Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 77389 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 387(@200wpm)___ 310(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77389 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 387(@200wpm)___ 310(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
Not because I was a bit of a weirdo, though I totally was. It was more that my age fell into an unfortunate “no-man’s-land.” A few years behind me were the “little kids.” They traveled as a pack and were always together.
A few years ahead of me, there were the “big kids.” They traveled as a pack and were always together.
I was smack in the middle of the two groups. I traveled alone and had no one.
I was basically like a middle child, except without the benefit of siblings.
I didn’t mind so much. Another personality might have been lonely, but I was a pretty solitary kid even before I realized that I didn’t quite belong anywhere. It’s hard not to be solitary when you’re an only child whose mom died in a car accident when you were four and whose dad has worked two jobs your entire existence.
Or maybe I was just born reclusive and a little prickly.
It doesn’t matter. Whether nature or nurture, I was perfectly happy getting through childhood on a steady supply of mystery novels and peanut butter cookies, which I’d load into the basket of my red bike as I escaped to whatever nearby park or pond ensured I could be left alone to daydream.
But at Christmas?
Christmas was different.
Dad and I never took summer vacations, and he never took sick days. Not back then, anyway. Apparently, the universe decided to gift him with excellent health as a young man in exchange for a whopper diagnosis in middle age.
But anyway, the point is, Dad would save up any and every vacation day so he could take off to coincide with my school break.
Christmas glory ensued. All of the usual things, really, but they didn’t feel usual. They felt special. Magical.
We baked really mediocre sugar cookies. Watched the same old holiday movies year after year, relishing the classics (How the Grinch Stole Christmas, obviously), and gleefully disparaged any newcomers to the Christmas movie scene that dared to try to shove their way onto our carefully curated Christmas classics list.
Our neighbors were big into Christmas too, so everyone decorated their houses and yards. Ours was never the best—money was a little too tight to compete with the full Nativity scene on the McNalley lawn or the Kimmers’ light-up Santa sleigh with all the reindeer.
But, man, how I loved those long, cold December afternoons. I’d spend ages getting the big red bow on our front door wreath just right. Always a fresh wreath—Dad was very anti faux greenery. The bow never looked as lavish and poofy as I wanted, but he still declared it “best on the block” every year.
Then, with frozen fingers, we’d set about hanging the lights. I remember those moments as the best parts of my childhood. Even when he handed me a big tangled ball of last year’s lights. Maybe especially then because the tighter the knot, the more time we got to spend together.
I think he felt the same because when he climbed the ladder to staple the lights above the garage, he would redo it a dozen times to get it perfectly straight. He’d insist that he needed me to follow along beside him, holding the tail of the lights to keep it from dragging.
I know now it was never about getting a straight line. I probably knew it then too. But a chance to talk to him about what a waste of time I thought art class was, and my dreams of being a lawyer, and to state my case on why we should get a dog, or a cat, hell, even a bird . . .
We never talked about boys. Obviously. He didn’t ask, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to tell him that the handful of crushes I experienced were painfully intense. And even more painfully unrequited.
So, yeah, I loved those outdoor decorating sessions.
But the shining star of memories? Decorating the tree.
It was our tradition to wait until the second Sunday in December. Never before, never after. There was a Christmas tree lot an hour out of town. There were plenty of spots closer to our house, but my dad used to work with Big Rob, who owned this one, so we always got a Big Rob tree.
Every year, I’d want the biggest tree. And every year, my dad said he did too . . . before suddenly being disappointed when he realized that our ceilings were only so high and directing me to one with an appropriate height.
Still, he let me pick the fattest tree. Let me pick out an ornament from the tiny gift shop and help myself to one too many free candy canes while Big Rob’s son wrapped the tree in a big net and strapped it to our car.
When I was thirteen, Big Rob died of a heart attack sometime around Halloween. We still went out to his lot that year to support his family. I bought my usual ornament—a ballerina, because Dad had just taken me to The Nutcracker the weekend before and I was going through a phase.