How I spent my Christmas vacation
Hi. Yes, me again, you're long-lost blogger brethren. I know I've been a bad little blogger and I should pay. But I have some treats for you. Here, now, in the form of an essay that I submitted to The Globe and Mail today for the Facts and Arguments page. And, a little later on, my New Year's Resolutions... I know, I'm, like, the most original blogger because I've got some resolutions. Well, at least I'm not going to bore you with my "Best of 2006" lists like every print media source currently in print.
Ok, so here, in a nutshell, my Christmas vacation. Chevy Chase, don't look now.
Hotel for the Holidays
My mother is preparing the Boxing Day lunch in Room 115. She piles deli meat onto a plate and slices a dozen or so dinner rolls, while my sister folds down the top of a bag of potato chips, molding it into a makeshift bowl. Mom gets out the napkins and readies the condiments: two types of mustard, mayonnaise, butter, sliced white onions, firm tomatoes and smooth peanut butter. When I catch her eye, the look on her face says, “What? It’s for the grandchildren.”
I realize these are perhaps uncommon culinary choices for Boxing Day, a day when meals are almost strictly the domain of Christmas leftovers for most families. But we are not most families. We are, afterall, celebrating Christmas in a hotel. By choice.
When my parents first began having babies in 1964, I don’t think they expected they would eventually have six of them. Nor do I imagine they anticipated the exponential growth that would occur when those six grew up, got married and began having babies of their own. And now, even one of those “babies” has a baby of her own.
At last count, we are a family of 29. No longer can we all gather comfortably into any of our respective homes for any amount of quality time. This is why, for the past four years, my family has created a new tradition: we have gone hotel for the holidays.
Mom and Dad found a place in London, Ont., complete with palm trees, an indoor pool with a waterslide, and an arcade. They book each family adjoining poolside rooms with a common patio. My Dad dubs it “Christmas in Florida”.
They also book a banquet room, where the family gathers to have sit-down Christmas dinner served from a specialized menu. This year’s choices included grilled chicken, roast beef, liver and onions, and, of course, turkey. I opted for the turkey, but Mom and Dad both went for the liver and onions. Had I known better, I might have ordered the hamburger and fries from the kids menu, just because I could.
When our server gathered the dishes after the meal, Mom – ever the kitchen mistress – tried to lend a hand, and was quickly rebuffed. “No, Mrs. Pearson, please sit down. That’s why you have me,” the young woman smiled.
Now, I will fully admit that when it comes to Christmas, I am a bit of a traditionalist. I like the storybook ideal of everyone coming home and gathering around the tree at Mom and Dad’s while some poor soul plunks their way through carols on an out-of-tune piano. I like home-made stuffing and pecan pie and that feeling of being ready to burst. I like wearing pajamas until three in the afternoon and playing boardgames with brothers-in
law who have found their way into a glass of rum and eggnog.
Yet here I am in this suburban hotel, warming to the idea of us being here. My nieces and nephews love the pool and waterslide. They spend hours swimming and splashing and being together, giving little thought to all of the presents they received just a day before.
My brothers-in-law gently chide my father, a rare drinker, for offering them bottles of Labatt 50, while their wives – the four Pearson girls – swap stories of work, life and the burgeoning teen years they face as parents.
After the pool closes at 10 pm, I find a log-jam of nieces and nephews laying across a pull-out couch watching a DVD, while three doors down, my oldest niece is putting her eight-month son to bed after a day of being passed cheerily from arm to arm. No one in this family can resist a new baby.
The rest of family passes the time on the patio, my mom in her makeshift kitchen in Room 115, freeing the late-night shrimp ring and countless desserts from their plastic covers. The hotel has turned the pool lights off, so we’re mostly in darkness, but no one seems to notice. This lasts until after midnight, when everyone begins to wander off to their respective rooms to settle down for the night.
The pool re-opens at 8 am the next morning. The kids swim before and after breakfast, while their parents are packing up and checking out.
Down the hall, the cleaning staff is busy tidying a room when Mom peaks inside for a look. It’s a much larger room than the others, and features a king-size bed and Jacuzzi bathtub. Mom doesn’t care about those things nearly as much as the full kitchen and dining room. Her eyes tinkle with thoughts of next Christmas. Dad is dispatched to the front desk to book the room, while I go find a trolley to carry our suitcases to the car.
We will be back next year. This is our new tradition.
Ok, so here, in a nutshell, my Christmas vacation. Chevy Chase, don't look now.
Hotel for the Holidays
My mother is preparing the Boxing Day lunch in Room 115. She piles deli meat onto a plate and slices a dozen or so dinner rolls, while my sister folds down the top of a bag of potato chips, molding it into a makeshift bowl. Mom gets out the napkins and readies the condiments: two types of mustard, mayonnaise, butter, sliced white onions, firm tomatoes and smooth peanut butter. When I catch her eye, the look on her face says, “What? It’s for the grandchildren.”
I realize these are perhaps uncommon culinary choices for Boxing Day, a day when meals are almost strictly the domain of Christmas leftovers for most families. But we are not most families. We are, afterall, celebrating Christmas in a hotel. By choice.
When my parents first began having babies in 1964, I don’t think they expected they would eventually have six of them. Nor do I imagine they anticipated the exponential growth that would occur when those six grew up, got married and began having babies of their own. And now, even one of those “babies” has a baby of her own.
At last count, we are a family of 29. No longer can we all gather comfortably into any of our respective homes for any amount of quality time. This is why, for the past four years, my family has created a new tradition: we have gone hotel for the holidays.
Mom and Dad found a place in London, Ont., complete with palm trees, an indoor pool with a waterslide, and an arcade. They book each family adjoining poolside rooms with a common patio. My Dad dubs it “Christmas in Florida”.
They also book a banquet room, where the family gathers to have sit-down Christmas dinner served from a specialized menu. This year’s choices included grilled chicken, roast beef, liver and onions, and, of course, turkey. I opted for the turkey, but Mom and Dad both went for the liver and onions. Had I known better, I might have ordered the hamburger and fries from the kids menu, just because I could.
When our server gathered the dishes after the meal, Mom – ever the kitchen mistress – tried to lend a hand, and was quickly rebuffed. “No, Mrs. Pearson, please sit down. That’s why you have me,” the young woman smiled.
Now, I will fully admit that when it comes to Christmas, I am a bit of a traditionalist. I like the storybook ideal of everyone coming home and gathering around the tree at Mom and Dad’s while some poor soul plunks their way through carols on an out-of-tune piano. I like home-made stuffing and pecan pie and that feeling of being ready to burst. I like wearing pajamas until three in the afternoon and playing boardgames with brothers-in
law who have found their way into a glass of rum and eggnog.
Yet here I am in this suburban hotel, warming to the idea of us being here. My nieces and nephews love the pool and waterslide. They spend hours swimming and splashing and being together, giving little thought to all of the presents they received just a day before.
My brothers-in-law gently chide my father, a rare drinker, for offering them bottles of Labatt 50, while their wives – the four Pearson girls – swap stories of work, life and the burgeoning teen years they face as parents.
After the pool closes at 10 pm, I find a log-jam of nieces and nephews laying across a pull-out couch watching a DVD, while three doors down, my oldest niece is putting her eight-month son to bed after a day of being passed cheerily from arm to arm. No one in this family can resist a new baby.
The rest of family passes the time on the patio, my mom in her makeshift kitchen in Room 115, freeing the late-night shrimp ring and countless desserts from their plastic covers. The hotel has turned the pool lights off, so we’re mostly in darkness, but no one seems to notice. This lasts until after midnight, when everyone begins to wander off to their respective rooms to settle down for the night.
The pool re-opens at 8 am the next morning. The kids swim before and after breakfast, while their parents are packing up and checking out.
Down the hall, the cleaning staff is busy tidying a room when Mom peaks inside for a look. It’s a much larger room than the others, and features a king-size bed and Jacuzzi bathtub. Mom doesn’t care about those things nearly as much as the full kitchen and dining room. Her eyes tinkle with thoughts of next Christmas. Dad is dispatched to the front desk to book the room, while I go find a trolley to carry our suitcases to the car.
We will be back next year. This is our new tradition.
posted by Capital Letters at 3:52 PM
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