THE WAY THINGS ARE

You’ll read some articles relating to the celebrations around December 25 that include a health warning. Not just don’t overeat or drink but the F word alert too – family!

We know the mix, elders who bore the balls off the Christmas tree with tales of yore and festivals when they were young where everything(one) was perfect or were starving and thrilled to get some small gift kids nowadays would snort at. Uncle Youknow, fond of his drop – multiplied by … and sans mistletoe, planting alcohol tainted kisses and slurred wishes on everyone, even the family dog that from previous experience flees under the table as he approaches rolling like a fresh-ashore sailor, sloshing glass in hand.

Maiden Aunt Telleverybody what to do tells him to sit down and stop making a clown of himself, she then tells the little ones they have no table manners. Her mean gifts make her unpopular with the offspring who stick out food covered tongues at her.

Then there’s cousin Loudmouth who has to bring up politics just as everyone feels they would like a few quiet moments to digest the meal. What’s his name did this, the other fella didn’t do that. Then someone, faithful to whatever party/person being ‘attacked’, shouts down cousin Loudmouth who turns to Friendhehaswithhim for backup.

Passive father-in-law begging everybody to calm down, it’s Christmas, a time of peace and joy, as the table becomes a verbal battleground of (mostly) men yelling at each other berating or supporting the party they belong to or hate. Nineteen-year-old on leave from the army tells the roosters ‘You think any of them gives a damn about Granma Stella (beaming at the lad) who can’t like, live on her pension if the family didn’t help? Are that lot counting cents this Christmas?’

Bigsister says he’s young and stupid (older heads nodding) what does he know, he says, ‘I can read and see and hear. I’m not going to support any of them just because my father or grandfathers did? How many of you, like, got jobs for life out of them for votes, eh? No one!’ When he finishes his service the clan will be boasting about how clever he is, studying some super intelligent bragabout subject abroad.

Motherwornout sits picking at the food she has slaved to prepare since dawn, face glistening with hot kitchen perspiration, her two daughters, false neon talons aloft, don’t offer to help. It’s Mother’s duty and she accepts her role with resigned fortitude.

Mother’s sister Sofia is the only one not coochy-cooing at Daisy, her Onlyson’s baby girl. Son had arrived home from UK studies with a degree and Angie a non-religious, non-permission asked, wife. A civil wedding ceremony in the UK set the scene for the starchy relationship that followed with church-going Mama. Sofia’s miffed that Son let Angie call ‘his’ baby after a flower and didn’t give her his mother’s saintly name.

Yet it’s outsider Angie who rises to clear the table with Motherwornout, telling the daughters to get off their ‘What’s the Greek for?’ arses, and help.

Rattygran from Dad’s side, a beauty in her youth, always believed the world evolved around her. Now she’s confusing her marbles with billiard balls. She’s yelling at a person she thinks has invaded the meal without invitation and screaming at her first son whom she thinks is a policeman to evict the intruder. Sad and unfortunate as dementia is, Rattygran gets no sympathy from in-laws she has always treated as inferior.

The grand finale is elderly neighbour Christos using his ancient guitar to thank Motherwornout for having him, his own family gone or scattered. Fine red village wine has oiled his vocal folds and his brain which has deluded him over time into thinking that his tone deaf voice gives pleasure instead of actually being tolerated. He’s offkey and he creates his own nonsensical lyrics when he doesn’t know a whole song. He can’t actually play but practiced kindness allows him to strum a couple of songs to an enthusiastic clap and a fresh glass.

Be warm, well and content, find the good among the tinsel.