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new holiday season is upon us, and we are once again drawn together—and
this time entirely—the whole lot of us, not just the drips and
drabs of previous seasons, but everyone all at once. Like the rotating
discs of a safe, we’ve come into alignment, and thus unlocked
Christmas.
Get ready for 24/7 pajamas, for a fierce,
crackling fire that fills the house with a warm, woody scent, for
the careful unwrapping of old, memory-laden Christmas ornaments which
Flossie and Emily will dutifully place around the house; a dozen fragile,
toothpick-thin ornaments to hang from the white birch branches that
fill our old German stein; a trail of vintage homemade Santas to line
mantles and tables, many of whom lean at all angles, for which Emily
is a constant negotiator; a delicate wooden nativity, with figures
no bigger than your thumb, to set a scene on the piano. Each ornament
folded away in paper towels the previous year provides a welcome surprise
this year: who opened the golden-tinged bi-plane made of thin, vintage
glass? Who found the crystal deer with gemstone freckles on its flank,
like a kiss of constellations? Bing Crosby and The Andrews Sisters
will be on repeat, and every Arend child will recognize, to the moment,
the point where their voices begin to slur and slow down—the
well-earned familiarity of a vintage cassette tape on repeat. Mom
will be cooking, cooking—endlessly cooking. Pomegranates will
lose their seeds, but not without some resistance; au jus will be
lovingly pulled from every pan and returned to the stove for further
flavor and simmering. Dad will set out soft cheeses and thin, flavored
crackers for tastings, and white-salted pretzels for Ralph especially.
The dog, the true Mr. of the house, will trot gaily behind any unsuspecting
eater, and will sit on top of those with food to proffer. He will
blink, sleepily, at the end of every day, too tired and old to stay
awake, yet unwilling to leave the late-night revelers behind. And
the late nights will come, with Geoff, Christina, Flossie, Ralph,
and Emily popping popcorn for movie marathons. The Girls will pour
the nog and offer accompanying liquors and The Boys will find and
choose the movies, and the commonly heard “Toss me a pillow?”
will be uttered by each at least once as negotiations are made between
couch sitting and carpet reclining. And somewhere, in the middle of
it all, the Mr. will be curled up like a cooked shrimp, one eye open
for stray foodstuffs.
We don’t stay up for Santa anymore,
but sleep still comes uneasily on Christmas Eve, perhaps less with
the thoughts of dancing sugarplums than with the morning silver dollar
pancakes dusted with powdered sugar, the fresh sausage, Christmas
Stollen and butter cake—all served on antique TWA plates with
the signature red and gold trim. The Girls will unwrap presents slowly,
The Boys will tear unromantically, and Emily will use old paper to
rewrap a dog treat so the Mr. doesn’t feel left out. Dad will
refuse to open anything in an effort to preserve everything, but The
Girls will have him in the end.
This is Christmas, as we know it. Afterwards,
we will visit our favorite German restaurant, and The Girls will drink
glühwein and Ralph will have his favorite goulash soup and buttered
bread, and Dad will have a beer. We’ll all pile into the VW
vanagon and putter around Glendale to peep at Christmas decorations,
proclaiming each “The best we’ve ever seen!” and
only roll down the windows if we suspect music is involved.
Every year, the holidays grow harder to pull together. Family expands;
jobs provide longer hours, fewer off-days; we get older, more exhausted,
less child-like in our approach; we strain for innocence.
It isn’t about yesteryear’s
Christmas, or next year’s Christmas. It’s only about this
Christmas, now, and all that will unfold from it—a bounty that
cannot possibly be maintained year-round, or repeated to perfection.
We try, with decorations and music and pancakes and presents, with
popcorn and glühwein and movies and a trusty dog at our side,
to repeat the unrepeatable. We hit the right notes, albeit sometimes
out of order; the music is familiar, but it is never the same. That
is all you can hope for, and truly all you need.
This is our Christmas. All our wishes
for health, wealth, and happiness in your Christmas—we hope
your holiday journey is as dog-eared, as full of memory and tradition
as ours has always been.
Flossie Arend |
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Happy
88th birthday on Christmas Day December 25th to our friend and long time
air cargo good guy based in Los Angeles, Ernie “Ernesto” Schimmer,
the lion of Los Angeles International Airport.
