Family gatherings … have a scary Christmas

Being Frank, by Frank Ameduri

From about March 1 through about Dec. 15, ask anybody what their favorite holiday memories are and they'll say, "I just love getting together with family, you know, the big dinners, the conversations with people you haven't seen in many years. That's what the holidays are all about." Between Dec. 20 and late February, those people will likely say, "My favorite part is when the visiting clan packs up their loot and heads back to whatever rocks they live under."

The holidays are a special time when we can be reminded of all the reasons why we haven't seen some people in 15 years. Now, you're probably reading this out loud to a loved one or co-worker, and you're both shaking your heads. "What a humbug," you're both saying. It's not true. There are plenty of people with whom I love to spend the holidays -- I just don't want them living at my house for two weeks, drinking out of my milk carton when they think I'm not looking and using the new shaver Santa brought me.

Every family has its own holiday horror story. Everybody does it differently. For the stuffy family the absolute worse holiday is the one when the relatives from Appalachia decided to drive the converted school bus out for the holidays. For the subdued middle-class family it's the year Sis decided to bring Big Daddy and his biker gang out for the festivities.

Our old-fashioned Italian/Catholic Christmases always came with a mixed bag of good and bad. When you get more than 10 of us together, the name thing becomes a problem in itself. All the men are named Uncle John, Uncle Joe or Uncle Frank. If somebody named Bill shows up, everybody just calls him Uncle Joe as a matter of principle. All the women are named Aunt Rose or Aunt Sue, and there's always one Aunt Fanny, just to throw an element of chaos into the mix. All the kids are called derivatives of those names -- Joey, Frankie, Johnny and Rosie. Even the girls whose names are Sue or Fanny are called Rosie … it's a rule. I was not usually called Frankie -- somewhere along the line I became Frink-Frank. It was nice, because I always knew who they were talking to when they said "Hey, Frink-Frank."

At any rate, you can see where the first layer of confusion might begin. There's 50 Italian people packed into a heavily decorated house. There are alcoholic beverages present. At a fairly regular frequency each person thinks of something funny or interesting to share with someone else. They shout across the room to that person. "Hey, John!" Twelve people stop what they're doing and look. Eventually, the correct John is identified, and a new conversation begins.

That's the next thing that throws visitors to our family holiday gatherings off balance. Everybody in the room is required to be involved in at least three different conversations at all times. At least one of the conversations should be a light-hearted reminiscence of bygone times, another should be something generic (like politics, religion or feminism), and another should be a heated argument about an insult that can never be forgiven. At least one of those arguments must deteriorate into fisticuffs for the holiday to be considered official. The interesting thing is that everyone can flow in and out of these conversations with ease, and they always manage to speak in the correct tone for each conversation, no matter how much alcohol has been consumed. People who are witnessing this for the first time often describe it as "what it must be like in an insane asylum when someone forgets to lock up the medication."

Then there's the whole personal space issue at an Italian Christmas. Most Italians are pretty demonstrative. You haven't had Christmas with my family unless you've got the hug bruises to prove it. Again, this is pretty OK with us, but it can be terrifying to first-timers. My family doesn't care who you are, you're going to get hugged … a lot.

So, anyway, what am I saying here? I guess I'm saying we're all a lot smarter between March 1 and Dec. 15, because I sure can't wait to see my family again. The family get-together part of the holidays really is the best part, and I could sure use a good hug bruise right now, Aunt Rosie!

Frank Ameduri only pretends to be a Scrooge. He's just an old softy.