The box was from my mother, who made a big deal of most holidays—gifts not only for Christmas, but also for pre-Christmas, Valentine’s Day, Easter, and Halloween. This was a first for Independence Day, though.
But I was wrong. My mother’s brainstorm was to separate the birthdays of her daughter (Christmas Eve) and son-in-law (Boxing Day) from the holiday crush. As a child, I longed to have a summer birthday largely because I wanted to hold an outdoor scavenger hunt. However, Mother held fast to the official birth date. Until now.
Now she saw the benefits of shifting the celebration: She didn’t have to shop during the holiday frenzy, she could find colorful items that weren’t red or green, and we wouldn’t be getting yet another sweater. Now she could give her daughter what was asked for long ago. After all, there was precedence and a track record: A family friend had for decades celebrated his December 24th birthday on June 24th without incident. Plus, this shift felt tinglingly subversive.
Mother promised the early celebration wouldn’t affect our ages. We wouldn’t be getting older earlier or advance in age twice in one year. Nope, that numbers game occurred only on our real birthdays.
All good. Until now.
Not that what I’m about to say isn’t good; it just strikes me as curious. We’re celebrating Christmas tomorrow.
That’s right. We knocked off the 2 in December 25th and are just going for the 5th this year. Actually, there’s a good reason for this craziness: Each member of my family lives several states away from one another and we rarely see each other. This week, my sister is visiting my mother and hatched a plan to meet with us halfway between the Land of Lincoln and the Bluegrass. And since it’s so close to Christmas, why not celebrate while we’re together?
Why not, indeed?
So tomorrow I’m headed for Story. You know—near Gnaw Bone and not far from Bean Blossom? Indiana, that is.
Ho Ho Ho…
[I’m hoping for a turtle on wheels like the one on the postcard.]
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