A wave of anticipation and excitement emotionally washed over me when we made the ten hour drive for a post-holiday family get-together. We were excited to visit with parents, aunts and uncles, siblings, and cousins. Smiles and hugs were exchanged and all the positive comments got the event off on the right foot: “You’ve lost weight,” “I love that outfit,” and “What a wonderful new hair style.”  The next round included conversations about arthritis, hemorrhoids, suffering and deaths in circles of friends and distant relatives and complaints of rising prices, disgust at politics, and more work with less wages.

As we all lined-up in the dining room, the negative receded and was replaced by oohs and aahs about the ten-layer chocolate cake, the lady finger peas that had been freshly frozen last summer, the gooey macaroni and cheese, cookies from the local bakery, and the ham cooked with a Jack Daniel glaze. Most had seconds and some unbuttoned paints or loosened belts already too tight, talked about how they shouldn’t have eaten so much, complained of indigestion, and vowed to go on a diet come New Year’s.  When children got antsy about gifts, someone distributed gifts, the result of an exchange of names from last year. Again, a new wave of excitement, of anticipation swept over faces, and taking turns dragged the process out even more. 

I was sandwiched between the whispering mother in law and the neurotic aunt.  Aunt Jimmie said, “I don’t believe that’s gonna last,” nodding with her head toward a forty-year-old cousin and a new girlfriend. As he’d aged and expanded, so had the girlfriends he’d brought year after year to show off to everyone, like a craigslist of bargain antiques. Of course, Aunt Jimmie should’ve known given she’d been married three times, and number three wasn’t as lucky as we’d all hoped. We wondered if number four might come through the door dressed as Santa. On the other hand, my mother in law had whispered something that indicated she wanted to know if I knew what my present was. I said, “What?” which for most would signal the need to raise one’s voice, but for her simply meant repeat the whisper. I responded, “I don’t know,” when I wanted say,” If you can’t speak loud enough for someone to hear you, then maybe you should just go completely silent.”  There were no oohs and aahs, but strained smiles through gritted teeth that proved most people weren’t happy with the gifts.

For me, a pair of mittens seemed irrelevant when I lived in Florida, and I would toss them in the pile headed for Goodwill for my next seasonal write-off when I got home. Another wave of anxiety, frustration, and disappointment crashed over me as we left the get-together and I understood the increase of anti-depressants in the country, and I vowed not to get together again, as I’d done each year.

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Niles Reddick’s newest novel Drifting too far from the Shore has been nominated for a Pulitzer. It will debut in August. Previously, he published a collection Road Kill Art and other Oddities and a novel Lead Me Home. His work has appeared in anthologies Unusual Circumstances, Getting Old, and Happy Holidays and has been featured in many journals including The Arkansas Review: a Journal of Delta Studies, The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature, The Pomanok Review, Corner Club Press, Slice of Life, Faircloth Review, and more. He works for the University of Memphis at Lambuth. Read more here: http://nilesreddick.com

Photo credit:  Terri Malone