tis the season

Christmas is not my favorite time of year.  It probably doesn’t even rank in the top three.  I’m not entirely bah, humbug.  I do like Christmas lights and trees and Santa and Nativity scenes.  I’m basically down with the decorations (except blow-mold anything).  However, I do not like being told how I should feel for a good month and a half (not to mention being told how I should spend my money, but my friend Jeff has already said this better than I could).  Stop telling me that I have to be cheerful and wish for snow or else I am some kind of freak. 

Of course, being as self-aware as I am, I know where this all stems from.  I had about four Christmases with both my mother and father together, and since they coincided with the first four years of my life, I really don’t remember much.  Then, after my mother and step-father moved me from MI to GA, much of my holiday was spent in a car or on a plane traveling to my father and away from my mother, then vice-versa.  I was always happy to see someone and missing someone at the same time. 

While in MI, with my father, I would have Christmas with my grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins.  All his family lived within a 40 mile radius of one another.  I lived 800 miles away and only saw them maybe twice a year.  They were my blood relatives and complete strangers, my father included.  I wasn’t any closer to my mother’s side of the family except for my grandma.

Christmas in GA was only slightly better in that at least I was in more familiar surroundings and it was seldom snowing.  It was really nice when my sister was there, but her father lived in MI, too, and she had moved out on her own, so she had her own Christmas to deal with. 

So, excuse me if I don’t want to bake cookies, or wear bells.  Don’t judge me because I don’t own any Christmas themed clothing and my decorations are blue and silver, not red and green.  Although I am very happy to be around any family this time of year, I can’t help but think about who I will not see this Christmas.

Meditations on infidelity and gasoline

My last entry reminded me that I hadn’t posted this story here.  Hopefully, it’s the last of the Al stories. 

I found out that my stepfather was having an affair with the wife of my mother’s first cousin the day my husband set himself on fire.  You just can’t make this stuff up. 

I got the call while at work:  “I am calling from St. Mary’s Hospital.  Your husband as been in an accident.”

“What kind of accident?  Is he okay?” My voice was trembling.

“I don’t have all the details, but I know that he’s been badly burned.  He is in an ambulance on the way to the burn unit at Doctors Hospital in Augusta.  We don’t have the facilities to treat him here.”

I must have made a loud noise of some kind because people had started to gather around my cube, concerned looks on their faces.  I frantically grabbed my things and called my sister on the way to my car.  She told me that she was on her way and would drive me to the hospital. 

My mind was swarming.  Burned.  I didn’t know where or to what degree.  I didn’t know if he was conscious, if he still had a face, if he was dying.  My sister arrives and as we start our trip she informs me that our mother, who lives 600 miles away, has called and is on her way.  Al, our stepfather, and Gramma (who was down from Michigan for an extended stay) were going to be with her.  I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.  “Did you tell her that wasn’t necessary?  That I don’t even know if he’s that bad?”  Of course, I know my sister has told her all these things and more, but mom insisted on coming. 

I get a call from one of the EMTs in my husband’s ambulance.  He will be okay.  He’s conscious.  His hands and stomach are burned, mostly second and third degree.  They let me talk to him and as soon as I hear his voice, strained, but strong, most of my nerves stop jangling.  He has a voice, which means he has lips.  I can work with this.  I get the first of the details, too.  He was refueling the lawnmower, and the gas ignited.