“Adopting a New Tradition”

(697 Words)

(An essay published in the Stories of Strength anthology in 2005)

Christmas will be different, this year. For the first time, our family will be scrambling to put together a holiday meal that may equal the simple but tasty items that my stepfather, Julius, always brought to the table. Besides being my stepfather, he was also my mother’s husband of thirty-nine years, a father to my half-sister, Kathy, and my stepbrother, Tony. He passed away in May, leaving a vacuum in the lives of his family and the extended family around him.

It’s hard for me to admit, but I’ll have to agree with my mother’s repeated observation that “things just aren’t the same, anymore,” even though I sometimes feel like walking out the door, now, if she says it even one more time. For quite a while after Julius’s death, I used to think that Mom refused to even try to move forward with her life and only focused on the emptiness and sadness that her husband’s passing left her with. Her tendency to look on the negative side of life sometimes even annoyed me. In a gentle tone, I reminded her, “Nothing stays the same forever, Mom.” Despite her worried nature and selective memory, a part of me didn’t want to admit that she may be right, on some level, and I may be wrong. It shamed me to think that I may not have realized how much she really depended on my stepfather.

The proof of this realization came to me as I waited for Kathy to hand down the beleaguered, artificial Christmas tree, the box of bulbs—their colors faded by time—and the strings of insulation-clad lights from the attic to me, instead of to Julius. Plugging my nose against the insulation, we carried the decorations into the living room where Mom sat, surveying the spectacle with a wistful look on her face. “I just know your dad is looking down from heaven right now,” she said to us. “The tree doesn’t look so bad, after all, and I’m glad I let you talk me into putting one up.” I talked her into putting it up? I thought, poking the spindly branches into each color-coordinated hole. It looked as though Kathy and I were doing all the “putting up.”

Years before this artificial tree assumed the focus of attention, a parade of fresh pines and spruce trees had taken its place, my stepfather dragging each one into the house and wrestling it into a stand. I always laughed at the determination on his face and the words that flew, as though this was the only way to tame a wild Christmas tree. Once he positioned it in the perfect spot, he returned to his favorite kitchen chair in front of the TV and surrendered the tree to the rest of us. He seemed more comfortable away from the hub of activity, content to play digital card games or watch old movies, while everyone else visited with each other.

On Christmas Eve, the tree would be lit and the decorations arranged with care, some of them holding special memories of his parents. When I walked in the door, he would usually be hovering over the stove, stirring gravy or tossing one of his signature lettuce salads with mayonnaise dressing. The mouth-watering aroma of roast beef with mashed potatoes and gravy or roast turkey with stuffing used to waft through the house. My mother always received the first plate of honor, hand-delivered by Julius and an unspoken signal for the rest of us to dig in. As each of us finished eating, he grabbed our plates and washed them, never allowing anyone to help with dishes.

Today, as I accepted the mini lights from Kathy, I remembered that stringing these lights used to be Julius’s job, not mine. Now, it belongs to Kathy and me—a new and fragmented tradition that seems foreign to me; still, it’s a tradition that I also know makes Mom happy. To hear the smile in her voice makes the task of slinging garland on the tree a memory laced with love for the parent who still remains and the other who is still in our hearts.