Dysfunctional Family Christmas Traditions

One thing that I'm really proud of is how close my family was growing up, and how strongly they believed in the Christmas spirit. Even the slightest wiff of eggnog brings me back to the simple magic of my childhood, the calm bliss that came every Christmas. I'd like to share some of our Christmas traditions with you, reader, in the hopes that some of them may be carried on for hundreds of Christmases to come.

For instance, the Menorah-different, I know, but Mother was Jewish or at least she claimed to be, and on Christmas Eve we'd light the candles and cook s'mores over them. Some would call that odd, but we just called it good country eatin'. Then, Mother would pretend that she spoke Hebrew and wander into the city to find presents.

The townspeople had names for Mother. I tried to block them out as best as I could.

Drinking - this was a big one in our house. We'd settle at Grandpa's feet and look in wide-eyed wonder as he put back a fifth of tequila and threw up on our only copy of The Night Before Christmas (but he never threw up on my favorite passage, because he loved me). Then, he'd tell us about how he broke his own leg to avoid getting drafted, and that Jesus would have done the same thing if he'd seen how hot our Grandmother had been at the time. Then, he'd sneeze a few times and fall into the fire. As my father was stamping him out, he'd exclaim, "Man, Christmas truly is the most wonderful time of the year! Now, go, kids, get your dad a beer." Father would always try to rhyme his words, which may have been why he couldn't find a very good job.