As another Christmas fades into the cascading waves of time, I find myself thinking about the Christmases it joins in the realm of the past. Just last year, the bacchanal was concluded with my father and I watching Pulp Fiction. No, it's not particularly festive watching Samuel L. Jackson pop caps in fools, nor watching Uma Thurman OD or Ving Rhames get medieval. However, with the benefit of hindsight, I've realized that some of my most cherished memories of the holiday season are those that are that discordant with the stereotypical images thereof.
I recall the family gatherings that we've had. I remember being young, running to greet my elder cousins at the door. On one occassion, my cousin embraced me in an upward bear hug, and haphazardly swung me towards the umbrella stand in the front hall. An awkward silence ensued as the vase shattered into porcelain fragments. While my mother claims no grudge, it is interesting to note that every subsequent year has seen her sequester the umbrella stand in some remote closet for the duration of the evening as some sort of pre-emptive protective measure. I recall with slightly less enthusiasm encounters with my Aunt's boyfriend, who saw these gatherings as an oppurtunity to heckle the youngest of the family (being yours truly). His claims of my homelessness (somewhat idiosyncratic coming from someone in my home) and feminine traits (what can I say; I liked my hair long back then) were met with grimacing smiles. They were also met with a flip of the bird when his back was turned and a murmured commentary that it was all well and good for him to talk about my hair while looking like he could easily pass for Lex Luthor's stunt double.
As it is still fresh in my mind from this year's largely successful attempt, I can easily recall my annual policy of forcible insomnia the night before Christmas Eve. This is a precautionary measure to ensure that the need for sleep triumphs over the typical nervous energy that accompanies the occassion and had at times left me wide awake at four in the morning without the respite of slumber. This process typically involves copious amounts of caffeinated soft drinks and thrillers (which, with the notable exception of Angels and Demons have all been generally excellent).
I still retain vivid memories of those joyous Christmas mornings. In the early days I remember finding action figures locked in pantomimed conflict on the jade boughs of the Christmas trees. It became a veritable easter egg hunt as I began to mistake ornaments for less optimum heroes. In the year that the Half-Blood Prince came out, I slumped into a week long depression after not recognizing that the grim weather of a Vancouver winter made for a potent cocktail with Dumbledore's death. That year took on a distinctly melancholy tone, but also proved to be significant given that it was the year in which I received my first rap album (Joyful Rebellion by K-os, if you're curious) and my first electric guitar, tools that would prove essential to my burdgeoning musical interests. I remember the uncontained joy at finally acquiring an Xbox after months of incessant cajoling. I also remember the uncontained torrent of profanity unleashed when it was met with the dreaded red ring of death two years later to the day.
It's this assortment of memories, imperfect but cherished regardless, that continue to preserve my love for the season. When the tree is standing, resplendent in its arboreal majesty, and the hearth is brimming with warmth, and Christmas music drifts gently through the room, I savour every moment. I savour it because I know that it will soon be locked away in this menagerie of recollection, a golden instance to be observed in the indulgence of my nostalgia. And then I'll probably watch a Tarantino flick.
