It Wasn't Christmas Without You

Dad was never one to risk the ice—at least when it came to fishing. Even from the comfort of a wooden dock or a boat, waiting for fish to bite wasn’t an activity that moved at his pace of life, though he could be lured out by the invitation of a family friend.

The holes were fun to drill with those dangerous-looking augers. I’d inspect the depth of ice at the drilling area, admiring the sharp edges of the frozen water that held me safe from an icy death. As a little girl, I didn’t think much about death, but I knew I didn’t want to die. Especially not like Joan of Arc. Drowning always sounded terrifying to me, but death by flames worse. I learned about Joan of Arc in the pages of a thick brown history book with vibrantly illustrated pages, where she stood valiantly in a flimsy white dress, calmly facing her destiny as the flames lapped at her ankles. I hoped for a painless passing to the next world. Maybe in my sleep or when I was very, very old and happy.

Out on the lake, there were always plenty of beers flowing and fires being lit. Dad never drank with the guys—I remember that vividly. Occasionally, he’d enjoy an O’Doul’s on the front porch, but I don’t recall ever seeing him have more than a sip of wine or anything alcoholic. He would always say, Drink when you’re happy—never when you’re sad. I wish I could say I’ve honored that advice since his death.

He wasn’t like other dads, and as a little girl, I kinda wished he was. He liked to hold my hand, leave me little notes, and have me ride along in the passenger seat of his pickup truck when he visited job sites—just so he could spend time with me. Little did I know how much I would later appreciate his reserve and wish there were more men in the world like the father I had.

Unlike ice fishing, when it came to hockey, his self-restraint went out the window. At one point, my mother even boycotted games after one-too-many fights on the ice. One particularly memorable game ended in blood-stained stitches at the emergency room—the doctor still suited up in his pads and jersey. In a small town, the guy who delivered the slapshot to the face might be the same one who stitches up your wounds.

Many hours were spent at the local Winter Sports Park on single-digit nights. My cousins and I would line up along the boards, banging the side walls and shouting:

HEY! Zebra man!

Our little minds let the referee’s black-and-white striped jersey guide our crafty insults.

Yeah you! Your calls stink!

They didn’t suck—because that was a bad word—but we didn’t know why. Cold fingers and tingling cheeks getting the better of us, we’d dash back to the lodge. Grandpa Jerry would pour us scalding mugs of watered-down Swiss Miss from his pale green Stanley thermos that looked like it had survived World War II.

Winter in Northern Michigan can be described like a Norman Rockwell painting in all its hometown charm, but the reality of weeks without even a sliver of sunshine can take a toll on even the brightest spirits. November is ripe with anticipation of snowfall, the days grow shorter, and Christmas lingers just around the corner—the pinnacle of holidays in a child’s mind.

You never knew which of Dad’s mercurial moods would strike the day before Christmas. This Santa did not plan ahead. On Christmas morning, Dad would have slept until noon if permitted—but he was not. The boys and I would bang on the bedroom door with our tiny, clenched fists.

Wake up, dad! It’s Christmas! It snowed! We want to open stockings!

Dad loved to surprise and delight. He’d spend Christmas Eve in his workshop or running around our one-stoplight town, buying mysterious gifts. He crafted intricate wooden boxes from lumber scraps, engraving names on the top. Some years, they held hundred-dollar bills or jewelry with rare stones from the Southwest. Other years, a roll of high-quality duct tape or a box of lint-free paper towels. He’d smirk as we struggled to open his tricky boxes—then guffaw as we gave up, revealing a hidden tool to pry open a seam in the grain.

I miss my dad. Daddy issues, I hear, are a thing. It seems that girls with daddy issues are typically looking for a father figure they never had. What about father figures that now exist only as a memory?

The holidays were sweet with the babies this year. Emmy is speeding around on two feet—going on three years old now. Little Eloise and Murphy have joined us in all their chubby baby glory. I love watching my brothers become fathers. Dad would have melted over the girls. If receptionists and gas station attendants took up so much of his time, I can only imagine how much he would have adored his granddaughters.

I didn’t always get along with my dad, but I always loved him. We fought a lot in my teenage years, two strong personalities unwilling to back down over even the smallest issues. There were tears shed on a many a Sunday morning over my fashion choices that he deemed sloppy. Jesus, apparently, frowned upon foam flip-flops paired with spaghetti-strap tops—and so did my dad. He bought me quality leather slides in a wan attempt to curb my trailer-trash taste at 11 years old.

It wasn’t just the little things. It was my disagreement with his decision not to undergo chemotherapy and resistance to any form of alternative therapy. The doctors had used words like months, metastasized, and hospice care. He wasn’t afraid to die, but we were afraid to lose him. Winter always felt long, but not as long as those few months that summer he was sick.

Grieving shouldn’t be called a process—it doesn’t end. There’s no point at which your imagination of what life might have been like stops working. Christmas morning—you see that one coming. Birthdays without a phone call—those are expected. But no one warns you about the Friday afternoons when you suddenly find yourself swallowed up by emotion.

Winter in Northern Michigan passes before you know it. The magic of summer drugs the locals into enduring another four seasons Up North. Grief passes too—but like winter, it always comes back around when you’re just not quite ready to let go of the joy of summer.