The Agony of December

December used to be my favorite month.

Now it’s filled with reminders of loss.

December 1 is my mother’s birthday. This year she would have been 90, had she not died 16 years ago this December 21.

In an eerie turn of events that probably had the two of them chuckling about it, my aunt – my mother’s sister – died 14 years later in 2012—on the same day.

Their sister-in-law died on the 16th of December, ten years after my mom.

Three death anniversaries in five days.

Then there’s Messiah. Dad conducted a full performance of Handel’s oratorio every year on the first Sunday in December. Rehearsals would begin around the beginning of the fall semester, every Wednesday night. The week of the performance, there would be an extra rehearsal or two.

The day before the performance was always very hectic. We made multiple checks of the performance venue. The piano or harpsichord had to be properly set and tuned. Make certain there were enough chairs and music stands, and that the acoustic shell was in place.

Most of the performances graced Ban Johnson Field House on campus. I think the last two or three performances filled what used to be called the Colony Cinema, now beautifully restored, and called the Peoples Bank Theater.

Along with those preparations, we had to get the house ready for the after-show party, always held at our home. Add the leaves to the dining room table. Dust and vacuum the dining and living rooms. Straighten everything on the piano. Get out and clean all the good crystal. Polish the silver serving pieces. Clean the ice bucket. My brother and I dealt with some of these tasks during November, but those last few days were always hectic.

I’ve only made it to one Messiah performance since Dad retired in 1986, that in 2010. It was fun to see a few of the Oratorio Chorus members again.

December used to be a fun, exciting month. I’d go through the Sears Wish Book or the Penney’s catalog dozens of times in early fall. Each entry on my Christmas list had the item name and number, the shipping weight, the price AND the page number. I wanted to make it as easy as possible for my parents to pick something for me.

Mom loved to decorate for Christmas. Getting the tree up was always a day-long ordeal, typically on a Saturday. We’d bundle up and drive to Ralph Lindamood’s tree lot, full of trees from his farm out in the county. I nagged Mom and Dad often to go out to Lindamood’s farm to cut one down “for real,” but we never did. I think I’ve only cut a tree once, in 2009 or ’10. We’ve had plenty of cut trees, but have only done the actual cutting once.

Dad put the lights up. Mom would sit on the other side of the living room, sipping wine or sherry, and guide Dad’s work. My earliest recollection was that it was “too hard” for me to get the old C7 lamps and their clips on the branches the right way. I think in reality Dad enjoyed that part of decorating the most.

Once the lights were up, Dad would venture into the bomb shelter and drag the ornament boxes out. I didn’t like going in the dark corner of the basement that was the bomb shelter most of the time, except for December. That’s when it was off limits, of course, so my parents could hide our presents. My brother and I hung the ornaments with care as Dad documented the work with his Super-8 movie camera, or his 35-millimeter film camera. I’m not sure he ever saw a digital camera. He’d have marveled at the technology.

In later years, after my brother and I moved out, the tree shrank, and they found out that Lindamood’s delivered. They’d still leave “our ornaments” out for us to put up when we visited. My oldest daughter came to collect her ornaments the other day. I’m glad I could keep myself too busy to notice.

We didn’t do much for outside decorating. Dad put some lights up across the front porch one year and within days someone had stolen many of the bulbs. That was the end of the outside lights.

I miss them both.

My first marriage carries with it an entirely different bundle of pain. We only had a few Christmases together before the right of presence for presents was dictated by court decree.

Now the first weekend in December reminds of loss. Thinking of Messiah brings to mind all of the neglected opportunities I had to perform with my parents and brother.

Instead of looking forward to Christmas music, I cringe at the idea of hearing “Christmas Shoes.” I loved that song once. After my mom died four nights before Christmas, I’ve had to ask my kids not to play it around me. I actively avoid Christian radio stations this time of year to hide from that song.

It’s gotten worse in recent years, instead of better as I had hoped. Maybe that’s caused by my growing agnosticism. Or is the agnosticism fed by the constant inaccuracies and oversights I hear so much of at Christmas? The wise men weren’t at Jesus’ birth, and we don’t know how many showed up two years later, either. It might have been two; it might have been half a dozen. He wasn’t born in a stable out on the edge of town or in a cave. Joseph and Mary weren’t turned away from all of the hotels in town, either. The Bible is very clear on everything though.

Still, in spite of the ache and weariness and frustration that swaddles me every winter, I trudge on. I put on a happy face for my kids as we troop to Lowe’s to pick out the perfect tree. My wife watches me watch the kids and try not to weep as memories of the brutal Christmas days after Mom’s death crash over me. I hide behind the camera pretending to be my father, hoping my kids learn the important things sooner and less painfully than I did.

Maybe this will be the year the dam breaks, and I can feel again.

But here we are, a week after the tree went up, and I still haven’t put my own ornaments up.

Happy Holidays.