Christmas is my favorite time of the year. Not because of the presents
or the rusted, fake Christmas tree that stood tall in our living room, but
because it was the one time of the year that our family would all come
together. We’d sit down at the big dining room table (that as kids we weren’t
allowed to eat at unless it was a special event) and share a meal together.
When I was young, it was before about half of my aunts and uncles had gotten
married, so we could still reasonably fit everyone at the same table.
There was no “kids” table in our house. At least not in the traditional
sense. A lot of times my uncles would eat in the kitchen to avoid the calamity
of politics, music and art talks coming from the women of the family. There was
one year that one of my aunts even launched a plate of food in protest to some
topic. I can’t remember if it was Aunt Laura or Aunt Kathy that did it, but it
really could be either of them. Something that I’ve always loved about the
Pryzgodas is that they are a passionate bunch. When someone in my family
believes in something, be it an idea or theology, they will argue it to the end
with all the passion and righteousness of a stereotypical evangelist.
The disagreements were not always about religion, but ranged from philosophy
to what order you’re supposed to use the dinner forks in. It was glorious.
Around Christmas, our house was filled with laughter and pointless arguments. I
always felt a little bad for the boyfriends or girlfriends that were dragged
along for Christmas festivities. Some of them would sit stock still, staring
with wide eyes at the insanity that was our family. Others embraced it and
became part of the chaos. Those are the ones that I now call aunts and uncles.
Like Uncle Steve. My first encounter with Uncle Steve, aside from the
pleasantries of initially meeting him, took place at 6 AM on Christmas morning.
Sam was sitting diligently by the pile of presents from Santa, waiting for Mom
to get up and I had gone into the kitchen to make Mom a cup of coffee. As an
aside, my mother would pretend she was sleeping on Christmas morning until one
of us delivered a cup of coffee to her. Then she would begrudgingly get up and
go downstairs, with a small hidden smile, and present opening time began. I
found out about two weeks ago that she had been “faking it” my entire young
life. Go, Mom.
Anyway, I walked into the kitchen and I saw Steve leaning into our
refrigerator, bare foot with a t-shirt and pajama pants on. There was a pot of
coffee already brewing and I stood staring a moment at the stranger before he
leaned out of the fridge. He had a plate of left overs in one hand and was
taking a bite out of a whole kielbasa. Without missing a beat after spotting me
staring at him, Steve pulled the kielbasa away from his face and offered it
toward me, “Want some?”
He was definitely part of the family.
