That's my Christmas entry in the legendary (it turns out urban-legendary) six-word-story contest that Ernest Hemingway won with "For sale, Baby shoes, Never worn."  It has just as much emotion and sadness pent up in those fourteen syllables from the past fourteen or so hours and a period like it a month ago.

The days to get it down to 363 are the last Thursday in November and the 24th of December- each the culmination of modern-day morphs of traditional harvest and solstice festivals, all co-opted by retail and media into virtual orgies of conspicuous consumption.

For anyone, it's got to be difficult.  For those of us- as did both of us- who came from families with emotional issues surrounding these holidays, it's far worse.  We've passed it on to our daughter as certainly as she got my blue eyes and Mom's artistic skills; and it's magnified (as in setting-ants-on-fire magnifying) by her boyfriend coming from his own two semi-families who mess with his head as well as Emily's around these times.

At Thanksgiving, they brought it in with them.   You may have read the whys and wherefores of it elsewhere; they're not necessary to you understanding the pain everyone felt.  Eleanor and I took major steps over the ensuing month to help Emily deal with what she was feeling and needed to do. We are continuing those efforts. By the time they left last month, all was well.

Until it wasn't- and another round of Holiday Emotional Roulette began last night. We all said, did or didn't do things that are now regretted.  Again, you may see greater specifics, but you don't need to. By mid-morning, kinder words had been exchanged, Eleanor and I recommitted to helping Emily understand and respond to what has been going on, and for now, all is calm, all is relatively bright.

And there is one thing all four of us have absolutely agreed on: these days have got to go.

I thought we had this.  By eliminating the demands of the days- no food-coma dinners, no decorations, no deals (big) being made- could we get through these pages of the calendar without driving each other crazy?

Answer: no.  So here's the new plan- to simply make the question go away.

Beginning next year, Eleanor and I will avail ourselves of a simple, if local, solution to the triggers and traumas of Turkey Day: it's called Canada.  They have their harvest festival over a month earlier on our Murder of Indigenous Peoples Day weekend. Their last Thursday in November is, well, the last Thursday in November, eh?  One border crossing, a nice dinner out for the two of us- of something other than an overstuffed poultry with all the trimmings- and then a movie or show of some sort.  The kids can do their own things and, if they need to escape the other rents' holiday issues, our home will be here and quiet for them to retreat to.

Christmas Eve?  Out to a Chinese restaurant and a cinema.  Just like Jews will have been doing for over 4700 years;)

The other 363 days of the year, we will be here, and here for them.  But we can't continue these family traditions just because Hallmark and Wal-Mart are pushing us to.

Enjoy your own celebrations, however and however big you wish them.  Please be understanding of our need to be a little different, though.