With all the expectation and excitement of a kid from 2 to 14, I loved Xmas. I loved hauling the plastic tree and decorations out of the attic. Each year we would speculate on if this was the year the box would disintegrate and magically return to the earth in a ball of dust. Our tree had a system of colour coded branches that were inserted into corresponding slots on a  dark green pole. The first suggestion that I was colour blind was borne here, as I was trying to put 16″ plastic branches somewhere near the top of the tree because the “green” dots says so.

The Nativity scene at the base of the tree would fascinate me to no end. We had a little wooden manger with thin ceramic figurines covered in glitter and glued on straw. What I fixated on was the hole behind the baby Jesus. Why was Jesus hollow? I would make little morality plays with those figurines, loosely based on Space 1999 episodes I had seen that week.

“Oh Space Commander Joseph! The Alien Baby Jezus is here to obliterate the Moonbase!”

Our parents would have epic dinner parties too. Mom, with her Italian upbringing, would start cooking 3 weeks in advance. The centre piece would make the dining room table, which could seat 8, sag in the middle. The best was sneaking peeks into the dining room through the kitchen swing door or sitting on the front stairs, listening (and not understanding) the racey conversation. It’s where I learned words like “Bastard” and “Dick”. When I used them in the school yard I was sure to add the “Polite laughter” after saying each curse.

The actual Xmas day event would be very early in the morning. We’d tear into the gifts as mom and dad nursed their coffees. By 7 am we would be done with the gift frenzy, and we’d start the Great Family Cram into the 4-door station wagon for the 5 hour trip to Toronto. 5 days where we’d ping pong back and forth between two grandparents, where the teens of the family would want to venture into the creepy downtown of Toronto for the boxing day sales. Where the younger kids would scream and run through the house, sharing curse words newly learned. Where adults sneered at each other and their brood. But the car ride I remember the most: if you want an idea of what 5 kids on a 5 hour road trip is like, replay National Lampoon’s Vacation 6 times with only two stops to pee the whole time. I have no clue how my parents did this and not divorce sooner. The things they did for us, for family.

Yeah I’m using box stuffing but I’m throwing in fresh ingredients to make it seem better:

Stuffing ready

I thought they smelled bad... on the outside

Baste and Shout

I'm aware my oven is dirty and broke ass

Decomtanimated

Since my father’s death I’ve not been sleeping well.

I’ve been replaying his last moments over and over again in the half sleep I’ve been having for the last couple months. His pain and confusion burned forever into my memory, fueling my anger and sadness.

His last words: “You have to make the money.” Spoken to my brother and I after he asked a confused question.

My nightmares have been of those last moments, the actual details I don’t wish to relate here, but they play out in my head either in my dreams or like a eroded echo in the small hours of the night. I don’t try to decipher what he means but the words reverberate.

Yesterday yet another payout from yet another overlooked policy came in.

When his father died and it came time to clean out his 4 car garage, Dad and his siblings found well over 14 lawnmowers in various states of dismantlement. The garage sale was epic and while I was living in England at the time, I got to see tons of photos of all the things leaving the property. Grandfather was a trendsetting hoarder.

14 lawnmowers.

At what point would Grandfather say “Fuck it, I need another.” and gleefully bring another home? And what did Grandmother think of this? Or had she ignored his obsession with her own hoarding?

Dad was his father’s son, but not by hoarding mechanical things. It seems more like financial, which was what Grandfather drilled into his head at an early age. “You have to make the money.”

Now, don’t think I can retire and live in Mississauga or anything, no. But the last “find” (sent completely out of the blue from the insurance company from a policy we had not discovered in his piles of papers) was a kiss on the lips and a punch in the gut, simultaneously.

I dreamed this morning that my father and I were at the cottage and we were bringing in groceries out of his silver LTD. The summer sun was bright and I can vividly remember the green on blue of the trees against the sky in the dream. I knew it was a dream, but there was my father and I was excited to see him. I tried to ask him questions, ask him if he was ok but he kept a neutral face and refused to make eye contact. He would hand me paper bags (this dream firmly seated in the 70s – the cottage, the LTD and the Steinberg grocery bags were all temporal markers for me) and I would defer them to the pick nick table just outside the cottage door and running back to the car, eager to get him to respond to my questions. No answers. I was getting frustrated but I still knew it was a dream.

I changed tactics. I said thank you, putting a lot of weight behind it, obviously not meaning helping with the groceries. He turned and with no expression he held out another bag. But his face had changed to how I remembered him at the cottage: he looked young, in hi s late 40s, goofy porn star mustache, his father’s eyes. He hands me the last bag and looks right at me. We turn and head towards the cottage and I wake up.

I woke up happy. First time in a long time. Thanks Dad.