January 4th, 2025
Hello the House
By Bonnie Tarantino
My bedroom is on the first floor, and when I come out in the morning, I end up right in our main living space. I noticed this morning that I left the little battery-operated string lights on in my Christmas village. I am surprised because I am vigilant about turning all Christmas lights off. Scott’s dad and brother are both firemen. We know better. The line of lights runs through the trees and village like a little road. The lights are softer now than when I first tested them. The battery is wearing, as am I. It is Saturday, and we are hosting Scott’s extended family. Sunday will mark the end of the road for all my twinkling, sparking things. When I come out on Monday morning, all evidence of Christmas will be gone save the odd thing that escapes my eye.
I pick up the remote to click on the Christmas tree. The tree lights up the dark room, and it looks like it started taking Ozempic a few weeks ago. Like Walter in from the rain, the branches are matted, and everything sags, threatening to slide my precious ornaments onto the floor. I say hello and hang in there to the tree with my heart. I love how this tree has greeted me each these past few weeks, how it sat with me through the darkest mornings and waited with me till the light cracked the sky peach. I grab a mug, lift the kettle to feel the water level and decide it is plenty for my morning tea. The click and flash of blue, white fire from the stove always impresses me for some reason. I wait for the water to boil and look out the window that faces west. I see a moving star headed my way, a distant plane on its flight path. It will turn left soon and head to the airport just South of me. Someone said to me recently that my grandchildren will never see the original night sky. Instead, their sky will be dotted with satellites, defense, and space stations. I decide it is too early for that kind of thinking, take a deep breath, and look instead for a real star, making sure to turn the heat off just before the kettle whistles so as not to wake anyone. By this time tomorrow, I will have 15 Kavanughs waking up here. Scott’s extended family is coming from as far as NY, NJ, PA, and VA. In total, there will be almost 30 of us. They will all bring something. I hardly cook at all. I have the spiral ham and meet tenderizing, simple apps on hand, and cookies from the Amish Market to place on my cookie teer. The rest will come in the trunks of cars in worn-out coolers,crock pots tied with scrunchie cords, and tired shopping bags.
When my Irish side comes in the house for a party, they just open the door, put their head in and say, “Hello, the house!” My dad will still say it from time to time and when he does I imagine all my ancestors poking their heads in as well with blessings. “Hello, the house!” I love this because I think that all houses are animated, great spirits with great tales to tell. When Scott’s side arrives, they tend to say, “Heeeey!” with strong Queens accents and big loud laughs and taunts. They come in carrying as much as they can and hand me plates and plants and “just a little something for the hosting”. I send them off to their assigned areas of the house, I have it all worked out where they are sleeping. The beds are ready. I told them to bring their pillows. The food with go on a big table in the garage till its time to serve. Thank God it is cold enough.
Last night, Scott, Maya and I all sat down to watch a movie Lucia wanted us to watch called “My Old Ass,” and it was so good. At one point during a tender and well-written conversation between the mother and daughter, I had Maya move from one side of the couch to the middle of Scott and me. There, we both hooked our arms around hers, knowing we only had a few nights left before she headed back to school. When the movie was over, Maya and I wiped our tears and got down to discussing the bed situation. Then we entertained how many I could actually sleep at capacity. Counting the barn, the number with couches and air mattresses could easily reach 30. I thought about what I could get for an Airbnb night. It is well over a thousand. The house of Cancer rules family. Having people fed, full, happy, laughing, safe and sleeping is my vibe. Tradition and ritual are sacred doors that invite in the love of those who are gone. I designed this house with this in mind and like the house I am built for it.
Among the laughter and easiness of Scott’s side, I really like that they are all big Christmas people. Christmas people love the gift-giving part, and boy, do they do their part. After hosting for almost 12 years, everyone knows that the gifts all go downstairs. There is simply insufficient room to put the gifts on the first floor. When I met Scott, he was the oldest of 14 first cousins. The youngest at the time was only three and eventually walked with his confident older sister down the aisle at our wedding. This year, he will be the one carrying the baby in the door. I learned quickly that when we gathered at Christmas, all the kids get presents from all the aunts and uncles. The build-up to the opening of presents is a big deal. First, there is the gathering and waiting for people to arrive during the endless run of afternoon apps. Dinner prep begins, dinner, clean up, and finally, the presents! The presents begin with a great scurry of all the aunts, making the kids sit in one place while mounds of presents are placed in front of them. Someone will start the great countdown from ten, and everyone will boom in. All at once, there is wrapping paper everywhere. Many drinks in, paper snowballs are flying and hitting their marks. The ancestors will not bother to duck. The paper moves right through them, exploding light out in all directions. When my kids were born, they took their place and sat still for their pile. Thankfully, we still have young ones and big piles to make. The tradition keeps going and that is why I host. I hang onto tradition like my skinny tree in the corner is hanging on for me. I refuse to let it slide. It is far more fragile than people realize.
I also love how someone will make a pot of coffee at 8 PM, and others will add Bailey’s Irish Cream and drink it so we don’t rush the night away with sleep, how we don’t talk all year but catch up on everything we missed while loading the dishwasher and wiping down the countertops, how the White Elephant game is filled with inappropriate gifts that have the parents covering little kids’ eyes, how I keep the drinks cold outside and slip out to get some air and talk to the smokers and vapers for the deeper stuff that could ruin Christmas if said inside, like how it takes an hour for various families to collect their things and have their last-minute chat with each other. Inevitably, things are always things left behind. Usually, it is the White Elephant present that no one wants. I try to make a trip to the post office to mail them off, but I often just drive around with bags in my car for weeks.
The big coffee thermos will be full in the morning while the second pot brews. The fresh bagels will be placed uncut in a big basket with soft cream cheese, tomatoes, and thinly sliced red onions. Quiches will cook, and sweet breads and desserts from last night will line the counter. One at a time, people will come to the big black table stretched to its limit with both leaves. There will be crumbs and little piles and botched-up napkins that I will collect and collect and collect. I may be lucky enough to hold the newest baby before the rest of the house wakes. Scott will sleep later than I expect, and I like to think it is because a part of him rests deeply in the presence of his family. Some will drink too much, and this we will ignore easily as all good Irish Catholic families do so well.
I have another tradition: I take down the tree when everyone leaves. The tree goes to the curb along with big black garbage bags and bins full of empty beer and wine bottles. My dismantling has become a family joke. At one point, I will lock eyes with Scott’s 6.3 Uncle John. He sees everything from up there. With a sly smile, I will slowly walk over to the tree and take an ornament off. Then he will begin to announce, “Time to go, Bonnie is taking down the tree!” Everyone will laugh as I walk away from the tree with a bigger mess to tend to. It will still be hours before they leave. I will not rush this. There will be more food to put out and leftovers to sort. Someone will make another pot of coffee. I will sit down in a seat that has become vacant, still in my pajamas with wild hair and yesterday’s makeup. Someone will start a story that I have not heard before; I will not want to miss it, and neither will the house.
