As you know, I am a bit of a humbug at Christmas.  Despite my immense girth, sitting around eating is not my idea of fun and making superficial annual chit chat is unquestionably a special kind of hell for me.  I hate it.  Having said that, it is starting to get a bit more interesting these days.

My two young, skinny nieces that I used to lift in a feet-off-the-ground hug and then swing their legs in the air from side to side came to my brothers ‘do’ last night.  I guess I haven’t seen them in a couple of years.  They weren’t skinny nieces anymore – they were women.  My abilities to hug them and swing their legs like a pendulum seemed a bit out of place.  So, I politely but sadly declined the tradition.  But, I confess, that I kinda wanted to try.  Still do, actually.  I just didn’t think it would have been as appreciated as before what with the large bosoms, high heels and the make-up and all.  Some traditions just have to fade away, I guess.

Still, some new Christmas tendencies emerged and, who knows, they might make ‘tradition’ status in a few years.  This year the kids pretty much carried the conversation.  Hell, last year and this, B and K actually hosted one of the occasions.  And they did it very well.  That is a tradition I can get behind. Last night we were regaled with stories of minor delinquency that we should have known as participating parents but which were saved up just for this Christmas.  T’is the season to confess, I guess.

And we saw the cousins talking like old friends.  That was nice.  My brother and sister and I never had that kind of relationship with our cousins.  If we ever met them, it was only once.  Distance and estrangement does that kind of thing.  Rotten personalities kind of cements it.

And, anyway, who wants to be reminded of genetic strains gone wrong, eh?

But some go right.  Kinda.  My sister walked and looked so much more like my mother than I had ever seen before and everyone remarked that I was starting to look like my dad.  There is a strange kind of comfort in that.  And horror.  Can’t really explain it.

Every year the food gets better, too.  Just as all the older members of the family are ‘splitting’ portions and the yonger ones are no longer filling empty legs and packsacks, the food gets better!  Go figure.

Funny thing, tho.  I don’t think there is a turkey anywhere this year.  Quiches, curry, ham, BBQ’d steaks.  No turkey.  I wonder if that means anything?

All the traditional treats and deserts will show up, tho.  And the drinks.  Plenty of scotch will be consumed.  And wine.  And we’ll all get sleepy.  I guess the sleep-inducing drug in turkey was just too much.  Something had to go.  So out went the gobbler.  This is a tradition pretty much destined, I think.  Save the turkey!  Pass the ol’ Turkey (a bourbon).

One thing missing in our Christmases so far is children.  Little ones.  No babies present.  No buns in ovens.  No prospect of it in the near future, either.  Between our two sides of the family, there are 15 children from our generation of 7 brothers and sisters (15 if you count the spouses)  Basically we just reproduced ourselves, no less, no more.  And only one of those has had a child.  Actually, there are a few step-children from one of us but all them and their children are out of town and a little disconnected from the lower mainland contingent.  Still loved and accepted but somehow, a smidge ‘distant’.  For those of us who are near Vancouver/Victoria or are ‘townies’, there are no grandchildren.  The leg-swinging hug days may be over.

Humbug!