My Ever-Changing Christmas Family Rituals

When I became a widow several years ago, I changed the Christmas present rules for my family, and they almost put me in the “Parents for Adoption Center.”
Since no one wanted a mother or grandma who didn’t want to give presents at Christmastime, I was not adopted, so my kids took me back. I’m kidding of course. That didn’t really happen. But my decision not to give Christmas presents anymore caused such a stir that they almost disowned me. This is how it started.

When our four children were young, and we were all enmeshed in every activity known to humans, Christmas gradually became the most stressful time of the year. That’s when I became the Queen-of-Cold-Sores, because stress and herpes simplex have always been close friends with my immune system. During periods of pressure, if I didn’t straighten up and fly right, a cold sore was a sure sign that I was going to get sick. I ignored these early warnings and often became quite ill by Christmas morning. I know why it happened; I put unnecessary pressure on myself by attempting to be a supreme homemaker. I polished six pairs of shoes every Saturday night for all of us to wear to church on Sunday morning. Every year I made three outfits from scratch for the girls and me to wear on Easter Sunday for the glory of God. Who was I kidding? Those new handmade fineries were for the glory of Betty. At Christmas we took home-cooked food and gifts to everyone in the world, because my reputation was at stake. I loved hearing people gush, “Oh that Betty…she is so clever.” It was true. My decorated cookies were works of art.

And I’ll never forget the year that I made all the bedding for our girls’ dolly bunk beds which meant two mattresses, two sheets, two pillows with cases, and two tiny patchwork quilts the size of large napkins. When the girls got older, I designed and sewed such incredible wardrobes for their Barbie dolls that I almost hated handing them over to little girls. But I loved hearing their playmates say, “I wish my mother could sew.” In spite of the admiration for my sewing and cooking skills, Christmas had lost the excitement that I felt as a child when my brother, sister and I were young during the meager days of the Depression. Those cheerful, simple Christmas celebrations as a poor girl can never be matched.

Our worldly goods were next to nothing, but we were rich compared to other families. At least my dad had a job delivering milk for Hickey’s Dairy. And Auntie Marge gave each of us kids a few dollars so we could walk to Kresge’s Five and Dime to buy gifts for our parents. I always bought lilac talcum powder for Mom and a man’s handkerchief for Dad. And because I knew how to sew, I would embroider “D A D” in multi-colored thread on a corner where he would NOT be blowing his nose. On Christmas morning, we three kids each got two modest presents a year: one from Auntie Marge (who had no children of her own and money to share), and one from our parents. We actually got three presents if you count the decorated tree, which was our most important gift of all.

On Christmas Eve, my dad would make a quick run to the nearest lot pick out a little Douglas fir. Most of the tree lots in my town, Cedar Rapids, Iowa, were closed before supper but were left open with a sign announcing “Any Tree Free; Merry Christmas.” After we were asleep, my parents would dress the biggest gift of all so quietly that we never knew it was happening. We always woke up early to a cold house and huddled under the covers until Dad poked up the furnace for the day. When the air felt warm again, we raced into the living room to see the glorious sight: lights of every hue, wrinkled tinsel, packages placed carefully on the floor, and the fragrance of forest right in our own rented house.

Our fully decorated, free tree was a wonderful present, and the anticipation of Christmas morning was the most enchanted time of the year. When the mess of papers and boxes was cleared away and we had worn ourselves out playing Bingo or Old Maid, I used to lie on my back under the lowest branches as close to the trunk as possible and suck up the smell. It was so good I could taste it. I gazed straight up the center through all the shiny stuff to see my warped reflections in colored balls, and I felt like a bug in a magic forest. Christmastime, music, snow in the air, and lying under our decorated tree could transport me to the land of make believe.

Progressively, each year, Christmas became more adult-like. When I was a teenager with a job, I was cautious with my hard-earned money, but I always got something small for each member of my family. I created nothing on the sewing machine anymore except my own clothes for school. Much of my money went for patterns and fabric or to help pay for my own dental bills or uniforms for school clubs. After one year of college I became a wife, moved away and started making my own Christmas presents. I baked breads, made aprons, potholders and stuffed toys for my new nieces and nephews because my husband’s family gave gifts. So I did the same for my family back home. I stood in long slow-moving lines at the post office every year. By the time our four children came along, the holiday pressures were a way of life and I had long forgotten my childhood joys of the season. My primary focus as an adult was to survive Christmas. December was the busiest, most stressful time of the year, and I dreaded its approach with all of my heart.

Over twenty years ago, there was an unsuccessful effort to ease the holiday pressure when my husband “slightly” redesigned our Christmas giving habits. At our annual family party, he surprised our adult children and grandchildren by buying a bunch of silly little inexpensive toys at the import store, and he used them in our first grab bag game. The gifts were small, cheap, and fun. They reminded me of the cute little things we found in Cracker Jack Boxes. His new game was in addition to our usual gift of a modest check for each family. But each year, the silly, fun, inexpensive activity gained importance. Denny loved preparing for this event so he was the only one who purchased the presents. Gone were the days of the ditsy little, imported Cracker Jack-type toys. He was spending $500.00 for the game in addition to the not-so-modest checks we were now giving to each family.

Before the party he would bivouac himself in our bedroom with a card table, chair, gift wrap, tape, tags, ribbon, and scissors and wrap every present and put a number on it. On a piece of paper, each number corresponded to the gift that was in each package in case he wanted to rig the game for one reason or another. At game time, wearing his Santa hat, Denny might say, Nathan, I have a feeling you might like to pick #7 -- which meant that #7 was something Nathan had wanted for a long time. The exact location of the list of presents with a number was known only by Denny. He didn’t even want “me” to know what all he had purchased because the grab bag had become an expensive extravaganza. We eventually lost complete control of December. When my husband died, he left many sweet memories behind, but he also left me with the grab bag game and another lost December. So I’m trying to get it back.

At first, I changed the Christmas present rules for two reasons: I was terrified that I would run out of money before I died, and second, I wanted to reclaim Christmas. It was so easy. I simply announced it. No family meetings or cautiously worded letters of explanation. I just said, “This is what I’m NOT going to do from now on.” And that’s how this story started. I don’t give Christmas gifts to anyone anymore except the Red Cross, the Women’s Shelter, the City Team Ministry, and a $10.00 gift for the Grab Bag of any party I attend. And even though my kids (four children and eleven grandchildren) have taken me back into the family, I am the only one in our midst who feels no stress at Christmastime. I really don’t. When my friends announce, “What a relief! I’ve got all my shopping done.” With fake exhaustion I say, “Oh yeah, me too.” Later, I turn on the lights of my tree and sit in the dark with a glass of wine while listening to seasonal music. I love it. The only thing missing is someone special to share it. When that happens, and it will, I’ll love Christmas even more than when I was a kid.

Betty Auchard
11/27/05

Fright Night 2005

For the last five years I have turned off the yard lights on Halloween night to encourage cute little kids in costume to pass on by. When my children were still at home, it used to be fun sitting by the front door dressed in disguise while scary screams and ghoulish laughter broadcast from speakers on our porch. Those noises scared costumed bunny rabbit toddlers half to death. After my children grew up and moved away, I no longer enjoyed jumping up and down every time the doorbell rang. But Denny thought it was fun keeping track of the numbers of kids to compare them with attendance from year to year. He didn’t write the new number down anywhere; he just remembered things like that. But after he died, I kept the trick and treat thing going by myself out of obligation to the neighbor kids, and I gained extra pounds every year finishing off the oversized bags of candy. By the third year of answering the door alone, the fun simply wore off. I haven’t celebrated Halloween night for the last five years.

You might ask, “So Betty, what do you DO on Witches Eve if you don’t answer the door?”

For five years I’ve hidden out in the family room at the back of the house watching creepy movies. It takes me back to my childhood in Iowa when I loved the thrill of being scared by spooky radio shows. The Shadow was my hero of the air waves and Boris Karloff was my favorite movie star. So watching these old movies on the Fright Night Channel is what I’ve done for the last five years…but NOT tonight. Tonight, I’m going to a party because I was invited by the residents of a lovely retirement community in my town. I’m even being picked up by their chaplain who will be my driver. He’ll probably dress like a chauffeur. I’ll let you know as soon as I know.

**************************************************************************************

OK. Now I know. I was met at the front door by a mountain of fabric topped off with a buccaneer’s hat and long black dreadlocks to match a black beard. (The chaplain, an Episcopalian priest, had died his white beard.) He was wearing a blousy shirt captured at the waist with a wide belt and silver buckle and a sword dangling over the top of his black pantaloons. The blood-red eye-patch was proof that my chauffeur was Black Beard, the pirate. Black Beard and his throaty grumble greeted me with, “I’m here to ravage and pillage what e’re stands in m’ way and ye, fair lass, are standin’ in m’ way.”

Pretty wild for a priest, don’cha think? But then everything was wild. The event was no ordinary, run-of-the-mill party put on so old folks would have something to do on Halloween Night. Not at all. It was an all-out bash to keep the old folks off the streets since I’m convinced that’s where they would have gone in search of fun. But they did not have to resort to the streets since all the action took place right in their own enormous living room. I had a blast.

Almost everyone who lived or worked there dressed in a well thought out costume, many being finely crafted by hand. There was an Elvis Presley impersonator who must have been 80 bumping and grinding whenever he got the chance. I think his wine kicked in right after his nitro. There was a life-sized spaghetti and meatball dinner that walked among us, and I felt a need to protect myself with a tablecloth when it stood nearby. And there was an 80-year-old couple who must have been very close because he was dressed as a giant-sized electric plug and she was an equally huge electric outlet, and the couple was attached by a heavy duty power cord. They wore a large sign that announced, “WE Are Well-Grounded.” I tipped my hat to them. I myself had used lots of makeup and covered my body in drapey black clothing with a fake fur collar that came to my chin, and a sequined silver head band that transformed me into a 1920’s movie queen. At home I had practiced saying “I vant to be alone,” but once I got to the party, I was having so much fun that I couldn’t bring myself to say it.

There were many city dignitaries at the event and the pirate priest introduce me to the mayor of our town by saying, “Mayor, this is Betty Auchard, author, entertainer, and the most glamorous 75-year old woman I have ever known.” I gasped because I never tell my age. If I had brought my own sword, I would’ve challenged the priest to a duel right there in the living room. I was glad it was too crowded for a fight.

But a duel was not in order at this bash, and fun was the rule for the evening. Food and drink flowed freely. To keep some of the elderly women from getting up and down to refill their champagne glasses, I volunteered to do it for them. Once I started getting refills for ladies, I couldn’t keep up. They were slugging them down. I turned into a waitress and the bartender said, “You again? Where’re you puttin’ it?” I explained that I was refilling glasses for the women with walkers who were beginning to smile all the time. I’m not sure he believed me because I was smiling when I asked for refills.

People were in jolly spirits as their laughter competed with conversation and music. Everyone danced to the live band that was actually three talented senior men who do that sort of thing for extra money. Those guys were so good that I couldn’t keep my feet still. I would love to invite myself to this event next year even though the schedule for the night was a “tad” bit early for partying. Here’s how it went:

4:00 cocktails and dancing in the great room
4:30 costume judging: (Mr & Mrs. Plug and Socket were voted most creative.)
5:00 five course dinner in the dining room
6:00 dancing continues in the dining room
7:00 time for bed

I hugged as many new friends as tight as I could and said good night. When I got home it was so early that I had to sneak into the house to avoid the masked kids who were STILL ringing doorbells. Little Bo Peep leading her sheep dog on a leash caught me as the pirate was dropping me off. She said “Twick oh Tweat.” I said, “Oh Sweetie, we just tried the doorbell, and uh…no one is at home here.”

“Okey dokey,” and off she went. When Bo Peep was out of sight, I hastily waved goodbye to the pirate priest and got inside to turn on the television as fast as I could. I was in the perfect mood for my movies as I found the Fright Night Channel and settled under my afghan and said, “OK, Boris, I’m ready. Scare me.”

Betty Auchard
11/05/05

"York College alumna publishes memoirs

Wednesday, July 6, 2005

By Chrystal Houston
correspondent

Betty Auchard, YC class of 1952, recently published a book entitled Dancing In My Nightgown: The Rhythms of Widowhood. This is Auchard's first book, and it is a humorous and touching journey through her grieving process as she deals with her husband's death and her new life as a widow.

Earlier this month, Auchard won an Independent Publisher award at the annual BOOK EXPO AMERICA, an International conference in New York City. Out of 2200 books, 174 awards were given and Dancing was one that received recognition in the memoir category. Her publisher is now planning a second printing.

Before the award, she had been selling her book only from Stephens Press by way of her website (dancinginmynightgown.com) and in person at her numerous presentations every month.   Now, Dancing in My Nightgown has been picked up by big book sellers such as amazon.com, Barnes and Noble and Borders. This is a significant achievement that represents seven years of writing and polishing her craft. Auchard, a retired high school art teacher, started writing immediately after her husband died seven years ago.

"Writing kept me afloat and affirmed that my experiences were important. I laughed as much as I cried because I wanted to give my emotions equal time," said Auchard.

This vivacious and personable septuagenarian has more experiences to share than she can get down on paper. Auchard presents upbeat programs for "any group that needs a speaker, and all they have to do is ask." She says her presentation is always a little different each time.   But she says, "The theme never changes. My stories are about having a love affair with life, about self-discovery, and learning to be self sufficient. I want both men and women to know that life doesn't have to end after losing a partner and we can regain happiness if we reinvest our emotional energy in something new."

On a recent visit to York for the Legacy Reunion (pre-1956 graduates of York College) Auchard entertained an audience of her former classmates by telling stories from her book and a few more tales about the short time she lived in York, Nebraska.

"Book Expo Report"
-one of Betty's Excellent Adventures

June 5, 2005

BOOK EXPO REPORT to my publishing team

Dear Team: I’ll review the highlights of our eventful weekend at the Book Expo held in New York City on June 2 – 5 where I traveled to receive a finalist award for my book, “Dancing in My Nightgown: The Rhythms of Widowhood.” Two girls in my family, Renee and Bernadette, were the perfect companions for this trip and their presence made a huge difference in my feeling relaxed and supported. Each of us carried one of my books as well as a handful of brochures, unsure who might be receiving any of it, but it seemed like the thing to do. The crush of bodies at the mammoth Javits Conference Center in Manhattan made it hard to determine who was who so we just mingled and decided to share a book and a brochure only if it seemed appropriate and natural. Everyone there was out to sell someone on their product so all three of us played it close to the chest until the right situations occurred. Mostly, we just found out how the event functioned. It was almost overwhelming but very exciting. So many people were there competing with everyone else in an effort to market themselves that I didn’t want to appear to be one of them. I’m uncomfortable with sales pitches.

The first good thing to happen for us was Nina Diamond, long-time columnist for the Independent Publisher Magazine as well as being one of the judges who read my book. She introduced herself to me on Awards night so we could have a good conversation in private. She’s now a fan. She loved my book and stayed up all night to read it only because she couldn’t put it down. She was wonderful to me and wants to keep in close touch regarding some future venues in Austin where she lives. She’s the one who wrote the article called “Confessions of an IPPY Judge” which appeared on their web- site, www.independentpublisher.com Her article is an admirable commentary on the world of publishing.

On Friday night intense huddling with Nina took place several times -- before the awards -- after the awards -- after dinner -- and whenever I took a sweaty break from dancing with the mob of rock ‘n roll fans. She had something new to say each time we chatted and almost passionate about my writing saying, “You’re a wonderful writer, Betty, and you have a great deal of insight.” She said that reading my book was intimate and conversational as though we were sitting in my kitchen having a good chat. Her acceptance of my work was simply wonderful. I’ll never forget Friday night.

Second, my daughter, Renee, got into a Book Expo line quite by accident and decided to stay because she struck up a conversation with a columnist for a small newspaper in Missouri. Chris, the lady columnist, was very interested in the brochure Renee gave her and wanted to buy my book so she
could review it. Renee said, “I happen to have a copy right here in my purse and you may have it.” One book down – two to go. Hopefully, Chris, the columnist, might correspond after she reads “Dancing.”

Third, the woman who replaced our temporary conference badges got very interested in the brochure I had given her saying, “I know so many people who could use this book that I want to order one.” Naturally, I returned later and gave her a signed book, which meant we had one book left. She was genuinely thrilled and promised to start my first East Coast fan club. I know that we’ll stay in touch.

Fourth (and I’m skipping many seemingly insignificant but very personal grass roots exposures for the book), the flight home is one I shall also not forget because I’ve unintentionally started a Jet Blue Airline fan club. Here’s how it happened: Bernadette, my stunning, beautifully dressed, eye-catching daughter-in-law, sat in the aisle seat because she likes to talk to strangers. The same flight attendants recognized us on our flight back home and asked Bernadette how our visit to New York went. Bern told them that it went very well because her mother-in-law (she gestures toward me) had received an award for her book. And that’s when the excitement started. The flight attendants were so intrigued that they got real involved in asking me questions. I had a ball and naturally gave them a signed book and a handful of brochures to share with the “Jet Blue Library for Flight Attendants.” At this point, new contacts aboard flight 174 from New York to San Jose generated too many potential readers to count.

We were in the second row right up where all the action took place. Adrian, the lead attendant, must have spread the word up and down the aisles because people kept going to the bathroom near us so they could meet the author-who-won-an-award in New York City. A senior citizen named Leonard wanted to recite a poem for me to see what I thought of it. Bernadette said, “It depends. Are you single? Do you have a girlfriend?” The fun never stopped and in a very short time I became a minor celebrity aboard Flight 174. Bernadette was like the receptionist at the end of our row and Renee couldn’t stop gasping at all that was happening and said more than once, “I can’t believe this.” It was phenomenal and my face hurt from laughing so much.

When things settled down, Adrian, our flight attendant started reading the book and finally gave it up long enough for his team member to read a little bit. But she said to me, “Your book is awesome, but I can’t read any more until I’m in my hotel room tonight so I can cry while I read.” I told her not to dread it because the sad parts of the book end very early but they HAD to be there.  So Adrian took the book back and read steadfastly before the six-hour flight had ended. Bernadette kept her eyes on all that was happening and gave Renee and me frequent updates whispering, “He’s almost half-way through it and hasn’t looked up for a long time.

At the very end of the flight before saying goodbye to all of us, Adrian made the following announcement: “I want to congratulate Betty Auchard, who received an Independent Publisher Award for her first book, “Dancing in My Nightgown: The Rhythms of Widowhood”, available on amazon.com. Let’s give her a big hand.” And they clapped and clapped and clapped while I tried hard to keep from crying. He whispered to me later, “You ARE on Amazon, aren’t you?” I didn’t want to say “sort of” so I said yes. I’m to send him an extra copy because he said he will send one to Oprah if I send one to Ellen. I promised to do so. Adrian is gay and has lost many close friends to Aids.

Last, a mature, professional looking women, named “Dee” with stylishly short hair, stood up and leaned over her seat to talk to me about speaking to her counseling students as well as for Women’s History Month next March. She gave me her card which showed that she’s a counselor at Foothill College. I said, “Oh, my husband was a counselor trainer at San Jose State. She looked dumbfounded and asked, “What was his name?” I replied, “Denny.” She said, “I KNEW Denny.” Dee had earned her counseling credential at SJSU and Denny was extremely involved in professional organizations. He was a low profile, high profile kinda guy, if that makes any sense to you.

There were many other contacts that I call grass roots people but these that I’ve just written about really stand out in my mind. I’m so glad that my girls went with me to Book Expo of America. I would not have gone alone. I get nervous in a big city by myself. I might have thrown up in a taxi or had a stroke on the subway. Having them with me made me feel supported and made the awards event even more special than it was. The trip was validating, exciting, and exhausting...but an event that I’ll never forget.

Hugs to everyone
-- Betty, still in the clouds.

 

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