parents than the rest of us younger kiddos, took charge. He cut out a tree shape from a cereal box. As I type this, I realize that boxed cereal was a serious rarity in our house. Usually we poured from a bag of cereal.
I’ve talked to my sister and my mom on various occasions about the cereal box Christmas. We all remember it as one of our favorites. It may have been the year we developed our most quintessential Dickenson tradition.
After candlelight service at our church one year, the very best holiday service of the year (ask anyone), someone in our crazy brood decided that we needed donuts. We did a quick 411 search for open Krispy Kremes, and finding none (it was after midnight), we went to 7-Eleven. I think my parents needed cheap last-minute stocking-stuffers, so we all got slurpees and my parents rounded up what are now the essentials.
Those items are some kind of toy candy like Pez, gum, an apple, an orange, a regular candy bar or nuts, and a Hot Wheels car wrapped up in shiny paper. All I need on Christmas morning are those items, coffee, and cinnamon rolls (classic Dickenson Christmas breakfast).
I haven’t really been into Christmas for a long time. It probably has a lot to do with my fairly broken relationships with my family. It’s also really hard to get into such a celebration forward holiday without space to have anyone over.
But this year feels different. This year, I’m hosting my sister and my aunt with my amazing boyfriend. I’m going to decorate and buy stockings. Adam and I are going to cook.
After a conversation about dinner or pie or stocking-stuffers with my sister, it dawned on me that this is the very first year maybe ever that I feel home. Isn’t that amazing? My life hasn’t really slowed down. I move as frequently now as I ever did growing up (20 addresses in the 18 years before college, two dorm rooms each year in college, then three couches, two micro apartments, and one rat-infested Craigslist nightmare apartment before this condo with my boyfriend and hopefully a house next year).
But I’m home. Is it cheesy to say that after living in the area my whole life and living in most of the neighborhoods in this town that I’m home? This city is my oyster. This town is beautiful every single day. It won even more of my heart on the days of my first perfect latte, hike in its woods, and ski down its mountains. Now I get to see it out my window with the tree on the coffee table next to my coffee. And soon, this little condo will be full of yummy food (I’m thinking roasted chicken?) and some of my most favorite people for what feels like my first real Christmas.
It’s a new start, though for what I’m not sure, though I’m sure excited to find out.