I’ve been working with an extraordinarily talented poet named Bertie Moons to help him put together materials for a children’s book of sorts. This is for a poem called Gramps. The poem itself seems to describe what begins as a pretty mundane setting, with an element I think everyone can relate to. Everyone has or had a crazy relative that always managed to do something weird on Christmas morning. Be it giving out unsuitable gifts, eating the turkey like a savage barbarian, everyone has a memory of Christmas that is indelibly etched into our memories – when it might have horrified or been disappointing, but in retrospect, it’s what made Christmas.
In my case, I believe it was my Father’s relentless and uncompromising need to wear a ratty old bathrobe that left little to the imagination for the entire proceedings. One would glance up to thank him for his thoughtful (or entirely last-minute guess) gift, and get a wide-eyed view of far too much. I solved the problem when I realized I could kill two birds with one stone one christmas not long ago, and splurged on a rather large, and incredibly comfortable bathrobe. That’s what makes our Christmas, is the memories. Good or bad.