I could not stop talking because now I had started my story, it wanted to be finished. We cannot choose where to start and stop. Our stories are the tellers of us.        

             When I came across those words in Chris Cleave’s beautiful, painful, funny, compelling novel, Little Bee, I was struck by clear truth. Some stories are so powerful, so strong, so resonant, that they demand telling, and it is not so much that we tell the story, but, instead, that the story tells us. Such stories contain a nugget of who we are, perhaps a part of the picture of how we’ve become who we are. Sometimes we latch onto one story as being central for us, but I think we all have an assortment of tales, all part of the mosaic of our experiences, all contributing and revealing aspects of ourselves.

            As usual, this month’s Creek Road Gang has a mix of stories and poetry – heart-breaking, funny, warm, seasonal and out of season, but all reflecting a bit of experience, a piece of self, and a gift of sharing. Enjoy!

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            It seems to be the case, I think, that whatever our ethnic, cultural or religious practices, this time of year is often fraught with tradition.

            When I was little, our holiday season began on the day after Thanksgiving, when my mother carried up from the cellar the first box of decorations. Safely nested in the box was the thick white candle that Aunt Louise had given us, decorated in relief with a wax representation of a lit candle in a candlestick surrounded by holly leaves and berries. Mum would place it on top of the black upright piano, where it would wait for evening.

             After supper, Mum would light the Aunt Louise candle, and we would all gather to sing Christmas carols, as we would do every night until Christmas. My mother could play anything by ear on the piano. In a clear, strong, beautiful voice, she led the singing. As she played, we would sing one carol after another, with each of us making suggestions, asking for favorites. Sometimes we’d attempt “The Twelve Days of Christmas,” which would leave us laughing in confusion over who or what came next in the list of outlandish gifts. My father’s favorite carol was “Oh, Holy Night.” He would sing harmony as the rest of us sang melody. Our last song was always “Oh, Come All Ye Faithful,” Mummy’s favorite. We children would take turns each night at blowing out the candle.

            One year, our landlady, whom we called Auntie Jo, wrote out the phonetic spelling for  the Latin words of “Oh, Come All Ye Faithful” for my mother.  Mum immediately began teaching it to my brother Johnny and me. We learned two Latin verses of “Adeste Fidelis.” Mum promised that Johnny and I would sing at her cousin’s annual Christmas party. Although I was excited, my brother hated performing publicly and dreaded the event.  Unfortunately for my bashful brother, we were so well received that we were asked to sing it again the next year.

            Over time, our singing traditions were transformed. Aunt Louise’s candle was replaced by later models. Favorite songs changed. Earnest child voices gave way to pre-teen and teenage hijinks. When I was in high school, we still gathered around the piano to sing Christmas carols. Although I exercised my best “older sister” glare during “Oh, Holy Night,” my four brothers would laugh uproariously at the lyrics “fall on your knees” as they noisily crashed to the floor.

            Later, when my kids were born, I cherished a fantasy that we too would sing nightly around a big fat candle, but that idea bit the dust pretty fast. I am the mother of children who’d rather not sing in front of others, not even their own family, thank you very much. They love to listen to Christmas music, but recordings please, not their parents’ voices! 

            However, with the exclusion of singing, almost anything their father and I did in December was likely to become a tradition. “Wait!” the kids would cry. “Don’t you remember that last year we . . . .” The list was almost endless – cut our own Christmas tree at the tree farm that gave out hot chocolate and donuts, had brunch with Santa at the place with peacocks wandering around outside, saw a Christmas play, listened to a certain Christmas music CD before all others, saw the light show at Wanamakers, went to a fantastic toy train display, put up decorations in a certain order, baked an infinite variety of cookies, including chocolate Rudolphs, made gingerbread houses, construction paper chains and white paper snowflakes, and on and on. If, heaven forbid, I prepared a certain food on Christmas Eve or Christmas Day, that food became enshrined as tradition, and was expected yearly. Even our watching schedule became ridiculous, especially considering that we generally limited the kids’ television time. Every December, and this is the short list, we had to watch Madeline’s Christmas, Mr. Magoo’s Christmas Carol, a Disney Christmas Carol, three film versions of the Christmas Carol, Rudolph, Frosty, the Grinch, two versions of The Nutcracker, Miracle on 34th Street, and Amahl and the Night Visitors. It seemed that every year, another video (or two, or three) was added to the list, without subtracting anything. We were so busy keeping our traditions, we scarcely had time to brush our teeth!

            Until the kids hit adolescence. (I thank my lucky stars for adolescence.)

            At that point, most things my husband and I did or suggested, or had ever done or ever suggested, became irritating, boring, pointless and stupid; and so we were at last able to escape the tyranny of excessive tradition.

            May your own celebrations of whatever sort be steeped in tradition, free of it, or graced by whatever mix works for you, but, in any case, may you experience and share joy.