TRADITIONS

by Deborah Elliott-Upton

“When our relatives are at home, we have to think of all their good points or it would be impossible to endure them.” – G.B. Shaw, “Heartbreak House”, 1929

“Relations are simply a tedious pack of people, who haven’t got the remotest knowledge of how to live, nor the smallest instinct about when to die.” – Oscar Wilde, “The Importance of Being Earnest”, 1895

If you’re reading this, you’ve probably exhausted the conversation with family, full of (insert your favorite holiday dessert here) and ready for a few moments alone with only the sound of the familiar computer hum.

I was thinking about the differences in holiday get-togethers in my lifetime. When I was young, even if we didn’t go over the river and through the woods, it was grandma’s house we were off to at holidays. I’m not sure when Mom started having all the holidays at our house, but it was long before she became a grandma.

Too many people in the house was nice – for a while. Then, I needed to find some time and space I could call my own. Computers are excellent for that. We can climb into a world of knowledge at our fingertips, or amusements (a lot of people think Solitaire played online is more fun than actually holding cards in their own hands – something I don’t quite get. On the computer, I can escape into the world of fiction that’s been playing at the edges of my conscientiousness ever since Cousin Peter1 entered the threshold with his new fiancée. How’d he get a prize like her? Surely, the woman had to be drugged. Wasn’t this the same guy who used to sit on us younger kids and wave his smelly socks across our face until we swore allegiance to The Peter the Great Club, where, naturally, he was Supreme Ruler of the Universe? Yep, same guy. Only now, he has a bona fide college degree, a great job and a trophy wife-in-the-making who actually has brains. Wow. I am impressed, but I can’t help wonder if somewhere on their honeymoon night, Peter will acquire that crazy grin of his and pull out a pair of rancid socks to show his bride.

In the solace of Mom’s part guestroom/part office, I begin a new short story, toying with the characters as they are revealed to me. My detective’s nemesis was like Peter as a kid, only the villain never outgrew enjoying sadistic ways with young children. My hands hover over the keyboard. Should I be writing grueling things with my entire family so close? Would they think me odd to know my mind explores such areas? Or do they already believe me to be odd as I do many of them?

There’s a deputy sheriff in the living room. I bet I could wrangle some police insider tips from him for another slice of pumpkin pie. Maybe he’d share codes police officers use over the radio to add authenticity to my law enforcement characters. I send a copy of what I’d written to my e-mail address and close out the computer. As I make my way down the hall, I run into Peter. I never caught up to him in height. He towers over me like when we were kids. I can tell he still loves being bigger than everyone else.

“So, what’s new with you?” Peter asks me, blocking my path.

I want to say I’d won the Pulitzer, scaled Mt. Everest or turned down an offer to star with Johnny Depp. Instead, I tell him the truth. “I’m working on a new short story.”

For a moment, the Peter I remember appears. Beneath the cashmere turtleneck lurks the kid with the sock problem. His lip curls offering a hint of his Elvis imitation that always falls flat. “Tell me,” he says.

“It’s still in the beginning stages. Not ready for human consumption,” I answer.

Peter seems okay with this and probably feels he’s dodged a hardball. Besides, it’s most often family and close friends who expect the least from us, which I find strange.

Just as I feel I’ve lost our not-quite-a-secret competitiveness, he tosses the ball back into my court. “But, you’re doing okay with this writer thing, right?”

I nod and a look of respect is exchanged between the two of us. This is what they call a Kodak moment and I wish someone had aimed a camera at us just at that moment. Neither of us will ever say the words we’re thinking out loud. That would be too weird, like dousing pecan pie with Old Tascosa hot sauce.

I smile realizing I will someday use this emotional memory somewhere in a future fiction project, probably one so misdirected that even Peter would not recognize its origin.

For now, knowing I’ve managed to even slightly impress Peter when he didn’t think it could be done is, as the ads say, priceless.

It’s too bad neither of us are saying what we’re thinking. I am proud that he’s made it through school, found his calling and a beautiful, intelligent woman to share his life’s journey. In our family, these words are saved for funerals, when the one receiving the accolades isn’t there to hear. That’s pretty sad.

I’ve decided it’s time to rethink our traditions. Change happens when one person does something different.

“Everyone get a glass of something,” I say. When everyone does, I raise mine. They follow suit. “Here’s to Peter who’s graduated, captured Molly’s heart and found a great job.” Before anyone can react, I continue. “Here’s to Sue who makes the most beautiful quilts. Here’s to Dad who is still racing – and winning – after all these years. Here’s to Mom who makes the best dressing while managing to look like she never stepped into a kitchen. Here’s to …”

The list goes on until everyone has been named for an accomplishment. I lower the glass to my lips. Peter places his hand over mine, lowering my glass an inch. “Here’s to Deborah for finding something good in all of us. She always was one to doctor the truth a bit and make it seem real.”

Everyone laughs. We drink and a new tradition has been formed. All in all, it’s been a nice day.

I am feeling very mellow when Peter pulls me into the kitchen. There’s something fishy going on, I think. Then, the smell hits me.

“Oh, Peter,” I say. “You brought fermented socks, didn’t you?”

His laugh tells me we’re still the same family after all. Not everything changes, but this time, I know an escape route. Poor Molly.

1. His name and identifiers have been changed to protect me, but he knows who he is, and yes, the sock incident is completely true, although the rest may be fabricated according to the tradition of poetic license so beloved by writers. [↩]