My Cranky Father Loves Hallmark More Than You
For my entire life, Christmas has never been about Jesus but instead Hallmark.
This week’s story is brought to you from my own unpublished archives. I wrote this story years ago, and never published it. I hope you enjoy my father, he’s something else. Happy-ish holidays, everyone.
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There’s only one thing my father loves more than standing guard at the thermostat in January or catching a large bass in some lake he's discovered and damn near broke his neck climbing into wearing chest-waders, and that’s a Christmas tree decorated exclusively in Hallmark.
My father’s love for Hallmark makes absolutely no sense. The man hates everything. Today, he joyfully wished me a happy Festivus — the made-up holiday created by George Kastanizas’ dad to air his annual grievances in an episode of Seinfeld. How my father could possibly think he could fit all of his annoyances into one day is a miracle of biblical proportions. The man spends three-quarters of every day incensed that he’s still alive, yet he has the type of life you wish you had.
Dad’s been retired since he turned forty-five, he works two hours a day as a crossing guard (with summers off), takes a daily nap, considers “I’ve got a lot of things to do, Elizabeth” like he’s in the oval office deciding the fate our country when what he’s really talking about is a list of errands most people complete each Sunday after they’ve worked sixty hours and are staring down the barrel of another Monday. He welcomes this blissful life so enthusiastically that he went and had a heart attack that nearly killed him before he turned fifty. Now with a pacemaker, he's one part machine and another part jolly Krankus.
For my entire life, Christmas has never been about Jesus but instead Hallmark. Dad does set out a ghastly wooden nativity scene, but it's more after-thought than centerpiece. The Christ in our Christmas is the Douglas fir which we adorn with pop culture figurines. Other families, I think, take hooks to hand-crafted, scarlet balls or loop fishing line around glittery preschool-made things. Not us, though, if it's not dated, a number in a series, bought from Hallmark in July than your tree might as well be kindling.
Dad, for more than a decade, refused to spend money on his dilapidated, death trap porch with exposed beams, caved in center, and rickety steps insisting the mailman wouldn’t sue; but he’d drop $200 — no problem — on Hallmark ornaments for the family. He unplugs his microwave after every use reasoning the power it takes to light the digital clock adds up to more money in his pocket. Dad’s magical pocket of money — practically a family member he refers to it so much — wouldn’t be necessary if the family didn’t house four-figures worth of plastic on a tree. Most people put plastic in their wallets and buy crap they don’t need online. But Dad saves all of his money in unnecessarily annoying ways so he can turn the family Christmas tree into a Hallmark participation trophy.
Every year the family is given specific instructions not to buy ornaments—this is my father’s job, obviously, and he takes it quite seriously in order to avoid duplicates. When we lived in Atlanta for a time, a large package arrived with smaller, gift-wrapped boxes with our names clearly marked in ALL CAPS chicken scratch on the outside. The largest box went to my daughter and inside we found an over-the-top snow globe ornament that, when plugged in, lit up, played music, and was as deliciously gaudy as it sounds. But the snow globe required a “Magic Cord,” which is Hallmark-speak for an ornament extension cord. This requirement was written on the box, but it was so damn small I barely saw it. At sixty-plus, Dad completely missed it too — and so the snow globe and all of its fabulousness went under appreciated until we returned to the suburbs of Philadelphia and moved into my father’s house.
I'm a dinosaur of the millennial generation, but still in a perpetual state of adolescence due to forces outside of my control (late-state capitalism) and personal choices (worthless literature degree) which turns Dad’s house into a temporary holding cell whenever it's absolutely necessary. With a base temperature set at scalding on a normal day, he turns himself into a stress factory whenever I come back: pacing, organizing, figuring out mathematical bill-splitting equations, and blowing the goddamn roof off just thinking about all the space we’re about to take up. Before we arrive, we hash out acceptable thermostat temperatures, lighting schemes, driveway-to-car ratios and trash pickup — these negotiations, like a World War I peace treaty, are useless because eventually a dictator will reign and his name will be Dad.
In addition to the Hallmark tree, my daughter has her own mini Christmas tree for her bedroom. Her tree is less fancy with tiny, polka-dot splattered balls from Target. She hangs her own star, wraps the garland and, I’m sure, drifts into candy cane-filled dreams while snuggled in her bed. As we open each Hallmark box, hook an ornament and strategically place it on a branch, the fabulous snow globe ornament makes an appearance. With the move and all the packing, I’d forgotten its existence. While our daughter spends the night with a friend, my husband and I head to Hallmark for a Magic Cord.
After we plug the snow globe in, it sings. Santa, a snowman and carolers light up in all their L.E.D. glory, one after the other, and the music plays at an ear-piercing level; selections include Up on the Rooftop, Jingle Bells, Jolly Old St. Nick. Push a button and the music stops, but the lights continue. Our daughter loves it because of course she does — snow globes are her favorite and Christmas is magical as a child. And then there’s Dad, whose favorite activity now that we’re back is shadowing our every move — living with a parent is like sharing a home with an internet troll, and you can’t swear at them because they gave you life.
Without missing a beat, Dad walks into the room, looks at the Hallmark ornament he bought and says to us, “You guys sure do like to use electricity.”
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