My Safeway Christmas

Christmas is what you make it

I love Christmas—the whole, gaudy spectacle of it—the trees, the ornaments, the wreaths, the carols, the lights, the boxes and bows.

My husband, alas, does not. He calls the string of holidays from October to December­—Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Years—“the four holidays of the apocalypse.” Like Bartleby the Scrivener, he would prefer not.

Most Christmases, though, he bows to the tsunami of my enthusiasm.

A few Christmases ago, however, he dug in his heels and declared that, now that the children were grown, we would henceforth be having Christmas without presents. No presents, no stockings. Much to my surprise, our grown children concurred with this decision—my daughter enthusiastically and my son (who is a masterful gift giver) somewhat grudgingly.

I was horrified, but I agreed as well. It seemed the right thing to do. Will of the majority and all…blah, blah, blah.

Sigh.

We did put up a small tree that year, and I decorated it, though it looked forlorn with no presents underneath.

I don’t remember what kind of tree it was. When Christmas rolls around, we usually go wandering around our back forty, chainsaw in hand, in search of a pine or Douglas Fir.

One year, having denuded the property of conifers and feeling experimental, we had a large bare madrone branch as our Christmas tree. That was interesting and quite beautiful in its own way, but not very satisfying from an emotional standpoint. The point of an evergreen is that it’s just that: ever green, symbolizing the continuation of life through the darkest part of the year. Having a bare branch from a dead tree delivered the exact opposite message: life is bleak, death is eternal and, oh yeah, have a very Merry Christmas.

But I digress.

Anyway, speaking of bleak, back to the Christmas without presents. I went to bed on Christmas Eve, intending to be mature. ‘I’m a grown woman, after all,’ I told myself. ‘I don’t need presents.’

‘No one needs presents,’ I told myself. ‘Christmas is a capitalist plot to spur unnecessary consumption.’ And with that heartening thought, I fell into an uneasy sleep.

I awoke at 2 am, sadder than I’ve ever been (and that’s saying something). I wandered out into the undecorated living room and turned on the lights on the tree. Sitting on the couch, staring at an empty fireplace, bare of stockings, I sobbed for a bit.

And then I thought, “F- - - this.”

I looked at the clock. It was 3 a.m. That gave me three, maybe four hours to get ready for Christmas morning.  I threw on my clothes and dashed to the car and drove to the only place that was open on Christmas morning at that hour: the Sebastopol Safeway.

In a normal year I would have spent most of December haunting Copperfield’s and other small, independently owned shops on Sebastopol’s main drag, looking for just the right thing for everyone on my list. But this wasn’t any other year, and as I walked the wide, bright aisles of Safeway, I was thrilled at what you can find there if you look hard enough: gourmet jams and mustards, fancy oils and vinegars, cookies from foreign lands, scone mixes and chocolates, frou-frou soaps and toothbrushes. (In our home, Santa always puts new toothbrushes in the stockings, as if to make up for all the candy.)

I bought enough to fill four stockings, mine included—and got some poinsettias to boot.

When I got home, I went out to the garage and lugged in the big box filled with stockings and other Christmas knick-knacks. I individually wrapped each item from Safeway and filled the stockings and laid them under the tree. I decked the halls as best I could, wrapping red ribbons around the bannisters. I brought out my small, green wooden Swedish Christmas trees – the kind that fit together like a little puzzle, with candle holders at the end of each stiff branch—and I created a little Solstice diorama with trees and candles.

I lit the candles and sat down to await the sunrise.

On Christmas morning, my son and daughter stumbled sleepily from their beds and wandered, mouths agape, into my Christmas wonderland.

My husband, a man of few words, said one word: “Incorrigible.”

But it was fun. And it was funny. And we had a good time together, which is all you can really ask of the holidays.

In case you were wondering, these are Swedish Wood Christmas trees. Diorama from last year’s Christmas dinner table.