Ho ho ho...It's a Thrift Store Christmas!

Just a quickie before we take off for our Christmas pilgrimage to Michigan and Iowa with 7 adults in a minivan...AAAAAHHHHHH!

We'll see how that goes, won't we.

A few people have heard about our new (probably about 5 years old now) Christmas tradition in the Sanders household, and if you were here for our Open House last week, you may have noticed a couple oddities about our decorating.

Once our kids became late teens and young adults, we found ourselves in that predicament of "what do you give each other for Christmas?" They really had all they wanted (often bought for themselves), and also they were hopeless when it came to choosing things for their parents.

My husband does a lot of shopping at local thrift stores for his book business, and I, as a frugal young mom, raised my kids largely on thrift store clothes and toys. So my family looks on thrift stores as large treasure houses of adventure, kitsch and fashion. (I hope it isn't too obvious.) Naturally, this is what we have arrived at to solve our Christmas shopping woes...

Every year, right before Christmas (preferably Christmas Eve), we all gather for a lunch out at a fast-food restaurant. We then load up in the trusty crowded minivan and head for one of our favorite thrift stores (this photo was taken when we were in Minneapolis)--

We split up for about 2 hours, and shop like mad. The only rules are--THERE ARE NO RULES. Items bought for each other may be ugly, strange, lovely, useful, or an inside family joke. After 2 hours, we rendezvous at the Trusty Minivan with our big plastic bags and head home.

Then it's time to split up into various bedrooms to wrap. And of course, who is going to waste precious wrapping paper on this motley assortment? It's newspaper, folks! Lots of it! The colored comic pages are snatched first.

After our traditional Mexican Dinner of enchiladas and tacos (which the men graciously fling about the kitchen and make for the women), we gather around the tree for a couple hours of unwrapping and laughter. 

Our favorite gifts are always the ones that prompt the reaction, "What IS that thing???" (See the Spidey Head tree topper here for a prime example). And amazingly enough, there are always a few gifts that are right on the spot, and get used for many years thereafter.

We rarely spend more than $50 for our entire family at the holidays now, and we have a whole lot of fun doing it. Admittedly, some of the gifts end up back at a thrift store eventually, but hey...
it's the Circle of Life.

And the people you meet while shopping...well, that's just a side benefit. One year an old guy tried to picked me up..."So, do you come here often?" I had to gently inform him I was there shopping with my family. Ah, well, missed opportunities.

MERRY CHRISTMAS, EVERYONE! 

A Sweet Christmas Memory..."Fruitcake" Style

As a bookseller, I see all sorts of memoirs sailing by. It's the hot thing to write if you are an old rock star ("see how wild I was! and how now I don't have many brain cells left!"), a political has-been ("I really DID have dinner with JFK in 1962..I'll tell you all about how I spilled gravy on his lap. He thought it was a great joke, really..."), or someone who CLAIMS they were married to Elvis at some point in time.

But probably my favorite are the memoirs of famous poets and novelists
--it really does seem that the main qualification to become a famous artist is to have a horrific upbringing with drug-addled parents, lecherous uncles, schizophrenic siblings and crazy family histories (growing up in an Irish slum seems to be the current fad).

I have decided there is no way I will ever be a famous author unless I can beef up my family tree with some REAL crazies. OK, I do have the odd alcoholic far-flung relative (I believe I have one who died drunk in a snow drift somewhere there a long time ago...). But for the most part I really can't say that I'm suffering from "dysfunctional family syndrome." I understand that should be considered a blessing, even if it limits my artistic 'voice.'

Here is the one traumatic Holiday family memory I can pinpoint in my life.

My husband and I  were a young family--oh, so young and so full of children--three kids under 6 by now. It was Christmas Eve in Minnesota and the snow was crunchy underfoot. My beloved extended family was together for Traditional Christmas Enchiladas (a Scandinavian interpretation). My mom's house, warm and cheerful, rang with the voices of children, siblings and in-laws. It was almost time for the much-anticipated gift opening (we are heretical and always open ours on Christmas Eve. Please don't judge)

My youngest child at the time had struggled for a few years with intestinal difficulties (it's called "gas" for want of a better word). During dinner, and before present opening, she began whining and crying about her stomach hurting.  I held her and told her it would get better. It didn't. She cried louder. I rocked her harder. Family members began bringing antacids and advice. She cried harder.

My mother told me I should call the doctor--"It could be  her appendix!" The big, bad Appendicitis Monster was always lurking at our family's door. My grandfather had died of it in his early 30's, my father had his removed, and I had a ruptured appendix at age 8. So naturally, it's the first thing that comes to our minds.

I really didn't want to call the doctor's office. "Mom, it's Christmas Eve. They'll tell me to keep an eye on her and call back in an hour. Then they'll have me come to the Emergency Room and sit for four hours while they dither around, and then send me home. You KNOW that's what happens. We need to wait a while."

The tension in the house continued to escalate...my daughter is crying, I'm getting upset, my mom is pacing and worried, my husband is trying to stay out of the way as the mom/daughter/granddaughter "chemistry" begins to take on disturbing forms..."OK, MOM! I know she's in terrible pain...I'll call the doctor!"

Which I did. And the nurse on the group health line said..."wait a while."
AAAAKK!

"I can't DO this anymore!!" I wail.
"My tummy HURTS!!" screams my daughter.
"You should call the doctor and DEMAND to see someone!!" insists my mother.

I burst into tears along with my suffering child; we sob and moan until my husband steps between my mother and I--

"Elaine...just SHUT UP!!!"

A stunned silence. For my easy-going mate, this is the equivalent of a profanity-laced tirade.

"Elaine, I'm sorry--but you've just got to leave Carla alone--we know it's hard, but we'll have to decide what to do on our own. Sanders family, we're loading up the car and going home. C'mon, boys."

The rest of the family quietly helped us load our belongings into the old station wagon; some leftovers from the delicious dinner that I mostly missed and the gifts I didn't get to see. Our poor weeping daughter was buckled into the car seat as the boys got in their boosters. We drove away in the dark cold night back to our little duplex; I was sniffling and grieving a lost holiday.

And of course,
miraculously,
my little girl stopped crying

As she relaxed into her seat and the "gastric distress" subsided, I heard another young voice pipe up from the back.

"Wow!" our younger son said with enthusiasm. "That was the BEST Christmas EVER!"

[This story obviously has passed into family legend and meme...anytime we have a prickly situation during the holiday season, someone is bound to repeat this optimistic phrase emphatically. We are not sure WHICH celebration the above-mentioned  son was attending...we think he was too busy with his presents to notice what was going on elsewhere in the house.]

So, everyone...have the BEST CHRISTMAS EVER, OK?
Just without the screaming part.