Finding the perfect December-themed story

Is like picking out a Christmas present when you stink at shopping

Dec 27, 2024

Dear Readers,

When I started Good Morning Yesterday, I promised to write two essays monthly. Lately, I've struggled to come up with ideas. Mostly, I ruminate too much about what I should write versus what I want to write. My ADHD makes it hard to choose a story, often resulting in last-minute decisions. Of course, when there's a deadline, that's when my ADHD brain kicks into high gear! The minutes count down, the pressure to perform is on, and the work gets done. Alleluia!

I don’t know why, but December has been the hardest. Here it is—the 26th, Boxing Day, Kwanzaa, Day 2 of Hanukkah for those who celebrate—and I’ve yet to come up with a story. Not that I lack stories, mind you.

At first, I thought about writing a piece on how I found Santa Claus conversing with my Uncle Tony in his basement after visiting my cousins’ house. I remember thinking (at the tender age of 7), "What’s up with that?" Or how I was the neighborhood Christmas carol organizer when I was 11. Or how, as a teenager, I spent hours making handmade cards for our parish priests. Or maybe I could write about when Nunna (my birth father’s mother) wrapped up a stale, opened box of Weetabix and a couple of pairs of underwear from her drawer and gave them to me as a Christmas present when I was a senior in high school. Or how, at age 22, I was stuck in the deportation lounge of Heathrow Airport on Christmas Eve after being questioned by immigration officials in London upon re-entering the country. They suspected I had been working there illegally (hint: I had, but they couldn’t prove it). Or how, as a young parent, I made sugar cookies with my kids and how their faces lit up on Christmas morning when they saw their presents under the tree.

Or maybe I would write about my favorite Christmas song of all time, “Fairytale of New York,” and how I got to perform it with fellow musician Mike Murray at TT the Bear’s in Cambridge, MA, to a packed house. Because of this, we performed together for seven years in a Pogues tribute band. Yes, I have fond memories of Christmas.

But I know some folks struggle with their memories of Christmas, that times were not happy or were challenging for their families. I know many people are suffering loss and grieving at this time of year for many reasons. Writing about my joyous or funny December-themed experiences feels especially hard when I know people are hurting.

But there is one Christmas memory I have that I thought I could share because it combines joy with themes of loss and grief. It contains the bitter and the sweet…

At first, my inner critic, the voice inside my head I often call “The Management,” told me not to share it. That I shouldn’t because

1. It has to do with my birth father, and the voice tells me, “Haven’t you written about that enough?”

2. My insistence on talking and writing about this topic is “too much.”

3. I’m writing about my love life that pre-dates my husband, and well, it's awkward. Also since the writing of this, Glenn has passed away, so it is also tinged with sadness.

Luckily, I’ve learned not to listen to that voice, but sometimes, that is hard. This month, I almost gave in to it. Except the feisty part of me relieved The Management of its duties so I could share another excerpt of my experience, my memoir, with you.

I mean, what the hell did I spend the last 10 years writing it if I wasn’t going to share it?

So here it is: another excerpt from my memoir in progress, “Finding the Road Rebels.”

A Gift from Christmas Past

selective focus photography of gift box on person's palm — Photo by Ben White on Unsplash

The day after Christmas, I brought my kids to their father’s house for the weekend and then drove to Glenn’s. It would be the first time we spent the night together. Like a new bride, I was nervous with anticipation and excitement.

As I pulled into his driveway, I saw Glenn standing in his picture window on the second floor. He came down to help me with my bags. When I got inside his apartment and took off my coat, we gave each other a long hug and kiss. Finally, we would be alone for a couple of days.

“I want to give you your presents,” I said, grabbing my bag of gifts for him.

“I told you not to go crazy,” he said when he saw my bags of goodies.

He opened the framed pictures of his '34 Coupe and '59 Corvette that I made for him, along with the shirts and a mug with a picture of Road King.

“Thank you, cutie. These are so thoughtful.”

Now, it was my turn. For a man who told me he didn’t like to shop, he went overboard, spoiling me with gift certificates to a spa and Victoria’s Secret a pair of earrings and a watch.

“Glenn, you are too generous. Thank you.” I gave him another hug and a long kiss.

“I have something else for you too. It’s in the other apartment. Wait here and close your eyes.”

“Close my eyes? What is it?” I asked like a little kid.

“You’ll see in a minute.”

As instructed, I stood in his living room with my eyes tightly closed. I heard him go out the exit that led into the empty apartment next door and come back in again. Standing in front of his couch with my eyes closed, I sensed he put something on the sofa. He put his arms around me from behind, hugging me.

“Okay,” he said, “you can open your eyes now.”

Sitting on the couch in front of me was a worn black footlocker. The name “Grasso” was etched in black magic marker in places. I was speechless. It was an army footlocker that once belonged to my father when he was in the National Guard. WOW. It had been passed down from my father to Uncle Tony, who then passed it on to Vinny. The faint outline of his name, “Paul,” was scribbled out, probably when Uncle Tony used it. This was my father’s handwriting. Vinny remembered he had the footlocker stored in the basement of his brother’s house, and a few weeks ago, he told Glenn he wanted me to have it.

“Oh…” was all I could manage to say. My throat felt tight with emotion. At forty-three years of age, I had virtually none of my father’s personal belongings. It almost felt like he was sitting on that couch in front of me instead of an army footlocker. Glenn hugged me tighter, and I turned to meet him and buried my face in his shoulder.

“Thank you,” I finally said through my tears. “I can’t believe it.”

There were tears in Glenn’s eyes, too.

“You have to thank Vinny. But I spent the last week cleaning it and restoring it for you. While working on it in my basement, I thought so much about your father and realized I’m in love with his daughter.”

He pulled me arm’s length away and looked me in the eye. When I looked back, tears trickled down my face.

“I love you too,” I said.