We started the Norlander holiday letter back in 1995 as a whimsical chronicle of our ordinary lives. It generally opened with, “Greetings. The plastic tree is out of its plastic bag and lit once again …” Sadly, after 30 years, it’s time to retire the letter and let its subheads of children/pets, vocations, vacations and possessions move into history.
The children have grown and have almost-grown children of their own. No more stories of how a son came home by curfew and was heard leaving a half-hour later through a bedroom window. No more stories of lost luggage and forgotten underwear on vacations. No more stories of exploding pans spewing turkey parts all over the ceiling.
Last year, the “we” became “me” when my husband succumbed to vascular dementia just before Christmas. I lost my writing partner. The final letter was finished 10 days before he died. “For this holiday season, we are celebrating the moment Jerome’s eyes light up when he sees family or his smile when we bring him chocolate and potato chips.” It was a dark time, and I don’t remember if I ever sent the letter.
The year since he died has been filled with the not-so-ordinary: The trip to the department of licensing to change ownership on the car but with the wrong paperwork, resulting in the need for another trip to the DOL and another “take a number for service.” The discovery of automatic payments for services set up 10 years ago through a long-defunct email address that had never been used. Far too many hours spent on phone trees and on hold, hoping to be connected to a real human.
If I were to write the usual letter this year, I know it would include mention of the two simultaneous flat tires and the nice tow truck driver who had to come and haul the car away. And it would make note of the hit-and-run that left the car door unusable, resulting in dealing with the nice people at a place called Crash Champions. Perhaps it would chronicle the cracked back molar and the trips to the dentist, endodontist and oral surgeon. And it would make mention of the current political quagmire.
But the real letter I would want to write wouldn’t be so whimsical. It would be about the empty side of the bed and the inability to watch anything on television except Hallmark Christmas movies. It would be about the trip back to Minnesota with Jerome’s ashes and how he finally got to fly first class. And about the support of family and friends who knew him for his sense of humor, his quirkiness and his kindness.
Like a long-running television show where the star has left, it’s time to end the holiday letter. I have a 30-year treasure trove of family ups and downs. I have the memories of how we collaborated, laughed and argued over content. And I have the part of him in my being that made writing the letters fun. Perhaps someday, when the time is right, I’ll take up the holiday pen again and start a new letter.
Meanwhile, in the words of our 2015 closing, “May it be a year of peace and wonder (but not the kind of wonder that goes ‘How did Donald Trump end up here?’) May you and your family be healthy, your vocations be fulfilling, your vacations relaxing and your possessions in good order.”
Best wishes,
Linda
