Christmas was a big deal at the Ladd house and provided memories to last a lifetime. Plus it was one of only a few times per year that we felt like a real family.
Mom made it a big, unifying, and memorable event, even before we had money. Christmas Eve would be spent watching the news to track Santa’s movements, listening to music, watching movies, playing games, and swapping stories. The food was spicy and the beer flowed like wine. Whether it was tamales or a pot of chili, you could go outside naked after eating and still break a sweat.
Dad and his buddies would play guitars and sing until midnight before the kids were sent to bed and the house grew silent.
My brother went all-in to sell the Santa deal to me including the warning that Santa would sprinkle pepper in my eyes and take my gifts away if I got out of bed. I always stayed awake anyway to sneak a peak or spot the reigndeer outside.
There were two childhood Christmases that played a larger role in shaping my adulthood.
The first was in 1972; I was 10.
Christmas morning started out great because I was the first one awake. Waking up first is critical because Santa doesn’t put names on the gifts, so first up gets first pick. I was first up every year.
Most of the time, we all knew what was ours because of what was on our list. But sometimes, like this particular day, there were two versions of the same gift.
That day it was model cars: one for me and one for my brother. Being first up meant that I got to pick, which I did. By the time my siblings were up, my pile was parceled out and I was enjoying my booty.
Now it's important context that my brother is three years older and a hellofa lot tougher. He ruled our 10X10 bedroom with an iron fist. He terrorized me regularly, though he never actually hit me. The idea of hitting me was all he needed to control me. The threat was far more terrifying than reality, and it worked like a charm.
The dialog went like this on a weekly basis:
Joe: “Give me the rest of your candy.”
Me: “No.”
Joe: “Now.”
Me: “No, it's mine. Go get your own.”
Joe: “I'm going to count to three: One. Two.” and then I would rapidly comply to avoid the dreaded, “3”.
When Joe arrived that morning he pronounced his ruling that I had stolen his model. He demanded I give it back and settle for the one Santa clearly intended for me.
I refused.
The countdown began.
I gave in.
When the parental units finally joined the party they greeted us with the annual query: "Was Santy Clause good to you this year?" I didn’t want to sound like an ungrateful whiner so I snuggled the crime report in a blanket of gratitude.
Every word from that moment forward is locked inside my mental archives:
DAD: "Well, punch your brother in the face and take your car back."
ME; "No way, man. He will kill me!"
DAD; "Joe, if you touch him, I will end you with my bare hands. Now, Jimmy, punch your brother in the face and take your model back."
ME: "Your crazy man. He will wait till you're not around and then kill me."
DAD: "Joe, if you ever retaliate, I'll kill you."
Then Dad laid Joe on his back and sat on his chest, placing his knees on his helpless outstretched arms. "Now, Jimmy, hit your brother in the face and take your damn model!"
I reared back, punched him as hard as I could, and took my model. It was the greatest moment of my first decade.
Christmas at the Ladd house continued to be a grandiose and deeply connecting time. The house full, the music thumping, the mexican food on fire, and gawdy numbers of gifts. Once we all outgrew Santa, gifts were properly labeled and opened on Christmas Eve. Only our stockings were reserved for Christmas morning. It was always glorious and the best moments in the entire year.
Until Dad died.
He was 36 when he died and the kids were 19, 18, 16, and 14. Dad died on September 19, but he still managed to plan ahead for one more unforgettable Christmas eve.
After we had eaten, played games, and swapped stories, we opened all of our gifts. We were sitting around the fireplace with our dates, spouses, and buddies, when Mom surprisingly announced that we each had one more gift to open. Then she grabbed four more packages from her room and broght them to us.
They were each possessions of my father’s that he had told her to deliver on our first Christmas without him. We opened them one at a time and cried like babies.
My brother got dad's Saint Christopher necklace and I got dad's watch. It was a thin gold Bullova with diamonds on each hour, which he had won at a recent poker game. It instantly became my most prized possession. It was a night none of us shall ever forget.
It's no wonder I am the way I am.
What About Your Story?
- Reflect on your family holidays, traditions, and events. What stands out to you? What were the systemic dysfunctions of your family? Which family member controlled the emotional thermostat and what technique did they use to do so? How did the years of these experiences make you feel? How have they defined your place in the family? What needs reconciliation?
- Traditions are an effective way to anchor values and meaning into every family member. Get creative and establish rituals and traditions at every opportunity. What are your current traditions? What is one tradition you could add immediately?
- I deeply want to be the kind of person who thinks of others first, even when I’m battling cancer and my own mortality. Dad did this like a champ and it continues to blow my mind. How can you process your own pain faithfully and focus your energy on being able to bless others even while you are in pain? What is your skill and weakness in this arena?