I like Christmas letters. I really do. Even Bad Christmas letters. Sometimes, especially the bad Christmas letters (unintentional humor is the best). I like them because the alternative is a banal greeting card, hastily signed in order to get the cards out before Christmas. I know that for myself I would like to write personal messages to many people but it never happens. I am always running late and just want to get the damn things out. From the looks of things, I am not the only one. But I always want to know something of the sender’s past year. Often the only contact I have with them is this Christmas card and it’s nice to have something other than: Merry Christmas! Jack and Jill. Are they doing well? Not so well? Did the dog run away? How old are their kids now? Did Jack or Jill go back to school, change jobs or have a plastic surgery? Call me nosy, but if we are friends enough to exchange greetings, then I want some details. Any details. Make some up. I don’t care.
Christmas letters have gotten a bad rap and with good reason. Most people simply aren’t good writers. There is the bragging letter where the writer’s life is absolutely wonderful, their children are exceptional and wildly successful, they’ve traveled extensively and their life is better than yours in every single way. Then there is the other extreme where people write about every woe in their life starting with their gallbladder surgery and anal fissures and ending with their thrice divorced daughter and jailbird son. Most letters fall somewhere in the middle of these extremes. And mostly, they are full of basic information, names, ages, activities, which if you haven’t talked to some one all year, is interesting enough.
One of the worst letters I’ve ever read was simply a chronological list of all the trips the writer and his wife had taken that year. That’s it. Nothing else, no funny anecdotes at the airport or updates on children or grandchildren. Just a list. As if anybody cares about someone’s itinerary. The whole point of a Christmas letter is to share something yourself and while I suppose sharing one’s travel history is something, it’s not very personal and therefore not very interesting.
The best letters I’ve ever read were from my friend’s mother. She truly is the Queen of Christmas Letters and my idol. Her letters always broke the one page rule but for her, it worked. In fact, as a reader I was always disappointed when they ended. What made them so good? They were real and they were hilarious. She didn’t talk of trips or make lists. Instead she told stories about her life and slipped in the requisite information around that. After reading her letters, you not only knew where all her family was and what they were doing but had tears in your eyes from laughing so hard.
Granted, not everyone is this talented. In fact, most aren’t. I like Christmas letters just the same. No matter how good or bad the letter is it tells me something about the writer and his or her family. You learn what’s important to them, or at least what’s important enough to put in a mass letter. It might not be scintillating stuff—or better yet it is, for those who have boundary issues—but it beats a pre-signed Christmas card any day. At least I know what happened to the dog.
Monday, January 05, 2009
Friday, October 17, 2008
ZAP!
Words are a big deal in our house. We like them. Especially ones that are fun to say or obscure or just plain big. So it’s not uncommon for one of my kids to ask what a word means. More words to use to influence others and win friends. Or be a big giant geek. Whichever…
And so it was on a recent Tuesday night. The kids were freshly bathed and pajama’d and we were watching TV. Suddenly the boy-child asks, “What does zap mean?”
I stall for time trying to figure out how I can explain zap to a 5 year old. Sometimes the easiest words are the hardest to explain. The only thing I can come up with is to poke him and make a buzzing sound. I find this woefully inadequate and turn to my mother thinking she has more experience answering questions from kids. You know, being a grandma and all. She fares no better.
Suddenly my beautiful geek of a girl-child says, “Zap? I know what zap means.”
She launches into this incredibly complicated explanation involving ELECTRONS and the transferring of ELECTRIC CHARGES. I stare at her mouth wide open as she excitedly relays this information before I check on the boy-child and his reaction to this explanation. He has pulled a blanket over his head apparently indicating that he is NOT LISTENING. Oh, dude, I am so right there with you. Not that this deters the girl-child. She’s quite proud.
I walk over to the boy-child, poke him and make a buzzing sound. Problem solved. Sometimes simple is better. BZZZZT!
And so it was on a recent Tuesday night. The kids were freshly bathed and pajama’d and we were watching TV. Suddenly the boy-child asks, “What does zap mean?”
I stall for time trying to figure out how I can explain zap to a 5 year old. Sometimes the easiest words are the hardest to explain. The only thing I can come up with is to poke him and make a buzzing sound. I find this woefully inadequate and turn to my mother thinking she has more experience answering questions from kids. You know, being a grandma and all. She fares no better.
Suddenly my beautiful geek of a girl-child says, “Zap? I know what zap means.”
She launches into this incredibly complicated explanation involving ELECTRONS and the transferring of ELECTRIC CHARGES. I stare at her mouth wide open as she excitedly relays this information before I check on the boy-child and his reaction to this explanation. He has pulled a blanket over his head apparently indicating that he is NOT LISTENING. Oh, dude, I am so right there with you. Not that this deters the girl-child. She’s quite proud.
I walk over to the boy-child, poke him and make a buzzing sound. Problem solved. Sometimes simple is better. BZZZZT!
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Justin Has Nothing on This Kid
Remember the movie Parenthood with Steve Martin where that little boy, Justin, put a bucket on his head and banged into the wall? He attempted several times to go through the wall before he put his hand out and realized the wall was solid.
Yeah. Funny stuff.
The other day my 5 year old boy-child decided it would be a good idea to swing around a sock full of dry erase markers like a lasso. I understand the allure. Markers in a sock. Who wouldn’t want to swing that around? Inevitably, he hit himself in the head and started to cry. Having not seen that first smack, I asked him what was wrong.
“I hit myself in the head!” He cried, tears streaming down his face, all the while swinging his elementary school weapon around his head.
“Stop doing that then,” I said as only us Minnesotans are wont to do (I am speaking of the “then” not the telling him to stop…). As I’m saying this he hit himself in the head a second time and cried even harder.
“Stop doing that,” I repeated.
“No! It’s fun,” he said through sobs as he hit himself (oh, I bet the suspense is killing you!) a THIRD TIME. And even then did he stop? No. It wasn’t until he smacked himself a fourth time that he decided that, yes, he should stop doing that. He dropped the sock to the floor and stomped off crying as he held his head.
I would weep for his future if I wasn’t laughing so hard.
Yeah. Funny stuff.
The other day my 5 year old boy-child decided it would be a good idea to swing around a sock full of dry erase markers like a lasso. I understand the allure. Markers in a sock. Who wouldn’t want to swing that around? Inevitably, he hit himself in the head and started to cry. Having not seen that first smack, I asked him what was wrong.
“I hit myself in the head!” He cried, tears streaming down his face, all the while swinging his elementary school weapon around his head.
“Stop doing that then,” I said as only us Minnesotans are wont to do (I am speaking of the “then” not the telling him to stop…). As I’m saying this he hit himself in the head a second time and cried even harder.
“Stop doing that,” I repeated.
“No! It’s fun,” he said through sobs as he hit himself (oh, I bet the suspense is killing you!) a THIRD TIME. And even then did he stop? No. It wasn’t until he smacked himself a fourth time that he decided that, yes, he should stop doing that. He dropped the sock to the floor and stomped off crying as he held his head.
I would weep for his future if I wasn’t laughing so hard.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
