Just a few words about Christmas.
We collected at Mother's house on the 24th—that's me, Brother, and SIL. Brother and SIL spent hours cooking for the next day. I got there later and brought a shitload of wine. I … actually don't remember what we had for dinner the night of the 24. I know we had to improvise something at the last minute. We all joked over having a house full of food and "nothing to eat"—nothing that wasn't already slated for the next day, that is. But we scraped together something. And we had wine to drink—I'd brought plenty, so there was some for that night too. After dinner, Brother and I put up the outside lights along the front edges of the roof.
Ironically, after bringing all that wine, I drank almost nothing on the 25th: a few ounces at the very end of the day. But that's because I had drunk quite a lot the night of the 24th, so I felt like death warmed over for a fair bit of Christmas Day itself. I don't remember if the others drank less than I did on Christmas Eve, but nobody else was particularly abstaining on Christmas Day. Clearly I just goofed.
Some time around 2:00 pm or so, we began the first courses of this huge meal Brother and SIL had prepared. We continued to nibble our way through it until the sun had almost set, a few hours later. We had agreed beforehand to forego buying any gifts for each other, although in the end Mother got a couple of tiny things for each of the rest of us.
After all the food and the wine (well, except for me) we were all pretty tired and fell asleep. Mother and I woke first, and began cleaning up the food and the dishes; then Brother and SIL woke a while later, and pitched in as well. (But of course they had done all the cooking.) Then about 11:00 pm, they left to go home. Mother and I fell each in our own bed and slept soundly.
I had planned to go home on Boxing Day. But in the event, Mother and I talked … and then we talked … and talked some more. I helped her with a couple of simple chores around the house. We napped in the mid-afternoon. And suddenly it was getting dark! Wow. Maybe I didn't need to go home that day after all.
Over dinner on the 26th, I remember we discussed politics. Colorado had recently banned Donald Trump from appearing on the state's primary ballots. Mother explained that she was worried about a Trump victory, and so cautiously supported the Colorado ruling. I told her I saw it differently: first, that Trump will not make himself a dictator because any aspiring dictator would have made his move in his first term (thus avoiding the risk of losing the next election); and second, that therefore it is a very bad look to throw people off the ballot. That's what Bad Countries do. I pointed out that Trump's legal problems have gained him support; and I added that if I thought Trump were as devious as Richard Nixon* (which I don't) then I could almost believe that he had set up his legal troubles on purpose in order to increase his support in advance of the election. I'm not sure Mother agreed with the overall picture I sketched, but she certainly agreed with a few of the details.
One of the things we talked about was money, and what's going to happen to her property when she dies. I explained that I've written a letter to Son 1 and Son 2 explaining what to do about my financial accounts when I die. (I've discussed this letter briefly here, here, and here.) Also, I added that in principle I update this letter once a year. (I'm not always very punctual, but that's the idea.) And I told her that they know where this letter is.
Back when they were still in high school and were staying with me as part of the custody calendar between me and Wife, I told them all about it.
They said, "Why are you telling us something so morbid?"
I explained, "Precisely because you don't need to know right now. I'm not about to die soon, so it's just information with no emotions attached. You can file it away in your memories, and then when the time comes you'll remember where to look for it!"
Mother thought this was a great idea. And she expressed some sadness that she's never been able to have these conversations with Brother and SIL (who live, after all, a lot closer to her than I do). She said she has tried to raise the topic several times, and every time they change the subject as fast as they can. They are simply not comfortable talking about her death or what comes after.
But this is silly, I told her. Every single one of us is mortal. The only thing we know about our futures with certainty is that we will die. That doesn't mean we hope for it, of course! I said that for all any of us knew, she might do like the French king Louis XIV, who outlived not only his son but his grandson. And if indeed she lived so long, I told her I would rejoice. Still, it's only common sense to prepare for the day you die.
Maybe she and I can discuss this more in the future. Maybe she and I can put together a letter like thee one I've written for my sons, to tell Brother and me what to do and which way to turn when the inevitable finally comes to pass. In the meantime, it was a good conversation if only because we finally opened the topic.
By mid-afternoon it was time for me to leave. And I got home as it was getting dark.
It was a quiet Christmas, but a good one.
__________
* I don't believe Trump is as devious as Nixon. He might be as smart—I have no way to judge that. But I don't think his character leans in the same direction.
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