Christmas 2020

Christmas 2020

Normally in my Christmas letters I try to present the funny and ridiculous side of what are generally normal, maybe even humdrum, events during our year to entertain myself, family and friends.

No one needs ridiculous now. Funny, yes please. So here we go.

Claire managed to squeeze in a somewhat normal life event in February, the 2020 Winter Formal. Dancing, laughing, flirting and speculating about potential couplings occurred, as they have since humans have been gathering around a fire. Ahh, remember normal human behavior before we all became hermit crabs, confined in our shells and scurrying outside of them in fear?

It’s easy to complain about the losses (restaurant dining, attendance at sporting events, Claire’s education, planned vacations, my livelihood, balanced city budgets, Emily’s social and university life, the joy one feels on seeing a spouse after time away) but there are no three people I would rather be locked in with. The additional nuclear family time feels like a gift, because we know our girls will soon get sick of us and leave. Like everyone, we have had far more family dinners, intense political conversations and relaxing downtime than we would have had without Covid-19. And yet, at some point, the familiarity can get tiresome, and we can be forgiven for thinking, “No, I don’t want to play another G@&^*$%ed board game or watch another G@&^*$%ed movie! How about I drink a cold beer sitting on a chair that doesn’t already smell like me! How about that?!” We can be forgiven these things, right? Right? Somebody back me up here.

So half of March, all of April, May and June passed with virtually nothing occurring. Well, not nothing. Long deferred home repair projects assumed totally unjustified significance. We refinished the only expensive piece of furniture we own, our oak dining table. Thank you for the tutorial, Youtube. We painted the aluminum cover on the sun porch, and then, out of necessity, power-washed the paint overspray off the concrete. Later we installed a sliding screen door, repainted Emily’s room, snaked the kitchen sink from the vent pipe on the roof, put up a ceiling fan in our bedroom and such. I have drawn up plans for a ground-breaking Snoopy themed whirligig (a wind powered mechanical device) that has a narrative arc. I also have prepped an elaborate painting with a sly literary reference on my gate. Jenn probably saved me from madness by suggesting I apply for jobs instead of waiting for my old one to return. Pointless vanity projects are on hold now that I have secured very modestly compensated employment stocking vending machines. Good for weight loss!

In June we decided to follow through on our annual trip to Wisconsin (where we isolate ourselves without even trying) and stayed through the first week of July. Claire stayed on after we left, making a lot of friends among cousin Joe’s classmates and got a lot of practice driving, even ninety straight minutes from Wascott to Superior on county highway 35 through Dairyland! It doesn’t get more Wisconsin than that. Emily stayed in California, as she had recently started an internship at a law office specializing in renters’ rights. So imagine our surprise when Jenn got a call on July 3^rd from her asking if Jenn had heard anything about Bailey, our dog. Nooooo, Jenn said, we left her home with you, and 1500 miles is kind of far for a dog with Bailey’s poor sense of direction (she once got turned around at dog beach, freaked out and sprinted the opposite direction, requiring me to run after her). Emily meant to ask if we had received a call about Bailey’s whereabouts, which Jenn hadn’t. It turned out that Bailey assumed that since she was alone at 4 pm and there were random explosions occurring, it was time for her to audition for another family. She broke out of the backyard, wandered three streets over, heard a family playing in their backyard pool, and joined them for the day. I met the owner about two months later, and he said Bailey had delighted his daughters the whole afternoon, swimming and frolicking. They cried when he led her back to our neighbors who recognized the escape artist and put her back. Emily was very relieved. It was while I was repairing the gate that I got the idea for the elaborate painting.

Jenn has cemented her place in a group of five ladies who enjoy traveling the southern half of California in search of the perfect wine. They call themselves the Fab Five, and no, none of them have ever heard of, or care about, Chris Webber or Jalen Rose, so don’t bother. Fact-finding trips to Temecula, Paso Robles and even Palm Desert have all taken place. She assures me this is a scientific pursuit, but the pictures have no lab coats in them, and her mood is always one of giddy exhaustion when she returns. “From all the lab work,” she says. My dad worked in a lab for years, and he never came home in a t-shirt showing Christmas Cactus and the phrase “What the Succulent?!” And somebody got the wrong first letter for succulent.

Despite this entire year turning into what the French call, a steaming pile of ‘merde’, we decided to venture forth with our annual Campout in Joshua Tree Sometime Near Veterans’ Day. Other families were understandably reluctant to reserve the sites in May, and we ended up with just our good friend Dave, his son Nick and a friend. We should have realized the Old Testament God is currently calling the shots upstairs and not dragged Claire’s friend Leanne along. Leanne said the winds were so strong, they picked up her side of the tent, her inflatable mattress and her several times during the night! Gusts up to fifty mph (it blew my Coleman two-burner stove off the table) and some rain made us reconsider by noon of our first full day. Flapping tents, sailing plastic plates, and dust-filled everything were not our initial desires when we were prepping this trip. Our single highlight was a stop in Morongo at a cactus store selling baby barrel cactus for 79 cents. We got eight.

Shortly after that trip, Jenn got a difficult call about her job that was bad, but not as bad as it could be. She had been called back to work in June to help with Downtown Disney reopening and to clear out old merchandise in her store inside Disneyland. But then I think the Disney President’s dog pooped in Gavin Newsom’s yard, and they have not gotten along since. Newsom set the most onerous requirements possible for theme park re-openings, and Orange County is nowhere close. Jenn is furloughed, which means they plan to put her back to work when the park reopens, but she is stuck at home for now. Ironically, I now stock vending machines for the skeletal staff not furloughed at Disneyland, and daily see workers not adequately appreciating their position, “Jenn could do your job so much better.”

We have never needed more the joy and succor holidays bring, and yet full enjoyment is, of course, denied us. Around Day of the Dead for a few years, I have been cooking family recipes and setting up an altar of passed relatives. I have never missed them more. Most years the memories are happy and wistful, but there is more longing for their presence now. Our family is truly grateful to have been spared the worst ravages of the pandemic, and those whose families have suffered greatly are always near the surface of our thoughts. And yet we have all lost.

I just can’t think of the right tag line for this year, although several come to mind: “2020—it’s not your fault”, “2020—you’re still on mute”, “2020—Grandchildren will groan at its mention”, “2020—The Temperance League would understand”, and “2020—making all other years not suck”.

Everyone knows this will get better, and it is with this reassurance that we greet you and wish the best for you and your family.

Merry Christmas from the Leebs.