Despite having lived in Park City nearly all of my adult life, when I refer to “home,” I usually mean Nebraska. Not in a nostalgic way — there’s no hint of fondness. It’s more matter of fact. As in, “I have to go home for Christmas,” the “have to” being key.
Nebraska is where I was raised and the place my family still lives. And while I have a general disdain for the state (it’s so flat you can watch your dog run away for three days), most years I find myself back there between Christmas and Jan. 1. The reasons for this have evolved since I moved to Park City 20-plus years ago. First it was important to my mom to have the family together for the holidays and besides, my ski pass was blacked out that week. Then my sister was diagnosed with brain cancer and we didn’t know how many Christmases we’d have left together. Later, my niece was born and the magic of the season was somehow only complete if I was there. “A child only believes for so long,” I was told.
While the reasons I must be in Omaha have shifted over the years, the subtle nods toward guilt are the tie that binds. So this year I continued the tradition of begrudgingly making my way to the Midwest to celebrate Christmas with my family, all the while dropping hints that once my niece no longer thinks a bunch of flying reindeer are to thank for her presents, I intend to make different holiday plans.
Despite how much has changed over the past decade — the death of my younger sister, the birth of my niece, my parents’ new-ish house, my older sister getting married — there is still a long list of traditions that stay rooted in time.
The same wild rabbit has taunted my dad for roughly five years, since my parents moved into the house they’re in now. Well, we assume it’s the same rabbit, though truth be told it might have a stunt double. In the summers, the lone rabbit nibbles each one of the vegetables in my dad’s garden. The bunny doesn’t eat a whole carrot or cucumber, instead it munches just enough so the vegetable of choice can’t be salvaged by a human — and then it moves on to the next plant-based snack. This time of year, though, the rabbit chews through the cords of my dad’s outdoor Christmas light display. Every year my dad ends up replacing a string or two, and every year the rabbit somehow manages to avoid electrocution and turn the once peaceful display into some type of EDM light show capable of inducing seizures. A weaponless war has been declared and no one is certain who is winning, though I suspect the rabbit has the advantage. The concerns I’ve expressed about my father turning into Elmer Fudd have not been taken seriously.
My mother’s holiday traditions include insisting Santa might pass by if we are up too late and ushering us off to bed by 9 p.m. Christmas Eve. She still sets out cookies and milk for him, and carrots for the reindeer — though she insists it’s all for my niece’s benefit. Once we’re all safely confined to our rooms for the night, she takes my dad’s boots, dips the bottoms in flour, and walks them from the fireplace to the tree, trying to convince us in the morning they are Santa’s footprints. Minutes after her one-woman act is complete, my dad gets out the vacuum, muttering about growing yeast in the carpet.
My favorite part about Christmas morning continues to be opening gifts labeled “from Mom and Dad” and seeing how my dad is just as excited as I am to learn what’s inside. Perhaps next year I should suggest my mom buy me a humane rabbit trap.