Christmas Eve aeternus est (December 2025)

"Your mother's got no snow this year. I can't remember when there was no snow on the ground up here at Christmas."

Strange driving up and not seeing any snow—not even dirty snow. Not complaining. We sure had plenty of it in November—more than I can remember and that goes way back pre-climate change era. Lucky we had a few days above zero, because we get a mountain of leaves and we nearly missed the last fall leaf pickup. That’s a slimy mess to clean up in the spring and sometimes doesn’t get done until summer.

"Damn! We're too late. She's taken the only parking space."

“Well, she does have the kids and presents to unload. Like every year for the last, what is it now, 28 years?”

"You drop me off and unload the food. Maybe someone can stand at the door and take it as you bring it up from the car. I’ve got to go see Mom. She may be freaking out even though Sister’s been here all afternoon taking care of the ducks.”

Brother-in-Law’s at the door. He's not the 'Armed and Hammered' guy I first met. Definitely more laid back since going native in the hinterland hours away from us and the rest of the world. Tall and lanky, and, naturally, bearded, he's muscular and doesn't have any trouble hauling stuff up the two flights of stairs to the kitchen.

"Merry Christmas!"

“Merry Christmas!” he answers

We get the update. Ducks are cooked. Just have to heat up the side dishes. But there’s a whole stack of them that we brought from home.

Hellos and Merry Christmases all around. While the kids are having their tête-à-tête in the living room below, the adults look after the food and drink. BOFG—Big Old Fat Guy, self-described outsider and critic of all things not ME—takes some belatedly-purchased snacks down to the living room. Grandma follows making her way downstairs from the kitchen, clutching at whatever support she can find along the way, including grandchildren.

Again this year, there’s no music. Father-in-Law had a beautiful stereo system and had collected a lot of choice classical and jazz music over the years. Ever since his passing though it’s been hit or miss with music at Christmas. Tonight, Brother-in-Law says the system sparked and popped and gave up the ghost once and for all. It is suggested, and not sotto voce, that dust buildup might have contributed to the death of music. C'est dommage. And I really mean that because Christmas carols were a big part of my growing up years, though we didn’t have piped-in music back then. After opening presents, we used to gather around the piano and sing with great enthusiasm. It was good enough for us. We had generous standards.

The candied peanuts are a hit with Grandma. "You know, I have some every afternoon. They last a long time. I still have half a tin," she says and then shares the details of how she portions them out along with her daily chocolate quota to go with her afternoon coffee. She says that her doctor appreciates the discipline and praises her up and down. Meanwhile, Brother-in-Law's girlfriend seems to be enjoying the chips and dip, though by this hour it may be ravenous hunger. Even though we were later than late, it wasn’t such a bad idea to have picked up some snacks on the way even though we had to stand in line 20 minutes at the drugstore—the only thing open besides the gas station and a convenience store. Everything else shuttered for Christmas.

The kids haven't seen one another since August, so they're completely absorbed in one another’s life story updates. Grandma and I exchange nonverbal greetings, equally attentive for any promising noises from the kitchen.

Brother-in-Law's partner is an authentic nonconformist. She speaks freely and without pretension. Occasionally relates a shocker that raises eyebrows—something like switching the price tags on frozen turkeys. But she's really quite likable and interesting. Tonight we learn that she was a bike courier in the city in the days before GPS. That gets Nephew's attention. He's doing the bike courier thing for take-out food—nothing serious, just a lark. There's so much money in trust for these kids; they're not bound by the obsession that drives their peers to be overachievers. Although Niece has surprised us as she navigates the early stages of a professional career. Still, she knows full well that while she's on a tightrope, it’s not too far from the ground.

"Essen!"

We're summoned to the dining room adjacent to the kitchen. It takes a few minutes to decide who goes where. Why? It’s pretty much the same year after year. It’s the sense that the dining room shrinks a little bit every year. That and a few of us seem to be larger than the year before. There are eight of us, and the table seats six almost comfortably—four is ideal. At dinner, we're the very picture of a close family.

This year, there's no grace. Nephew is still distractedly speaking privately with Niece. In my head, my 'gratiarum actio' is most sincere.

Though not as greedy as my family during Christmas feeding, there's certainly no lack of appetite at our table. Auntee, my wife, is a good cook. Better than my mom, not that I didn't always clean my plate at home and ask for seconds when there were any to be had. The meal goes well—maybe too well, because toward the end I feel compelled to declare, "All the food on this table was prepared by my wife (your daughter, sister, Auntee) and she spent all day in the kitchen yesterday cooking all these delicious foods. And the same was true last year despite recovering from three cancer operations."

I'd rehearsed my lines and intended to deliver them after grace, but I wasn't given a segue, so I had to squeeze it in somewhere. It was awkward. Initially, the response I observed reminded me of cows munching away in the pastureland. But then there were a few hesitant comments suggesting that perhaps the workload ought to be distributed more fairly. My wife put her hand on my leg, and I was waiting to feel a hard squeeze telling me to 'SHUT UP.' It never came, so I took that as a vote of confidence . . . and pushed things a bit beyond everyone's comfort when I suggested we do pizza next year. No fuss, no muss.

That was a sacrilege.

“No way.”

"It's tradition."

"It's got to be duck. We always had duck for Christmas—even during the war we had duck. Nothing the rest of the year, but duck at Christmas."

And so forth until we come around to a long forgotten truth. Christmas Eve had always been celebrated with fondue until I came along with my lactose intolerance and changed the game plan. Ever after it had been goose or duck with duck being the clear preference. So, all those years ago I had mucked it up. Later, on reflection, it occurs to me that I’d taken the blame unnecessarily. You see, the kids were all living at home when there were two separate celebrations—one on Christmas Eve with fondue and one on Christmas Day with duck. After the nest emptied, it was a struggle to get everyone to show up twice during the holidays, so Grandma legislated that Christmas Eve was the compromise. Duck it would be. Fondue was out. Almost in her 10^th decade, when the stakes are high (in her judgment), she continues to lay down the law in her own uniquely effective way.

Now my wife feels obligated (she tends to overestimate her obligations) to prepare Christmas dinner since Grandma is no longer able to. I tell her that this comes from being the oldest. As the youngest in my family, I’ve shared with her the cunning of younger siblings when it comes to shirking. But the oldest don’t always listen to the youngest when they should.

Well, maybe tradition can be tweaked again . . . just a bit. That might be OK if we can persuade everybody to go back to the older tradition of having fondue. The only difficulty is that Christmas Eve had been fondue and Christmas Day had been the feast of fowl and that would put us right back where we started. Another complication: Sister-in-Law and her gentrified partner were sponsors of a new custom. Years ago, they started their own mini-tradition by inviting Grandma to their house on Christmas Day. Nobody else, just Grandma. We felt slighted, but no one raised any objections. It would be a tropical February day in northern Nunavut when Grandma's invitation would be extended to the rest of the family. And even if it were, I’m pretty sure it would be roundly rejected.

Tradition can be a hard thing to break with. And once broken, restoring it can be all but impossible.

Now, opening presents can also be a tricky part of the Christmas Eve ritual. There are self-selected gifts and these go over predictably well. But some of the gift guesses are way off, leaving the recipient nonplussed but obliged to show gratitude. My wife, fresh from hearing of the napkin affair at my sister’s back during American Thanksgiving, had internalized the lesson: don’t correct or otherwise critique the bad behaviour or stupidity of another’s offspring. Thus prepared, she successfully deflected a near explosion when Nephew reproached her for giving him a small 3D popup Christmas card depicting a manger scene. That evening with fists in mouths we were all educated in fundamental Baptist theology, including Catholic Grandma. You see, nativity scenes are idolatrous and only Catholics partake of this wickedness. In my head, I answer very sarcastically that I thought Christianity had moved on past its primitive sectarianism. A good thing, because it’s possible that my views have become outdated, in which case I would be factually wrong and Christmas would have ended very badly and for no really good reason. Moreover, giving in to such temptation would not have endeared me to my wife who’d already bitten her tongue to the point of drawing blood. Just a drop.

* * *

Next day, word from Grandma reports that Brother-in-Law is of the opinion—and his can be the decisive one—that his older sister (my wife) has been doing more than her fair share and that this needs to change. HURRAY! But calm down. It’s unfair to hold someone to extravagant promises made during the exuberance of the Season.

However, the duck stays. Read this as a resounding refusal by all of the blood relatives to substitute pizza or any ethnic food for good old duck. I feel duly put in my place. Tradition is tradition because it resists the currents of change, however unreasonable it may appear to outsiders.

But assessing the situation realistically, two emendations to intergenerational family customs in a lifetime may just be too radical to preserve the health and well-being of all parties at the table. Evolution is a S-L-O-W process.

On hearing the news, I smile at my wife with tongue in cheek. I know getting my wife to ‘let go’ will be almost as difficult as preparing the full Christmas Eve dinner sans duck.