It’s downright brisk out there. It’s actually more than brisk. This is good old-fashioned pipe-bursting, car-battery-killing, furnace-overloading cold. It’s been a while since we’ve had a dose of this, and with the thin snow cover, the cold is going to penetrate deep and stay there for a long time. So you might want to leave the faucet dripping just in case. There’s nothing pleasant about having your house without water for a coupe of weeks. Also, if there is a sink on the outside wall, open the cupboard doors underneath it so the heat can blow in there. It doesn’t take much to ward off disaster.
So we’re staring Christmas right in the eyes and, ready or not, it will come. What snow we have has come late, and there isn’t a whole lot open at the resorts. It’s going to be a soft holiday for local businesses. What the economy started, a lame beginning to the ski season has kind of finished off. We’ll get by, of course, and skiing is skiing. As a friend put it the other day, it’s still better than the skiing we had in October. But just barely. We can’t change the weather or the economy, so we might as well ski.
The big Circus Maximus family Christmas party moved out to the ranch last year. The head count is now over 50, with half of those being little kids. It’s pandemonium. For years we held it at my sister’s house in Salt Lake. But as the numbers expanded, she finally said it was too much. We moved to the other sister’s house, but once was enough for her with a mob like that. So it ended up at the old family house in Woodland. That means the preparation fell my direction. Martha Stewart was busy.
I haven’t put up a Christmas tree in years, but if we’re going to have the Christmas party at the ranch house, it needs a tree. Getting it just right is harder than it seems. The decision was to keep it fairly simple a small tree with some basic ornaments. We all have boxes of treasured heirlooms from our childhoods, even some from our grandparents’ houses. But in this crowded and rambunctious setting, durability trumps sentiment. So the tree has a lovely assortment of internally illuminated tractors on it red Internationals, green John Deeres, and some red and white IH logo ornaments. It’s pretty darn festive, if I do say so myself. I tried it with the red Farmalls flashing and the Deeres constantly on, but it didn’t look right. I reversed it, but it still wasn’t right. After several tries, I decided that all of the tractors on the tree needed to just stay on. There’s no getting around it, the flashing tractors on the Christmas tree just looked tacky.
The lights were almost enough, but the tree still lacked something. One year, everybody at the party got a rubber-chicken key chain. To get a reasonable price, I had to order them by the gross, so I have about a hundred rubber-chicken key chains in the basement. They make lovely ornaments bright yellow and indestructible. So there it is, the tree decked out with tractors and rubber chickens. I haven’t found the perfect topper yet. A couple of angels posed like the couple in “American Gothic” would be just right, but that’s proving a little hard to find.
In a family this big, there are always changes. Babies are arriving in wholesale lots, people are getting married and bringing new people into the mix. One of the great traditions is that each new addition to the family gets a “Miracle Nose Bean Extractor.” Your family may call it a pickle fork, but it’s a nose bean extractor around here. That always causes them to rethink the relationship, and needs some explanation.
My father was a brilliant and wise man. Throughout career, he was involved in advising people in complicated problems, and spent a lot of time mediating seemingly impossible disputes. Over the years, it wasn’t unusual to find Dad and any of several state governors sitting out on the porch talking things over. But within the family, the advice from Dad we all remember best was this: Don’t put any beans up your nose.
But just in case, we all have a nose bean extractor handy. You just never know. There are less important gifts that reappear every year. There is the Poop-Duck, a nicely crocheted duck that, when squeezed, delivers a peanut M&M out the back. There are hideously ugly neckties in circulation, singing plastic fish, glowing reindeer noses, and other treasures from All-a-Dollar. This year there are a couple of George Bush Economic Recovery Kits pencils and tin cups to start your corner pencil-stand franchise. In other words, the presents are completely irrelevant to a celebration that is nothing less than shared joy among multiple generations. It’s about the broom-hockey game on the pond, and cross-country skiing on the hay farm, and eating red Jell-O with raspberries in it just the way Grandma Jensen made it 75 years ago. It’s about being together in a place we all grew up in.
Within the extended family there are people whose jobs are less than secure, whose businesses are a little shaky, and some retirement funds that are on life support. There’s a lot to be anxious about. But the magic of Christmas is that we are reminded that none of that really matters. No matter how you slice it, we’re still very fortunate. There is health and happiness and security and joy. I hope yours is the same. Merry Christmas.
With the winter off to a slow start, there are a lot of people in need this winter. Even in a community as wealthy as this, there are people on the edge. The local food bank is being overwhelmed with requests for help. Even a little donation can make a big difference. Contribute through any of the local churches or at the food bank itself at the Christian Center on Ironhorse Drive.
Tom Clyde served as Park City attorney in the 1980s and is the author of “More Dogs On Main Street.” He has been a columnist at The Park Record for more than 20 years.