The way we were...

I spent Christmas Day alone this year.

Not a big deal. I was prepared to do so. I had the week before Christmas off from work. I had a lovely three days in Montauk (Dec19-21), where I got to live fully and completely in my Clementine state. I spent two days with my boyfriend, eating, drinking, shopping, and exchanging gifts until he had to leave to his family early, early Christmas morning. I also had the company of a small Jack Russell terrier named Diesel who I visited three times on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. The only thing I did not have was my mommy.

I have missed Christmas about three times in my life. But, I always had an alternate plan and my mother's brown paper package tied up with string under my tree. She would send the package more than a week before Christmas. It would always arrive just days before the big day. I would never open it until Christmas Day. This would be my replacement for the lack of a mommy. The gifts inside the package would be individually wrapped and would bear her signature labels. Each one with a different "to:" and "from:" Her own bit of creativity. She has been doing this for as long as I could read. Things like..."To: Chaddy Boy From: The Mama." Or, "To: Son No. 1 From: #1 Mom." They make my eyes roll with giggles. I love it. Inside, there would also be a batch of No-Bake Cookies. My favorite since first grade. Not to mention the newspaper articles. Surely you know of what I speak?

This year, unfortunately, the United States Postal Service failed us. Although, my devoted mother sent the package with ample time, insured it, and paid for priority delivery service, alas no package for moi on Christ's Birthday! This, of course, angered and saddened my mom. It didn't hit me until late Christmas night, sitting with my glass of pinot noir and torturing myself with deeply emotional movies. (Another Clem moment) I longed for the gooey goodness of a No-Bake Cookie. I ached for those ridiculous gift tagisms. I wanted my mommy.

One week later, after one failed attempt by the post office, I waited in that long line of people who missed their packages, retrieved my mama's goodie box and rushed home to tear it open. What I found was a terrific assortment of gifts I had on my wish list, a nice check for a decent chunk o' change, the No-Bakes, the clippings, and two VHS tapes. One labeled, Chad and Cody Young. The other labeled, Grandpa Harvey Tapes. On these VHS tapes, my mother had transferred some of our salvaged silent reel to reel footage from when I was 1-6 years old. The footage was fast, clipped, poorly edited and slightly rough in texture and tracking, but nonetheless priceless.

It contained clips of my brother trying to take his first steps, The Christmas when I got my E.T. doll, our trip to Dallas, TX, and me pulling my brother around in a red wagon. I sat there in my New York apartment, at 28 years old, in silence, in dim light, watching the way we were. My mother's bad perm. Her arms were so skinny then. My beautiful hair with no fly-aways. How f#*!ing adorable my brother was as a baby. My Grandma who has since passed. All my Aunts and Uncles who have since divorced. The clothes. The underoos. As I watched these silent documentaries of my past, I saw all this joy that I don't always remember associating with these particular memories. The trip to Dallas involved a lot of yelling, screaming, and crying during the long drive down. One family of four staying with another family of four wasn't fun. Pulling my brother around in the red wagon was a direction taken from my father, with his aggressive control of what should and should not be filmed. The footage I now own, is of our visit to the Dallas Ranch and me and my cousin Misty peddling away on our Big Wheels. This footage I now own is of my lazy, chubby brother being hauled around by a smiling, waving, "put on a face for the camera" older brother. These were the happy times. I could go on. But, my point is made. This video archive of some of my childhood is not the way we were. However silent the movie memories may be I can still hear that silent sadness underneath all that visual joy. However, the upside is that the silent reel-to-reel camera has succeed in allowing me to pull these tapes out on occasion and only have a visual memory. Whether or not this is a good or bad thing, doesn't matter. I can experience these memories in silence and remember only the joy of a Big Wheel, or of Santa's delivery, or of seeing the ranch from the show Dallas. I can look back at the way we were.