A a couple weeks later, I was out driving alone again, this time feeling the Christmas spirit just enough to start listening to Christmas music as I drove. I was on my way to my favorite store (Michael’s, which is an art store) to get some Christmas supplies. As I drove along the wet, dark country roads, a song called Colorado Christmas began to play on the radio. It immediately caught my ears, and I paid attention to the lyrics much more closely than usual. Why? Well, for the first time, I could really, really relate to it.
Before, I used to only listen to it because A) it’s a country Christmas song by the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band, and B) it was a song about Christmas in Colorado. But, now that I live in Washington, I’ve realized what that song’s really about: a person living along the west coast during Christmas time, sadly reminiscing about spending Christmas in Colorado. And, like I’ve been doing an awful lot lately, I ugly cried the whole rest of the way to the art store, and stayed in the car until I was done crying.
If we weren’t still dealing with a raging pandemic, I’d be home along the foothills for the holidays, enjoying the presence of family and friends, riding down the steepest part of the famous Ken Caryl sledding hill wearing a dirtbike helmet, getting into snowball fights with loved ones, helping family cook Christmas dinner, and whipping shitties in empty icy parking lots.
Instead, I’m destined to spend Christmas alone in Gig Harbor this year, mowing the lawn in the pouring rain instead of shoveling the snow in the middle of a blizzard, getting and giving Christmas gifts wrapped in unremarkable Amazon boxes rather than in colorful wrapping paper, watching a pre-recorded Christmas sermon on the TV instead of going to church in-person and listening to classic hymns echoing throughout the sanctuary, and eating the Christmas turkey while watching another season of Grimm with just my mom (my little brother would be upstairs in his bedroom playing video games with his friends). I had every valid reason to believe I’d spend my Christmas like I spent my Thanksgiving: crippled by sadness and grief.
But, once I got myself together and began to browse the empty art store through foggy glasses, an idea just randomly popped into my head as I was looking at ink pens. “Purchase a bunch of Christmas cards and watercolor paper, and send a personalized card to every friend and family member you can think of.”
That thought stunned me. I’ve never had the courage to send everyone I know and care about a personalized card for Christmas. It has always either escaped my mind, or I’ve thought about it but then dismissed it, or I’ve seriously considered it only for my anxiety to kick in and start asking me absurd things like, “Isn’t it kind of creepy to ask for everyones’ addresses?”
But, this time I couldn’t dismiss this thought so easily. It was almost as if it was put into my mind by God. So, I quickly put a handful of pens and a giant packet of watercolor paper into my shopping basket, and made a mad dash across the store to the Christmas section before my anxiety could kick in and ruin my plans. There, I found a bunch of Christmas cards and envelopes. I also saw a really cute black bear figurine with a Christmas hat that was on sale for super cheap, so I put him in the basket along with a couple boxes of Christmas cards. There was also an equally cute owl on sale next to the bear, so I grabbed him too. Finally, just before I reached the check-out desk, I spotted some of my little brother’s favorite candy and bought several boxes of it for his Christmas present.
Before I could even comprehend it, I was no longer a Grinch. The Christmas spirit hit me like a truck in the middle of my shopping spree at Michael’s at close to nine at nights, out of all places.
On my way home, I went to my mom’s cousin’s house first to drop off her owl. By then, my mom’s cousin’s house was dark, so I didn’t dare touch the doorbell. Instead, I parked my Xterra around the corner, then snuck around through the thick treeline to the front porch where I’d set up the owl, so it would be staring at whoever opened up the front door in the morning. The wind had picked up and it was raining heavily, which helped to conceal me as I jumped a shrub, sprinted across the lawn in a semi-crouched position, and army-crawled up the front porch steps and to the front door where I left the owl. As quickly and stealthily as I arrived, I was gone, quietly giggling to myself along with the coyotes that howled and yipped in the eerie wilderness that surrounded me.
I laughed to myself raucously as I drove home, listening to Reverend Horton Heat’s Christmas album, filled to the brim with Christmas cheer for some inexplicable reason. Just an hour or so before, I was really, really sad. But, something big happened within that hour that I just couldn’t explain. I was still cackling like a hyena when I walked through the front door, and my mom stared at me like I’d grown a second head until I could explain to her, as best as I could, what had transpired.
