How I Almost Saved Christmas But Didn't, and Why It Didn't Matter

The Whiskey Deficit. Or. 'It's time for my annual Yuletime Newsletter!'

(source: me again!)

Back in August, we had to move. The house we were renting had doubled in (so-called) value and our landlords were eager to capitalize on their investment, damn their eyes.

Scalping houses is a national pass-time in Australia. Older Australians buy up all the houses and force younger people to pay them stupid amounts of rent. I don’t respect it; it’s a nasty business for nasty people, and lead paint is almost certainly a factor. There’s this low-key generational conflict going on in the background of my life, though I try not to pay attention to it, having no wish to become embittered.

My mother talks about it; she’s 83, and has become convinced that most of her generation in Australia have become, at best, mad, and at worst, disturbingly racist. My mother, who has been fervently anti-racist since at least the 1960s, will nowadays barely speak to anyone her own age. She believes they’re something wrong with them all. I’ve told my mother I correspond with people all over the world, many of whom are her age, and they’re as progressive as she. I somehow suspect she does not find me to be a particularly persuasive figure.

When I was seven-years-old, my mother nearly beat me half to death when I used the wrong word to describe a friend of mine, who happened to be aboriginal. I’d heard the word in a Clint Eastwood movie and thought it was up for grabs. Again, I was seven. I’d preferred it if she’d simply explained the entire matter to me, using words, but all the same, the lesson left a lasting impression on me. Sometimes, when I see people being racist, I also want to beat them half to death.

One time, when I lived in Boston, I had a co-worker who was a film buff. He was telling me all about some movie, one day. I think it was the movie was called ‘Crash’, but I never watched it because, I think, this one guy was so enthusiastic about it. Anyway, he said to me:

“The movie is about ... well, you know how everyone is a little bit racist?”

“No they’re not,” said I, thinking of my mother. “Not everybody.’

And he said: “yeah, but you know ... everybody is a little racist, though.”

In my mind’s eye, I could see my mother — you know — beating me half-to-death. I shook my head.

“I’m not”, I said to him, a bit apprehensively. Then I glanced at the door, in case my mother, who was on the far side of the world, might somehow apparate into the room, misunderstand the conversation, and set about immediately beating me half to death.

“But maybe you are a little, deep down, and don’t realize?”

“What kind of Original Sin nonsense is this?” I wondered. “I was programmed from the earliest age to see all people equally, and if I hadn’t, I would no longer be alive. My mother would have ... well, never mind.”

Then my colleague said, “Well, in my opinion, all people are a little racist, deep down.”

And I said, “Well, then you need to hang out with better people because apparently everyone you know sucks.”

Then he glared at me. And I muttered: “You people...”

And he said, “What do you *mean* ‘you people’?”

And I said. “Americans! Always generalizing about the entire world, even though none of you have ever been there.”

Then he gave me this really funny look which I think was supposed to be intimidating; then I remembered he was married to an Irish woman. And somehow, in that precise moment, I knew he had had this exact same conversation with his wife, and furthermore, I could tell, he had not won that argument.

Actually, later I heard they got divorced, and I thought: if he’d only listened to me, then ... well, they’d still be divorced, but at least it wouldn’t be because he was sort-of racist, and trying to persuade everybody that it was normal.

Now, you’re probably thinking to yourself I wonder where all this is going, and I’ll be honest with you, I’m not sure myself. I was just thinking about my mother, and the time she nearly beat me half to death. She’s an Irish redhead, my mother. And I, being of sound mind, have heeded the lessons she’s taught me, and — well, you could infer for yourself that I do not argue with the woman.

Actually, wait a moment. Do you remember, earlier this year, I was having chest pains, and I went to a cardiologist and he gave me a clean bill of health? Well, before that I was walking around her house one day, white as a sheet, and thinking I needed to put my affairs in order, and also wondering what such a task might entail. I guess I looked a bit rattled, so my mother glared at me and asked me what was wrong. I set about explaining it, but as soon as she heard I was worried about my health, she said: “Oh, stop feeling sorry for yourself.”

So, I exited the room and said not another word about the matter until months later, she rang me to tell me I should see a cardiologist, because my sister was having some problems.

“I saw a cardiologist last month,” said I.

“Oh,” said my mother.

“You know how I told you how I was concerned I was about to die? And I’d be leaving my daughters alone in a world filled with darkness and flag-waving idiots?”

“No?” said my mother.

“You told me not to feel sorry for myself. I mean, I wasn’t but … I went to a cardiologist and he gave me all these tests. Turns out, I’m fine.”

“Did I say that?” said my mother lightly. “Sorry about that.” She laughed. “You should have told me to shut up!”

“At what point of my life would it have been safe for me to tell you to shut up?”

Now, at this point I think she was feeling honestly bad for me. She’d raised me, specifically, to be emotionally resilient and detached, but maybe we sometimes both take it a bit too far.

So, I added, “You can imagine how concerned I was, because I have to move next month and I was thinking — what if I drop dead of a heart attack, while carrying boxes?”

My mother just shrugged. “Don’t worry about that. Just call up a removalist company.”

“Can’t afford it. I’m a writer, which means we’re a single-income family. I need a bit more fame and success in my writing —”

My mother interrupted. “It’s not expensive to move. It’ll cost about four-hundred dollars to hire removalists.”

“Nah, I think it’ll cost about a thousand dollars. I called around and apparently —”

“Rubbish! It’ll be about four-hundred dollars. Tell yer wife I’ll pay for you move. She’ll be right.”

“But —”

“I’ll pay, don’t worry about it!”

I had misgivings. It’s not my mother’s generosity that was the problem, so much as her memory. Months earlier, she offered to pay $1500 for my daughter’s school camp, then promptly forgot all about it. I was supposed to remind her, but ... I don’t like reminding her of anything. Did I mention my mother once beat me half to death?

But, she was really insistent about it, so I paid for removalists to come and move our things into a new apartment. They invoiced me $1000, and I sent the receipt to my mother.

She called me up. “That’s too much,” she said. “I’m not paying that!”

“Then my kids aren’t having Christmas.”

“What was that?!”

Around mid-year, my mother started to go deaf. It was a remarkable decline, actually.

“I said, could you pay half? Four hundred?”

“I can pay four hundred, but not more than that. Those removalist must’ve seen you coming!”

She’s eighty-three, and ... listen, I don’t fully blame her. My favorite breakfast cereal is now $12 dollars a bag. Four years ago, it was six.

Oh, you know how I mentioned she was going deaf? She went to the doctor’s in September and they cleaned the wax our of her ears. Now, she has the ears of a cat. I have to be really careful what I say around her again, because ... did I mention the time she nearly beat me half to death? It wasn’t a one-off.

Anyway, my mother forgot about the four hundred dollars. Occasionally, I would mention it. I think she blamed me for owning too much furniture. She and I both pride ourselves on our minimalism, and furthermore, I wouldn’t be able to sleep a wink if I owned more furniture than she did.

Anyway, four months pass. I go to my mother. “Christmas is nigh. And I am a writer, which means, I don’t really earn much money. One day, I think ... but right now? Well ...”

And you know what? She gave me four hundred dollars. Well, no — she gave the money to my wife, because that is how my mother treats me. Even though, apart from that one time I used the wrong word to describe a close friend, I have lived a blameless life.

My mother tells everyone I was a good child. I seldom misbehaved, and yet ... if she had to give me actual cash, she would lean around me and hand it to my wife instead. I find this difficult to explain, but I will try. Her generation of Australian women basically believes that if you hand a man actual cash, he will run off immediately to the horse races and come back broke and smelling of whiskey. Or even worse, he might give it to the church.

I’m not sure why, but that’s how women in my family are. The men have been sober and abstemious for more than a century. Better still, no man of my bloodline has ever wandered intentionally into a church. But to my mother, we’re all fatally dissipated, and there’s nothing that can be done about it.

So, the four-hundred dollars goes into my bank account. Instantly, like an act of a malignant, all-seeing god, an electricity bill arrived; they wanted three hundred dollars. This is fine. I do have six-hundred dollars in that account, now. There’s enough for Christmas, without me going cap-in-hand to my wife.

Because (and I don’t know why I did this) I told my wife I wanted to pay for Christmas this year, you see? In my defense, I find my wife to be very beautiful and sometimes, when I look at her, I say all sorts of surprising and nonsensical things. One time, I said, “I do!” And another time, “We should absolutely sell our house and move to Australia. I was never happy growing up in Australia. One time, my mother ... but never mind that, right now, all I can think is: ‘What could possibly go wrong?’”

And here we are. On Monday, the electricity company attempted a direct debit of my account, and failed. Observing this, I logged in and promptly paid the bill myself. Three hundred dollars remain for my Christmas shopping. Which (and I don’t now if I really have to say this) always seems to be a last minute thing.

The next day, and even though I had now paid the bill, the electricity company attempted another direct debit from my account, and this one went through. I had now paid them twice.

I am two days from Christmas, and now have only six dollars in my bank account. This is not a problem, I thought. This is easily remedied.

I call the electricity company and explain the situation. I’ve spoken to Niall before. He’s a lovely bloke — an immigrant from Ireland, incidentally. I don’t know if it’s good that we’ve become friendly acquaintances this year, but that’s another matter; my point is, Niall reverses the charge. No problem all at all.

“You’ll soon have your money back in your account, Kris. Merry Christmas.”

I hang up. “Christmas is saved,” I tell my girls.

“Are they giving back the money?” asks Hattie.

By the way, I somewhat keep my daughters abreast of all such incidents in our lives. I explain things. I don’t know why, I exactly; I just feel this deep need to use actual words.

“When will the money arrive?” asks Boudica.

Good question. I call up Niall at the electricity company.

“Hi again, Kris. Don’t worry, the money should land on your account within five to six working days. Have a Merry Christmas again, Kris.”

My children sitting on the couch beside me, eyes like saucers.

“Apparently Christmas isn’t actually saved,” I tell them. “Also, I think this is why men used to drink whiskey at Christmas. Not in our family, of course — the womenfolk wouldn’t let us — but what I’m saying is that, well, your father is a writer and a story-teller, and we all pay the price for that, I’m sorry to say. Fewer number of presents under the Christmas tree. On the other hand, I know lots of big words when I’m telling you how much I love you.”

“Don’t worry Dadda,” Boudica promises. “One day, I’ll buy you whiskey for Christmas.”

“You’re a good lamb,” say I. “It’s been years since I had a drop of whiskey. They don’t warn you when you have children about the whiskey deficit, but I’m not complaining. You’re wonderful children.”

My daughters received one present from their father this year: over-sized t-shirts. They’re always stealing my shirts and wearing them to bed so I thought I’d get them some with funny slogans. They love them, they’ll be wearing them for years. They’re happy little people. My wife bought me a hoodie, because she loves seeing me in hoodies. I didn’t get her anything because I thought we’d agreed not to get each other presents this year, and generally-speaking I feel like everything in the world feels like an elaborate trick, and I’m still figuring out the rules.

Yuletime isn’t, and shouldn’t, be a ‘spending money’ holiday. It’s about being with the people you care about. And you know, really being with them — being present for them! And perhaps it’s about remembering that most people are good people. Sure, the world has been taken-over by sociopathic billionaires, but the rest of us are pretty cool, right? That matters, I think. So when you’re in your backyards next year, assembling that guillotine you’ve been meaning to put together, remember to invite your neighbor over. Be kind. Spread the goodwill and cheer. We’re all in this together.

Thinking of you all,

Kris St.Gabriel