So, it’s holiday time. I know this because I work in retail. Telltale signs: everyone around me is stressed out and cranky, they keep talking about numbers and sales and customer service. And all the music is playing. Everyone on Facebook keeps talking about their holiday shopping.
It doesn’t really feel like Christmas to me. Probably because other than working in retail, I am not doing any of the things that I am accustomed to doing around this time of year. I’m not finishing projects or studying for finals. I’m not negotiating the family holiday celebration timetable. I am not putting up a tree or making a list of what I need to cook for various gatherings. I’m not even really buying anything–between the hubs and the fam, we’ve all agreed to go simple this year. And while all of that sounds disappointing and vaguely grinch-y, it actually feels very…relaxed.
One of the things Mr. B and I have talked over and over about is how fun it’s going to be to start our own traditions for the holidays. For the first time in ten years, his busy season is NOT the last ten weeks of the year. For the first time since we’ve known each other, I am not in school for the holidays. And for the first time in either of our lives, ever, we are not going to be snuggling in to the big Beahan/Ratermann family holiday extravaganza this year. It’s like a blank slate…
It’s a lot of pressure.
I mean, how do you start a tradition? Does that happen consciously? Do you sit down with pen and paper and negotiate and bargain your way through a list of traditions you’d like to adopt? We don’t have kids, so it’s not like we’re discussing what’s best for munchkins. Just us.
What’s best for us.
Last weekend we spent our Sunday eating world famous doughnuts and walking around Capitol Hill. We oohed and ahhed over the view and then agreed to go home, make dinner and snuggle up on the couch.
I am not one to stick to plans, and I caught wind of an event that couldn’t be missed. At dusk, just when Mr. B had settled into his book and was contemplating a glass of wine, I tossed him his coat and said, “We’re going…”
The holiday boat parade was coming to Lake Washington.
Every year for the month of December these boats tour the various waters around the Puget Sound area. They are all lit up with twinkly lights and one big boat carries a bunch of carolers. They sing their songs and it’s very festive and charming and just a little bit eerie.
We walked up the hill and over to Lake Washington in the early evening darkness along with throngs of other residents in South Seattle. The family just ahead of us was decked out in super warm gear and headlamps, just in case the streetlights weren’t enough to light their way. The mother behind us was practicing Spanish with her toddler and I’m pretty sure that kid has better Spanish speaking skills that I do. Brian and I giggled about these Seattleites and their Seattle-ishness.
And then we came over the hill and the path along the lake was lit for miles with luminaries. I mean, for at least two miles, maybe three. Imagine what that looked like against the inky blackness of the lake and the twinkles of the lit up homes across the water on Mercer Island. Just ahead there was a bonfire going and kids and families were roasting marshmallows. Some one had set up a table with thermoses of hot cocoa.
And then came the boats. I mean, these things are ridiculously cheesy, complete with their over the top announcer and carols blaring so loudly you could hardly hear yourself think. The kiddos screeched at the sight and my dog huddled behind my legs. Fathers behind me passed flasks back and forth and mothers unapologetically drank wine from plastic cups.
I stood there like a freaking sap and wept. Because everything was so imperfectly, crazily, laughably holiday.
I’ll be honest. I’m pretty sure the Christmas boats did not hold the same magic for the hubs. When I lived here before I accidentally stumbled upon the parade finale on Christmas Eve. I was alone, my roommates had gone home to their respective families and I had one more night before I got on a plane for home. Something about the absurdity of the kayaks and the dinghy’s and the sailboats all decked out for the holidays, complete with this eerie music over the loudspeakers—it was what I needed that year to remind me that the holidays were the holidays everywhere, not just in my parents living room. So it holds a bit of sentimental significance for me. But all the crowds, the screeching kids, the jostling rude parents–not so much Brian’s thing.
Doesn’t matter. I stood there like a small child, agape and teary, sappy and thankful, full of grace and wonder. And he’ll do it with me again and again, because I’ll probably never get tired of it and he loves me. And next year he’ll be the guy with a flask who doesn’t watch the boats but instead watches his wife’s wonderment.
Just exactly the way I will sit with a six pack of beer and watch my husbands face as he adoringly watches Emmett Otters Jug band Christmas.
Please don’t judge the quality of these photos…it’s hard to take pics in the dark, ok? Just so you have some concept of what I’m talking about…