Debby Does…

Just for shits and giggles, I started watching some Christmas movies and taking notes. I’m not a huge aficionado of these films, but I have been known to watch one or two a season. Over the past few weeks, I have more than doubled my usual intake of empty coffee cups, disillusioned city folks, and orphans being cared for by a wealthy, bitter uncle just waiting to be saved by the Christmas spirit.

Please don’t get me wrong. I cry all the time at the end of these movies. I have a very leaky cry switch. It has no standards.

Once I started writing about my impressions and thoughts on my @debbydoes Facebook page, I got a lot of recommendations for movies to watch next. I’ve been working my way through a few and enjoying some aspects, like the Easter eggs of cultural references buried in the scenes and out in the open. I can tell that these writers have watched a lot of The Gilmore Girls. Same. Same.

Highly recommended to me by someone near and dear to my heart was Haul Out the Holly from 2022, starring the irrepressible Lacey Chabert, my husband’s favorite. Some other familiar faces are there too: Ellen Travolta, Melissa Peterman, Peter Jacobson, and Stephen Tobolowsky, who I just adored on the reboot of One Day at a Time. These seasoned actors definitely elevate the material which is, and this is not up for debate, not Pulitzer worthy, but that’s not what folks are looking for in these movies.

If you haven’t seen Haul Out the Holly, the plot is easily accessible online, so I won’t waste time with it. What I will say is that Christmas pressure is real in this one and it found a tender wound.

Special lines: fun and duty can be the same; Is Christmas really the longest to do list of all time?; you’re a lackadaisical Leslie; I feel like I finally know what the FOMO feels like; I’m just a girl standing in front of a boy asking him to be the most perfect Santa Claus; it’s no thread outta my bobbin.

There’s a lot of competition, expectation, and what looks to be hoarding—the holiday edition, to me.

I even watched the sequel Haul Out the Holly, Lit Up. Cried at the end again, but still felt really uncomfortable with what I was watching.

I guess I am just not that good at suspending reality.

The truth is that the holidays are really messy for a lot of people. I’m one of them. As a kid with divorced parents, I always had to leave wherever I was to go to my dad’s or the other grandparents’. There was a constant undercurrent of resentment and tension, not to mention the exhaustion of my mom’s best efforts to make her 1970’s teacher’s salary stretch enough to make it special. All of that settles in your soul and becomes part of how you approach Christmas.

My grandmother, who was my kindred spirit, died just a few days before Christmas during my junior year in high school. She had just undergone a procedure for atherosclerosis and, upon coming home from the hospital, had a massive stroke. She lived, on life support, for a few days and then slipped away once the machines were turned off. I will never forget how it happened. I was at their house getting ready for my winter concert for school and I had a very big solo. I was on the phone with a friend, when she picked up the receiver to call her brother. I got off my call, ran down to tell her, and she made her call. About 30 minutes later, my mother rushed into the house, threw open her bedroom door, and she was all but gone. The ambulance came, my mom and grandfather went to the hospital, and two of my mom’s friends picked me up to go to the concert. I thought I would never survive.

But I did.

It wasn’t pretty, but, then, grief never is. I lost 15 pounds, my hair starting falling out, and I struggled to find my footing.

But I did.

The next year, my grandfather died four days before Thanksgiving. I found out from two student life advisors in my dorm on an early Sunday morning. My mom called them, so I wouldn’t be alone when she told me.

From that point on, we overcompensated at Christmas. I’ve never seen so many gifts. We hosted massive and expensive parties. We eschewed simplicity and true connection and embraced excess. We hid from ourselves.

And then, one year, we were done with that.

We all agreed that it was the time together, the experiences, the sweetness, the laughter, and the joy mixed with sadness that was real. And so began our many years of Christmasing on Sanibel Island. There were no gifts, no extravagant parties. Maybe there was a nice dinner out together or a celebration of the Feast of the Seven Bacons (more on that at a later date). Our tree held no designer ornaments, just broken shells and mismatched lights that we shipped down ahead of our arrival. We watched VHS tapes with questionable tracking and the yule log on TV. We shelled at dawn and toasted the sunset in the evening. It was blissful. It was restorative. It was a time for reflection, remembering, reenergizing, and rest. It was also a time for rejoicing. We never forgot that part. We were lucky to be together and to love each other so much.

Then, my mom died, and I find myself struggling to get my bearings at Christmas.

What I do know is that it’s not about the size of your nutcracker (that’s not a euphemism), the number of lights on your tree, or the value of the gifts you receive. I worry there are people, whose hearts are broken from the cruelty of life, that may look at those movies and feel less, incomplete, and like Christmas and joy will never live inside them again. I understand that feeling. I said as much the other day.

Will I ever truly know joy again?

I will. My soul is still healing. I love seeing the twinkling lights and unwrapping the little things that were my mom’s and her parents’. I feel so grateful that I can still invite them into my home and my heart each year. I don’t need to recreate a perfect Christmas. The perfect Christmas for me is bound to be perfectly imperfect with a balance of laughter, nostalgia, and tears.

The bottom line? Your Christmas doesn’t need to measure up. Not to the past, not to your friends, not to your neighbors, not even to your own expectations. There’s nothing wrong with a bit of ugly and a less than savory moment or two (or three or four). You are under no obligation to be the Jolly Johnsons, to win the cookie contest, or create the perfect holiday photo/gingerbread house/charcuterie chalet (this is a thing).

The only thing I ask you to do is to cradle your sweet heart as gently, kindly, and carefully as you do that most precious ornament.

Love you. Warts and all.
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I know some of you want some movie notes. Here are a few:

There was real hot chocolate in a cup!!! There was Johnny Mathis singing in the first one and Angela Lansbury in the sequel! They watched a Hallmark movie within a Hallmark movie!! They sort of alluded to a secret society—like the Masons??? The sequel had a funny bit about Cruller vs Crueller. I learned new words (not really) like Santology and citate. The guy buying the engagement ring was named Jared, and I wondered if Jared bought it at Jared.

I have officially retired from this endeavor.