Many Christmases ago, Dad started “The Mystery Gift” tradition within our family. He would buy something, wrap it, put it on display for us to lift, shake, and feel, and then provide a few clues as to what was inside. Each of us would then submit three guesses. The order in which we listed our guesses was important because if more than one person guessed correctly, whoever had listed their correct answer higher would win. And what would they win? $50 … much to Mom’s chagrin. She was the more frugal of the two and often experienced anxiety at her inability to rein in Dad’s more spendthrift ways, especially at times of the year—like Christmas—when more money than usual was already being expended … like on unnecessary mystery gifts! Dad finally started throwing her a bone by allowing her to have a say in what the mystery gift should be, like much-needed new pillows for the living room couch, or a new cast iron skillet (but that is a story for another time!).
Last year, perhaps inwardly acknowledging that Dad likely wouldn’t make it to another Christmas, my brother Greg instituted a new holiday tradition: “The Christmas Haiku.” We would all submit a Christmas-themed haiku to him, he’d compile them all on one sheet of paper, sans authors, and we’d vote for our favorite with the one rule being you couldn’t vote for your own. The author of the haiku with the most votes would win … you guessed it … $50, paid out by Greg (causing only slight chagrin in his wife, perhaps because she’s much more laid-back than Mom and/or because no additional money had to be laid out for actually acquiring the haikus!).
The first year got off to a slightly bumpy start with disgruntled feelings over some “cheating” (adults helping teenagers) and a number of incorrectly counted syllables, which meant immediate disqualification. (These haikus were to follow a strict 5-7-5 pattern. Period!) But this year the kinks had been smoothed out, with the only possible “disgruntlement” being over just getting one vote; they were all really good and it was difficult to decide which was best. Because this was the first Christmas without Dad, I went with the obvious and wrote the haiku posted above. In fact, I wrote it a few weeks early just to get it off my to-do list because I knew the days immediately before Christmas would be very hectic with Dad’s Celebration of Life service, which I was in charge of, taking place on Dec. 23. [In the future, however (if I hope to win!), it might behoove me to wait until the family has at least gathered for a little bit of time before putting my thoughts down on paper, thus allowing my poetic sentiments to be more specific in their reflections. But more on that in a bit … ]
Dad’s Celebration of Life service was “one for the ages,” as one attendee shared. We were intentional about calling it a celebration of life (i.e. uplifting and inspirational) and not a funeral (i.e. more somber and depressing). Naturally, I wanted lots of stories, first from family and then opening up the floor for others to share. I think it surprised, and unsettled, my siblings when I made it clear that I expected each of them to tell a story, but I held firm (and was grateful that there were four full days for everyone to get used to the idea!). During that time, I shared some possible story ideas that fit into the various categories of Dad’s life I wanted represented. We brainstormed and remembered more tales, laughing, shedding tears, and shaking our heads as we recalled the consternation Dad had frequently caused! We slowly homed in on which stories would be shared on Dec. 23, and by whom. And once I gave whole-hearted permission for people to write down and read their contribution, rather than “performing” it, the last apparent hurdle was cleared. They all did a great job, kicking off each category with their stories, which then opened up the door for other attendees to share their own remembrances. It truly was a service for the ages.
That night, we were all sitting around the kitchen table, the main gathering place at the ol’ homestead. Leftovers from the catered luncheon after the service had been brought out and nibbled on, glasses had been raised, and, of course, more stories shared. At one point, the boys mentioned that the one thing that the service had lacked was the song by Blood, Sweat, and Tears: “And When I Die.” Apparently Dad had mentioned at one point (but never to me!) that he wanted that song played when he died. So, we asked Alexa, who was sitting on the kitchen counter, to play it for us. While it starts and ends on a somewhat melancholy tone, the mood continually shifts throughout with more cheerful and uplifting honkytonk and western interludes interspersed along the way. By the time the more rock-infused bridge arrived (and we were being warned to “look out” for the devil), we were all up on our feet dancing.
And that began almost two hours of continued dancing that required the table and chairs to be pushed up against the wall so as to provide more room for unencumbered bodily expression. Sweaty brows were mopped, and hydrating glasses of water repeatedly poured. Most of us being children/teens/young adults of the 80s, we quickly shifted to that era of music that had so formed us—an eclectic mix of hard rock, pop rock, glam rock, tropical rock, funk, and New Wave—calling out to Alexa to play Bowie, The Kinks, Bon Jovi, The Bangles, Journey, Loverboy, Prince, Queen, Def Leppard, Jimmy Buffet, Elton John, Katrina and the Waves, Pink Floyd, Michael Jackson, Tears for Fears, John Cougar (because that’s how he was known to us back then), The Eurhythmics, Fleetwood Mac … “OK, just one more …” and “Oh, well, now we have to play …” kept the dance party going well past midnight.
I cannot stress enough that we had never done anything even remotely like this before. Ever.
And I’m not sure we ever will again. It was a lot of fun, to be sure, so we might be tempted to try to replicate it. And that would be fine. But I suspect that it’s something that probably can’t be reproduced. That night was a particular moment in time when, hours earlier, we had officially paid tribute to Dad and “sent him off,” so to speak. It was the culmination of almost two years of worrying about him, caring for him, tidying up the many (MANY!) loose ends of his life, and grieving his eventual death. The pressure cooker of sorts all that had created was finally able to release some steam. So in the house of our upbringing, in the room where we had countless times been nourished with food and fellowship, we kinetically let loose with each other to the beats, lyrics, and tunes that had formed and fed us in other ways. It was magical.
So the next day, when it came time for all the submitted haikus to be read and voted on, I wasn’t overly surprised that mine (deemed good, apropos, but kind of a downer) didn’t receive any votes. The clear winner—with five of the eight votes cast—actually came from the one dance party participant who did not grow up in the 80s. She was a blood relative, to be sure, but perhaps it was the generational buffer of being Dad’s grandchild, only seeing him a couple times a year, and not even sharing his last name, that provided her the distance to take in everything with a little more objectivity and, thus, to more accurately capture the true Radosevic zeitgeist of the moment:
And that it was.
In Your Presence Baltimore’s Special Bench Being With Put on Your Dancing Shoes