Over the river and through the drifts

Lee A. Dean screendoor@sbcglobal.net

“I’ll Be Home for Christmas” is my favorite non-carol holiday song, but it leaves out important details: how do we get there, when do we get there and what’s the weather forecast?

Everyone – even the president of the United States – grapples with these details. Jimmy Carter’s White House diary entry for 1980 describes his Christmas Day schedule.

• Exchange gifts at home with immediate family.

• Travel to his mother’s house for breakfast.

• Go to his mother-in-law’s house “to have another Christmas there.”

• Head back home for a little quiet time.

• Return trip to the MIL’s house for lunch.

• Then to brother Billy’s house. (I wonder if the Secret Service scoured his place to pick up the empty beer cans, which could be trip hazards.)

Jimmy and Rosalynn had three factors working in their favor. The first is that all this travel happened in and near one small community. The second is that they had Air Force One to get them to and from the White House. Me, on the other hand, usually had modes of conveyance ranging from a Greyhound bus to a rusty Ford Maverick.

And that third factor? Plains, Georgia is in a geographic region that rarely sees snow.

Last Christmas, my wife, the Viking Goddess, and I tried twice to visit family in Illinois. Both times we were repelled (in more ways than one) by bad traveling weather. This marked the first time holiday conditions prevented Christmastime travel.

One year, while traveling from Grand Rapids to St. Joseph with Wife the First, we endured glare ice for the entire trip. Just before St. Joe, we were tailgated by a supremely ignorant driver, who eventually passed us horn blaring and middle finger upraised.

Wife the First then pointed at his car and drew an X over it with her index finger. Ten minutes later, we met that car again, pulled over by a state trooper. We crept by him, honking and waving with more than one finger.

The VG and I were returning to Grand Rapids from Illinois in the days when almost no businesses were open on Christmas. After struggling through snow around the big lake, I was famished for a warm meal. The only business open was a gas station where I could at least get a hot dog.

I approached the hot dog roller and found exactly one dog. It had seen better days, and those days began somewhere around the Taft Administration. It was split down the middle. It had purple spots. As it slowly turned on the roller, my stomach was also turning at the prospect of eating this specimen of demonic cuisine.

“Let’s get a bag of chips instead,” I told the VG, who was also suspiciously evaluating the condition of the forlorn frankfurter.

Why did we navigate treacherous Midwestern weather every year for these gatherings? Memories provide the answer.

--The variety of locations. Were we going to the farm in Bloomingdale or at relatives’ homes in Portage, Otsego, Lawton, or Richland?

--The juggling act between visiting both sides of the family on the same day. This required the logistical skills of a baseball team’s traveling secretary and the diplomatic skills of a Secretary of State.

--The year we gathered at Uncle Richard and Aunt Jean’s house in Kalamazoo when Cousin Nadine played “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree” on the organ.

--The little kids trying to guess which one of the uncles or older cousins was wearing the Santa suit.

--The food smelled so delectable and tasted even better, even if we couldn’t figure out the ingredients of an exoticlooking fruit salad.

--The sounds of our gatherings were a blue-collar symphony. Laughter, the crinkle of wrapping paper, oohs and aahs from a delightful gift, muted gratitude for year another bottle of aftershave, the overall din of conversation, all created a joyful noise.

My favorite memory I carry is the playfulness of it all. Often our antics would make the civilized members of our clan (the women and girls) roll their eyes at the juvenile antics of the uncivilized people (the men and boys). Years later, I discovered that the older generation had serious differences, and yet these were set aside so we kids could have a great time. As wonderful as those gatherings were, there was one thing missing: any mention of the origin of Christmas. As I grew older, I realized that filling in this blank spot was my responsibility. This is why every year I make sure to stay with the story – the story of the humble origins of a human baby born into poverty and how that birth makes all the difference in the world.

If advancing age robs me of all the other memories, I pray that the memory of this story will endure.