Tonight I was remembering past holidays.
I remember my first Easter alone. It took me by surprise because I had incorrectly assumed that the hospitality of the church would kick in. (I was in a family-values church and I was newly divorced. They really didn't have any idea what to do with me. In fact, I don't think there was any consciousness that a family might consider inviting a single person to "dilute" the family togetherness.) So Easter dinner was canned clam chowder heated on a hotplate. It just seemed so empty—no happy kids, no eggs, no special food. That church was the sort where every day is pretty much like every other. Folk songs, clapping, and dancing in the aisles, but Easter looked exactly like any other Sunday.
At the end of that day, I felt totally empty and defeated.
When Christmas rolled around, I was ready. I had plans that filled the day. I bought some frozen chicken Kiev, got some extra kerosene for my heaters (I was living in a barn at the time), and tuned the radio to NPR. I spent the afternoon listening to the Festival of Lessons and Carols live from England. I also promised myself that I would never again spend a major holiday in this town if I could possibly get away. That's why I've driven 400 miles to celebrate the last 16 Christmases (and most of the last 16 Easters and Thanksgivings) with my parents. The major holidays are not here. The holidays are there.
It was good to take control of the situation, though it meant that for a long time Maryland was more like home to me than Ohio was. Some of the pain will always be there, but I don't have to let it be my master.
This may have been the last Christmas in Washington. Certainly it was a very solitary one, much like that first Easter, but I'm stronger now, and I have friends back in Ohio.
By the way, clam chowder used to be my favorite. I can't stand the sight of the stuff now.
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