My background is not one of affluence, or what one could in any way term a cushioned life. That said, with all the challenges my siblings and I faced growing up, mum never allowed us to dwell in our misery or focus too much on the negative. And you know sometimes how you just want to kvetch, bitch, whine, or rail, even just for a moment? My mother would not have it. There were days you wanted to cry out: “For Pete’s sake, when on earth can I be depressed or miserable about something? Is this bad enough? Or this?”
The Christmas holidays finally came to an end today at Chez Team Fargo. My son was put onto public transport early this evening and shunted back to Cambridge until the next school holiday rolls around. And, boy, has it been a long and tedious day. Not because my son is under the age of reasoning (ie: under 40), but more my problem with goodbyes.
And I blame my Uncle Percy.
When I was a child, Uncle Percy came to stay. This was unusual in itself as we never had sleepover guests, and certainly not exotic guests all the way from the West Indies (St. Lucia) planning to stay several weeks.
Bronnie loved traditions. From Thanksgiving being celebrated on the fourth Thursday in November – and not the following weekend when it would be waaay more convenient – to dusting off the eclectic mix of miniature toys we’d hang on the Christmas tree each year. To watching ‘The Muppets Christmas Carol’ movie every Christmas Eve afternoon to the reading of ‘Night Before Christmas’ every Christmas Eve night, to the smell of hot ham in the oven roasting with cloves. From ham & eggs and Bucks Fizz on Christmas morning to a traditional turkey ‘lunch’ at about 4.00 pm, to cold turkey and dark pickle onions with crackers on New Year’s eve night.
I first starting writing this post a couple of weeks ago in response to the Post-40 Bloggers writing prompt – “Write about the most courageous thing you’ve done.”
At that time, I thought I was going to write about the day my twin sister and I walked over hot coals at an Anthony Robbins convention. (I only knew how brave we had been about a year later when news reports broke about a man who had done the same thing… and contracted first degree burns for his trouble.)
Although, saying ‘we’ had been brave is a reach. Usually the one to take risks, it was actually my sister on this occasion who stepped up to the plate and took the whole thing in her stride. (Being hot coals, strides were of course a good option.) Anyway, in the queue to follow her next, I suddenly had what I know now to be a very rational thought: “What if this doesn’t work and my feet are fried?”