So, it's Christmas Eve for those of us on the Julian calendar. My husband and I spent the evening having dinner with my Mom and brothers. It was a quiet evening. There were perogies, and there was some wine. It was nice, but awkward.
The last few years have been riddled with awkward Christmas Eves. First my Grandfather went to live in the nursing home, and the evening found itself shortened a little, as family left early to drive him back home at the end of the night. It was a sharp contrast to the days he used to drink a glass too many by the end of the night and need help back down "home" to the basement, where he had an apartment set up. Then my Grandmother died. That was a tough one to swallow for me, and six years later I still sit at that table remembering her sitting across from me, pleading with my cousin, Tammy, to at least eat a bite of everything, chastising my Grandfather for his politically incorrect comments at the table and just being her wonderful self. Then my Aunt and Uncle moved to BC with our cousins. We knew that one was coming, but it hit home for me when they weren't there for Christmas. After they moved, nobody came to invade our home at 4 in the afternoon with every piece of kitchenware she could dream up, enlisting every able-bodied male in sight to carry it all into the house. My Aunt Natalie and my Mom used to follow each other around our kitchen yelling at each other about everything and nothing until the meal was over. To an unfamiliar ear it would sound like an uncomfortable territorial battle, but I think they both enjoyed it. We'd be promised at 5 p.m. that dinner would be ready in 20 minutes, and we'd finally sit down to eat around 8 p.m., when dinner was ready. Our cousins, Danylo and Anton, would hang out with us in front of the television while my Uncle, Phil, told us of his travels, or spoke to Dula about golf. My Uncle Yaro would come for dinner, with our cousins, Andrei and Tammy, in tow (or any available variation thereof). When Natalie, Phil, Danylo and Anton moved out West, the celebration grew quiet.
Last year Yaro broke his ankle in the beginning of December. My Grandfather was no longer well enough to leave the nursing home for the evening. We visited my Grandfather after a modest meal, nothing that resembled the feasts we used to have, and then my parents went to Church while I drove out several cities over, to visit with Yaro and my Aunt Billie. Yaro was still couch-ridden with his injury, and after years of his trekking down to our home on Christmas Eve, making the trip was the least I could do.
I'm a bit of a bowl of mush when it comes to this stuff. For everything I love about growing up, a part of me will always try to hold onto what I can of the past.
So it's 2011, January 6 - Christmas Eve. My cousins, Danylo and Anton, are in Calgary, where they work and go to school. My Aunt Natalie and Uncle Phil are in BC, presumably spending the night 'in' at their home, a log cabin in the mountains. My cousin Tammy is traveling in India right now, on a school-related matter that dropped an enviable opportunity in her lap. Her brother, Andrei, is in Ottawa right now with my Uncle Yaro. In the morning Andrei will be flying out to an unpronounceable town on the north shore of Baffin Island, where he will be starting a 2-year work contract. I wonder what will have changed by the next time I see him - I'll miss him. We've grown quite close. Dad, on whom we rely to sing carols and pour wine, is in Singapore on business (another enviable opportunity). We've been left with a small crowd, my brothers, my husband, my Mother and me. As sad as it makes me to see what was once a massive feast in a crowded house dwindle to such a small group with a modest meal, I'll take it. One of these years the family will start growing again, and then I'll work on the tradition again. I'd love for my children to some day have their own fond memories of large, noisy, messy, trying-but-worth-it family holidays.
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