Family Christmas

word count 861

    It was supposed to be a cozy fire burning in the fireplace, but it was actually more like the flames of hell.  We were celebrating a family Christmas at a cabin in the snow with my in-laws, what fun.  Against my better judgment I had agreed to spend the holiday weekend with my wife’s parents, her three deranged sisters and there two whacked husbands.  The third sister had driven her seemingly nice husband bonkers and he had wisely exited the marriage years ago; most likely the only sane one in the bunch, myself included.

    This happy family party had gone awry from the time we pulled into the rustic cabin’s frozen gravel driveway.  Sister number two, often referred two as ‘the witch’, Pekingese fur ball had run out from the cabin and promptly lifted his leg on my ankle.  That was when I first got into the Canadian whiskey I was saving for Christmas Eve, which was the following day.  My wife looked at me, pleading with her blue-grey eyes to maintain my self discipline and keep my mouth closed, or at least civil.  To my credit I did, secretly hoping that the dog would get frost bite on his little pecker, being so close to the frozen ground and all.  Sister two chuckled politely at her wee pet’s faux pas and chastised the hairy beast for not filling my shoe.  Trembling, I began my quest for a liquid remedy.  Emptying the minivan of all our luggage, gifts, and children I hid in the room designated as ours and poured myself a healthy drink.

    Emerging sometime later in the evening, I made a resolution to enjoy the holiday regardless of the company I was keeping, or to at least be civil.  I decided shortly thereafter that perhaps I should go to bed in order to keep the resolution for at least twelve hours.  Christmas Eve morning I awoke, somewhat fuzzily, to the a light snow and the information that I had been elected to accompany all the nieces, nephews, cousins, and neighborhood urchins to the sledding hill and then lead the traditional family fun snowball fight.  I wasn’t really sure about any of this and decided that perhaps a slight modification to my morning coffee was called for.  When I was done with breakfast and coffee a third of my bottle of prime Canadian whiskey was gone.  Someone had been pilfering my whiskey.  It was most likely sister number two, she has a heart of black ice.

    By the time all the sleds were gathered and the children bundled up for snow play the light snow had turned into a blizzard.  Visibility was less than ten feet, yet the children and I were hustled out the door and there was the audible click of the door locking behind us.  It was me and eleven youngsters; luckily I had a flask with liquid refreshment.  After a somewhat dubious snowball fight, numerous tears, two bloody noses, and a black eye we were let back into the cabin to hot cocoa with peppermint schnapps.  Well not everyone had peppermint schnapps, just me and the young hoodlums that asked.  It was kind of our secret.

    Christmas morning we awoke to gleeful shrieks, some grumbling and three more feet of snow.  I received two very nice ties (I don’t do ties), a hideous handmade made beanie with a pom-pom, a book on manners, and a broken fishing rod that had been re-gifted from my father in law.  My wife had thoughtfully and lovingly given me a fresh bottle of good Canadian whiskey before we arose to join the melee around the Christmas tree.  I quickly finished off what was left of the first bottle, fortification don’t you know, before seeing her family.  By Christmas dinner it was apparent that we would not be leaving the next day as planned, we were snowed in.  I think a profanity or two may have slipped past my lips when I realized the gravity of the situation.  Sister number one looked at me with some concern and told her husband to sit by her during dinner.  Actually her words were more along the lines of “He’s a bad influence on you, stay away from him.”  I was deeply hurt.  There was a sole bright spot in being unable to leave the cabin; I would not have to go to any day-after Christmas sales in crowded stores. 

    By mid-afternoon the day after the Christmas, my supply of adult beverages, hence my coping skills, was running dangerously low.  By day five of being snowed in with Satan’s spawn (sister two) there was a single beer left.  All four of us men were waiting for the refrigerator to be left unguarded so that we could consume the final bottle of sanity.  Unfortunately sister three, who has the tenacity of a bulldog, was on permanent alert and felt that this was an opportune time to give a homily regarding the evils of alcohol.  My wife tucked me in bed later that evening and held my hand cooing, “It will be okay honey; we’ll have a very nice New Years Eve party with everyone here.”

word count 861