REMEMBERING CHRISTMASES LONG, LONG AGO

There is something about childhood and Christmas, at least for me there was. It was about family togetherness. Christmas Eve was when we would all gather for the celebration with my mom's side of the family. There was always a huge meal, extended family and friends would be there. It was, as I recall, about as perfect as a Christmas could possibly be. It was a time of togetherness and love, in spite of whatever dysfunctionality there may have been. It was a far more simple time. It was a happy time. It just seemed like Christmas is "supposed" to be. Christmas Day was generally always spent with my dad's side of the family. We'd eat another big meal, exchange gifts and usually having a hymn sing-a- long, commonly referred to as "pickin' and grinnin'".

That was then. This is now. The times have changed, the people have changed. Some of those who made the holidays so special are no longer living. Those of us who remain are all older now. Time has changed us, too. The family dynamics aren't what they once were. There have been marriages, divorces, deaths and the birth of a different generation. The family friends who would join us all have families of their own now. My young cousins are now adults with spouses of their own. I have come out as a gay man and moved away after college. My last fond Christmas memory was twenty years ago. Something truly changed after Christmas of 1987. Yet, I do not know what.

Here's my confession: Once a time of great expectation and anticipation, the holiday season is now just a time of dread and a source of fatigue. I, myself, haven't been home for Christmas in over five years. I haven't spoken to my mother in nearly two of those years. Celebrating Christmas seems merely an obligation now, rather than the images a Norman Rockwell painting might evoke. Putting up the Christmas Tree was once an activity which was looked forward to ,but is now just another chore on the already too long list of things to prepare for this "most joyous of seasons". It's hard to remember what truly giving a gift from the heart felt like. And those dreadful holiday songs! They are like love songs with a holiday theme. They evoke images of fantasies and fiction. When, honestly, was the last time you went gliding in a one-horse open sleigh? Exactly. Never, and neither have I. I've experienced the occasional White Christmas, if you want to call it that. Maybe I should try looking at Christmas through the innocence of a child's eyes, rather than my jaded and tired adult eyes. Maybe, just maybe, the wonder and merriment would return.

FAMILY RELATIONS AND DIRTY LAUNDRY

From the outside, it may have appeared to be a fairly normal upbringing. I have always been a bit of a loner. I guess being an only child will do that to you. Growing up I didn't have any real friends to speak of. There were no friends coming over to play, no sleepovers, no birthday parties. There were a few neighborhood children to play with, but no solid friendships there. It was pretty much me, in my solitary little world. I was the oldest grandchild on one side of the family and the youngest on the other, therefore, all my cousins were either a good deal older or a good deal younger. There I was stuck in the middle. I didn't even have a strong relationship with my parents. It felt like I was plopped into this family who had no clue what to do with me. And so it goes. I went through elementary school, junior high, high school, living my lonely life. By all accounts, growing up I was a good kid, and rarely got in trouble. The problem was that I lived with these people, my parents, for nineteen years, but they had no clue who I was. Then comes college.

College is where I realized just how dysfunctional my family was. I made friends, real friends, for the first time in my life. I met people who actually had relationships with their parents. What's up with this? What a foreign concept to me. These people genuinely held their parents in high regard and enjoyed spending time with them?!? School breaks were torture for me. I spent them mostly sequestering myself in my room, counting the days until I could return to school.

It wasn't until one cold evening in February, 1996 that I opened up a door in my parental relationship. It was on that night that I told my mother that I needed to talk. She came into my room, and I uttered the words I had been preparing to say for a very, very, long time. "Mom, I'm gay." I said, as the tears started to flow from my eyes. What followed was about three hours of the deepest conversation we've ever had, an overwhelming amount of love and support. She told my dad for me a day or so after I left. Things were going well for a few years. Then, something, somewhere along the way snapped.

Here's my confession: It's been nearly two years since I've spoken to my mother. I used to call every Sunday, but after a series of situations between us, I had finally had enough. There were issues related to my commitment ceremony, not cleaning the house for my partner's first visit, and finally the straw that broke the camel's back: after inviting her and my father down for a visit, she called to let me know they were going to have to postpone it by a day. The morning they were to arrive, I called and they hadn't even left for the 5 hour trip and they were supposed to be here in two hours. I informed her at that point, it didn't make any sense to come down because by the time they got here, it would be almost time to turn around and go home. In my mind, I was only speaking the truth. Months after the situation arose, I received an email from her asking what she had done to cause such a rift between us. I thoughtfully, over the course of a week or so chronicled my thoughts to her. I never heard another word from her. I've reached out with cards and letters, to no avail. I don't know what else to do. Maybe I've been petty. Maybe I should have a more understanding and forgiving heart. I don't know. What I do know is that I have tried. I don't know if we'll ever be able to talk again. I'm just not that strong yet. In some ways, it feels that my mother has died and I wasn't invited to the funeral. I'm working, but am I alone? Doesn't everyone have family relations issues and dirty laundry?