---

Family Christmas

by Anne Wilkins

I’m hanging Great Aunty Jane on our tree by one pipe cleaner leg, while my sister Daisy places Great Uncle Richard.

“Careful with those ones,” Mama warns. “They’ve always been a bit flimsy.”

“They shoulda taken more care,” Daisy says.

Great Uncle Richard is just an old wooden clothes peg, the kind you hang out on the washing line, but with sticks for arms and legs. Every Christmas we end up hot-gluing those legs and arms back on, as they’re always falling off. There’s only a tuft of his hair left, but Mama says that don’t matter so much, as he was half-bald anyway. Great Aunty Jane is only slightly better; she’s an old piece of dowelling with small holes drilled into her body for where her pipe cleaner arms and legs fit. Those pipe cleaners are so worn through that you can see the metal, but Mama says that’s how Aunty made her, so that’s how she’ll stay. I’m also thinking Aunty must have been half-blind when she made her decoration because the bright red lips she painted on are huge.

“Some people don’t spend much time on their decoration,” Mama reminds us. “They ain’t got time or they don’t like to think of dying. Sometimes people gotta finish it for them.”

“This one’s my favourite,” I say, and I pull out Poppa. He only died last year. The big “C” got him in the end; cancer spreading all over his body faster than the doctors could catch it. He made a great job with his decoration, carved it himself. Poppa was real good at wood whittling and this one’s made out of walnut, like the colour his skin was. He’s wearing a fancy black and white suit with a little red bow tie. Poppa’s black hair rests on top, real hair that Mama snipped off at the funeral home. He painted on the nicest face with two bright red cheeks and a white smile.

The doorbell rings, and Daisy runs to get it, like she’s the family dog having a good ol’ bark and a look-see. I can’t help but follow her.

It’s Martha, from down the road. She’s in my class at school. She’s got her fancy gloves and hat on to protect her from the snow, and she’s carrying pieces of paper.

“Any of you seen Mittens?” she asks, and she gives us one of those pieces of paper. Lost Cat, it reads, and there’s a picture of ol’ Mittens on the front.

“No, we haven’t,” says Mama. “How old is Mittens, dear?”

“Twenty-somethin’.”

“Oh, that’s a good age for a cat. I’m sure Mittens will find his way home.”

“I hope so.”

“You wanna play, Martha?” I ask. “We’re setting up our Christmas tree.”

She looks uncertain, but then shrugs her shoulders. “Okay. Maybe for a while.”

Mama gets to busying in the kitchen, and we take Martha to our living room. When we show Martha our tree her little nose turns up. “That’s your tree?”

“Yeah, our family tree. Each one of those decorations is handmade, and each one is someone that passed on.”

Daisy and I take turns showing her all the relatives and sharing their stories. We even show her the oldest one, from the 1600s. Wilfrid is a round pinecone with sticks for arms and old yellowed teeth jammed in between the scales. Wilfrid’s a real character.

“We don’t have all of them. Some of them got burnt in a fire.”

Mama never likes to talk about that part of our history. Burnin’ used to be a thing in the olden days.

“Don’t you have any normal decorations?” asks Martha. Her face is all wrinkled up. She doesn’t even want to touch our decorations, and her hands are firmly buried in her pockets

“What d’you mean?”

“Like ones you’ve bought from the store.”

“No. These are better. It’s our family.” I don’t mention the money part. The bit where Mama always says, money doesn’t grow on trees.

Martha leaves soon afterward.

“Good luck in finding Mittens,” I call.

Martha hurries away so fast she almost trips up in the snow.

---

That night me, Daisy and Mama gather around our tree. This year we even got some lights for it, even though money’s tight. Mama brings out the newest decoration, Daddy. Daddy never had time to whittle his own decoration, just like he never had time to swerve out of the way of the truck, but Mama’s been working on a decoration for him. Daisy and I helped. Mama’s made it out of birchwood, cos’ it’s the closest to Daddy’s skin colour. The daddy ornament’s even wearing a scrap of one of his shirts, with real buttons that I helped sew on. Mama cut a lock of his hair before he was buried and that’s glue-gunned onto his head, along with some plastic googly eyes.

“He came up great,” I say. He even has a hole in the crook of his elbow where he can hang from.

Mama gets a little teary, and so do Daisy and I. We hug like that, all three of us beside our family tree while the lights blink and flash.

“Christmas time is about spending time with family, the ones you love,” Mama says. “I want you girls to remember that.”

Daisy and I nod.

“And it don’t matter that we haven’t got one of those giant-sized trees or fancy decorations, cos’ we’ve still got each other. Family’s all that counts.”

Daisy and I give Mama the biggest hug, so big that it feels like we might just melt into each other.

“You girls wait here. I’ll bring the offering.”

Mama goes down to the basement and comes back with Mittens.

“He’s had a good life,” says Mama as she makes the cut with the turkey knife.

After it’s done, we paint each one of our decorations with a spot of Mittens’ blood, while Mama makes the incantation.

Daddy’s the first to come alive. His decoration comes right up to us and gives us a hug. Mama picks him up and he gives her a kiss with those wooden lips. “Missed you,” he says.

“We’ll always have Christmas time,” says Mama, wiping her tears away.

Daisy and I play with all our relatives as they start waking up, and sharing our news. It’s like this every year. Mitten’s blood will probably keep them all alive for a week, but after that, we’ll need something else, something bigger to get us through to New Year.

It makes me wonder if Martha will want to come over again soon, to meet the whole family.

---

Christmas at Grandma Minerva’s

by KT Wagner

The oven clock read 7:46am on Christmas Eve day, when the banging on Minerva’s apartment door started. She ignored the intrusion—too many dangers lurked outside her little apartment.

Her kitchen timer chimed and she scrambled to pull on oven gloves. Her cat, Lucky, jumped onto the counter. “Shoo, down from there.”

The gingerbread ninja cookies for her grandchildren were perfectly baked. Her brother Abner would pick up her son and his family at the airport that afternoon.

She inhaled the spicy scents of ginger and molasses.

The door pounding started up again. Lucky meowed.

“I guess I’d better check it out,” Minerva grumbled. A butcher knife in one hand and her trusty broom handle with the nails pounded through one end, in the other, she shuffled across the room, stood on tip-toe and squinted through the peephole. Her neighbour, Louise peered back. Her face appeared distorted, but the rot alarm hadn’t gone off.

Bang, bang, bang.

“Hold your ever lovin’ horses, Louise,” Minerva fumbled with the six locks. One couldn’t be too careful, what will all the troubles.

Minerva turned the knob and the door burst open. Louise filled the doorway, hands on hips.

Minerva brandished her weapons, looking the intruding woman up and down. “Stick your tongue out,” she ordered, knowing full well Louise was fine.

Louise rolled her eyes and complied.

Minerva nodded. “Shut the door.”

Cheeks red, Louise struggled to catch her breath. “Daughter called. The one…the one who works at Bullseye. Ran to tell you…”

Louise heaved and gasped. She bragged about her daughter endlessly. Minerva didn’t hear much from her own son, and was forced to make things up about him to tell Louise.

Minerva tuned Louise out, and pictured her son and grandchildren’s visit to her apartment. Everything for Christmas Eve must be perfect. They’d leave in the morning to visit her daughter-in-law’s family for Christmas day and who knew when they’d be back.

She glanced back at the kitchen and sighed. From experience she knew it best to hear Louise out. She’d leave quicker that way.

Something Louise said caught her attention. “—trying to order a Monster Family house for your grandkiddies.” Louise fanned herself with one hand. “You and everyone else. Well, I told my daughter, these people are dreaming if they think they’ll find one.”

Minerva blinked. Louise did love to drag things out, but she’d caught her interest. “Why don’t you come in and sit, Louise? I’ve more baking to do.”

“You can finish later. My daughter says they just received a late shipment…” She paused dramatically. “A crate of Monster Family House starter kits! They’re putting them out now and they open at nine. You have to get over there!”

Minerva gasped. She’d given up on acquiring the prized toy-of-the-year. She set aside the knife and the broom handle, wrapped her arms around Louise and squeezed. “Thanks, I owe you.”

“Yes, you do.” Louise let herself out.

Minerva reset the locks, quickly downed a couple of extra-strength acetaminophen for her arthritis and grabbed her late husband’s hickory cane. She needed to get moving before Louise posted the news on Facebook.

---

Standing at the front of the throng of parents and grandparents outside Bullseye, Minerva experienced a twinge of unease. What was she thinking? It was foolish to queue up for a toy.

The regular drills at her senior’s complex stressed the importance of avoiding crowds because they attracted the infected. She silently chided herself—don’t be silly, it must be safe if so many are out. The store will have taken precautions.

Louise had drawn her a little map of its location, and she’d be one of the first to reach the display.

Minerva braced herself as the doors swung open, then charged.

Around a corner a stack of Monster Family starter kits formed a pyramid in the middle of the aisle. Her path clear, she hobbled along, already hearing her grandchildren’s shrieks of delight.

She wrapped an arm around a box, turned and faced the mob, ducked her head and led with her shoulder.

Hands grasped at her prize. An angry grandma growled in her ear. Someone tried to trip her. With one hand, she swung her cane. The shrieks still echoed, but they sounded more scared than delighted.

Pain tore through her shoulder. She struck out with the walking stick, knowing it was already too late, and she’d been infected.

---

She hid under a rack of Santa suits and peeled back her cardigan sleeve. The skin had been broken in an oval pattern. A bite, no doubt about it, but she could still move her arm. She re-buttoned the cardigan and arranged her shawl to cover the tear.

Halfway to the exit, a police woman stopped her.

Minerva panicked. “My name’s Louise. My daughter works here.”

Down the aisle a young paramedic attempted to calm down a knot of gesturing grannies all claiming ownership of the same walker. A pony-tailed soccer mom lurched by and sank her teeth into the arm of one of the grannies.

The police officer shouted at Minerva, “Wait there!” And ran off.

Twenty-four to forty-eight hours for full symptoms. They’d just cart her off to the holding centre until she manifested and she’d never see her son and grandchildren again.

She’d scuttled out of the mall and home, toy still in hand.

In her apartment, she dragged her knitting basket over to Harvey’s old recliner, hoping to find comfort in her late husband’s presence.

Her fingers didn’t ache like they usually did, but the joints felt a little soft, and sort of spongy. The larger knitting needles were easier to handle. She cast on a row of stitches.

After a few minutes, she paused. Better to be safe. She removed her false teeth and buried them deep in the basket.

Lucky meowed from across the room and behind the couch.

---

Hours later, Minerva’s family spilled into her tiny apartment, all rosy smiles and shrieking laughter.

Abner held up a blanket-draped bird cage. “Had to bring Tweetie, else she’d pine for us.” He looked around. “Where’s that damned cat?”

Minerva waved toward the kitchen. “Hang it from the hook by the window. I’ll keep the door shut.”

Lights twinkled, decorations shone and the children gathered around the tree. “Can we open the presents, Grandma, please, please?”

Minerva shook her head. “After we eat. I’ve made all your favourites.”

She’d worked the rest of the day preparing and hadn’t needed an afternoon nap. She felt fit and fine, if a little wobbly when she walked.

She hugged her nearest grandchild, Celeste, and the sweet scent of cinnamon enveloped her. The child smelled delicious! She inhaled deeply, leaned forward…and backed away quickly, her hand clamped over her nose.

“Help yourself to food,” her voice rumbled out low and gravelly.

No one seemed to notice.

Minerva couldn’t relax. Her appetite for the food on the table was non-existent, so she sat down and continued her knitting. The scarf already measured almost five feet.

“Grandma, are there any more mincemeat tarts?” Keenan, her youngest grandchild, asked.

His cinnamon aroma beckoned. Minerva’s heart thudded against her ribcage. “They’re in the kitchen, sweetie. I’ll get them.”

---

The canary smelled like chili-chocolate, her favourite. Minerva stood behind the closed kitchen door and tried to focus on the happy sounds of her grandchildren. It wasn’t enough.

“Meow.” Lucky twined around her ankles. His curried-ginger aroma wafted up.

Her stomach rumbled. Her arms and legs twitched. A low moan escaped her lips, as a wave of hunger washed over her.

---

Minerva settled back into Harvey’s recliner. Her family laughed and sang. She felt in control again, but as a precaution she wrapped the length of the scarf around herself, and the chair before continuing to knit.

“Grandma, will you play Monster Family with us?” Celeste stared up with liquid brown eyes, the scent of cinnamon heavy in the air.

“No, child.” Minerva waved her off. “But I’ll watch from here.”

She belched softly and a tiny yellow feather puffed out of her mouth.

No one noticed the draft from the open kitchen window. She hoped they believed a guilty Lucky had fled through it. Pushing away a twinge of guilt, she kept knitting.

---

Alone in the apartment the next morning, Minerva found it awkward to disengage herself from the scarf she’d knit all night. It was wrapped around her abdomen, arms and neck. A good idea while her family was there, but they’d left a few minutes earlier.

She’d pleaded aching bones and a holiday cold, and waved good-bye from the recliner. Disentangling herself was taking a long time and she needed to reset the locks.

“Minerva! Minerva, are you there?” Louise called out in her annoying sing song voice.

Oh no, Minerva frowned. Her cheekbones cracked loudly. For once, can’t Louise just leave me alone?

“There you are. You poor thing, left alone on Christmas Day. My daughter and her kids are staying until tomorrow.” Louise started fussing with the scarf. “You are all wrapped up.”

“What do you want?” Minerva ground out.

“Oh dear, you’ve been crying, I can’t understand a word.” Louise leaned over her. “I’d cry too if my family left me on Christmas morning.”

The aroma of candied bacon almost overwhelmed Minerva. She closed her eyes and held her breath. “You need to leave, Louise.”

“What’s that? Have you been drinking? I see there are lots of leftovers. It must be so upsetting to look at all that extra food. Listen, I have more family in my apartment than I planned for. My grandchildren will love your ninja gingerbread cookies…”

Minerva smacked her gums, savoured the bacon scent and reached deep into her knitting basket. Louise was packaging leftovers as Minerva slipped her false teeth back in and lurched to her feet.

“Merry Christmas to me,” she moaned and grabbed Louise’s arm.

---

Host Commentary

Family traditions are my favourite part of Christmas. I love decorating our Christmas tree, placing the ornaments – some inherited, some made by myself as a child, some made by my own children, and so many other gifts and memories in between. It’s a very special time of year for me. Christmas IS traditionally a time for family…but if your family is best avoided, for whatever reason: racist relatives, queerphobia, general unpleasantness or a tendency to sacrifice the neighbours in cultish rituals…it’s absolutely fine to steer well clear and make your own traditions!

---

I love how this story opens with the true meaning of christmas – scrambling through grasping consumerism in the hope of making someone happy. It also has a very “the show must go on” theme running solidly throughout. Don’t let others down. Don’t spoil their christmas. Don’t let on that you’re unwell or unhappy, or, heaven help you, don’t feel up to socialising! Christmas can be very, very overwhelming. If you need time out to sleep off the food-coma or escape from noisy toys or just to find some room for yourself…go for it. And if someone close to you seems uncomfortable with all the festivities, they probably just need a little bit of down-time…probably. I’m sure they won’t zombie out on you at all…but no harm in being safe, right?

Happy Christmas, everyone! Eat well, and be Merry