Christmas Crabbies

Surviving the season without losing your sanity—or yourself.

My Dad owned a store in Hazleton called Boston Hardware. It wasn’t small—12,000 square feet—6000 sq ft on two levels (think: the size of two full-size basketball courts). It sold hardware, of course, as well as paint, wallpaper, and small appliances. Upstairs, his sister (my Aunt Ethel) had a small interior design studio adjacent to a large carpet department. Clearly, the store offered little to its customers during the Christmas season—who wants to turn their house upside down and redecorate in December?

When I was about 15, my dad decided to try a new venture: a Christmas “Trim a Tree” shop. Who better than the local Jewish merchant to sell artificial trees, lights, balls, garland, and whatever else that the overwhelmingly non-Jewish community purchased to decorate their homes at that time of year?

He converted the entire downstairs of the store into a winter wonderland, which quickly became the “go-to” place for all things related to Christmas decorating. It was sheer genius on his part. My mom became an ace tree trimmer, decorating elaborate artificial trees with hundreds of dollars’ worth of lights, balls, and complementary whatevers.

By mid-November, the store was able to skirt Pennsylvania’s then “Blue Laws” (which prohibited Sunday retail), because “seasonal” items were exempt. So, for several weeks, the store was open 7 days a week, many from 9 to 9.

By mid-December, my parents—normally rather calm and easygoing—were flat-out exhausted and ornery. To each other, to us three siblings, to the dog, to the mailman, and to any other vertical human they came into contact with. I think it was my mom who first coined the term: "Christmas Crabbies."

That was the sell side of the Crabbies.

I didn’t get to witness the buy side of the Crabbies until Jensen was born. What began with a modest tree and a wreath or two quickly metastasized into boxes, cartons, and crates of Christmas decorations that subsequently followed us to a house in Tahoe we had purchased when Jensen was three.

“Build it, and they will come” could best describe the scene as Christmas in Tahoe soon became a bacchanal of guests, both overnight and nearby. Day after day of cooking, shopping, and decorating. When folks weren’t doing that, they were talking about cooking, shopping, and decorating.

By Christmas Eve, the massive tree in our living room was drowning in wrapped gifts. Even the damn dog had a red-and-green sweater, much to her dismay.

When Santa jumped out of the toilet paper, I knew I had seen everything. (Kidding.)

The tension became palpable as Christmas Eve neared and the cooking, shopping, and decorating reached a fever pitch.

The Christmas Crabbies had found me once again—many years and miles away—but no less crabalicious.

I found the scene overwhelming at best, a veritable assault on the senses and downright depressing at the worst. White Christmas for me soon became something else—another half-gallon of Bombay white labeled gin. I couldn’t drink enough of it as my lonely menorah and I witnessed the spectacle unfold across every square foot of the house.

So, two Christmas Crabbie observations:

One:

By not drinking my way through the season, I was forced to decide—how do I be part of it without parting with my own self?

The strategy was simple: Let them.*

My crabby self didn’t win any kudos from the family, for sure. And I wasn’t about to sacrifice sobriety to join in the gaiety. I talked myself into just letting everyone be in the season, which eventually became let everyone be in the season where they wanted to be, while I did the same—most often by myself in Hawaii. A win-win, with no hard feelings.

Two:

Can “Peace on earth and goodwill toward man” be something other than stress and anxiety?

It can, and it has to be. Whether it’s around the corner or on the other side of the world, there are people whose happiest holiday might mean a warm meal or a roof over their heads. There are kids whose best gift from Santa might be a sweatshirt from The Gap. And it doesn’t have to be either-or—it can be both, and one can have whatever Christmas means to them and theirs and still remember that it might not be the same for someone else.

In our family, hats off to Traci’s uncle (Uncle Dood). This year, he convinced the families to spend a little less and donate money to provide space heaters for two families in Ukraine.

Their Christmas might not be like ours, but it will sure be a lot warmer for them.

My menorah and I thank you.

*With apologies and recognition to Mel Robbins and her best-selling book by the same name. This became my strategy—in the same words—about twelve years before she wrote the book.

TL;DR: Holiday frenzy is real, but so is the grace of letting others celebrate however they need.

If this column made sense, you clearly need Halloween: The Only Holiday That Gets It Right.