One of the most vivid memories I have of my Gramma isn't a big Hallmark-moment one:

It was just a day--a Saturday, probably, since I wasn't at school, and it was the middle of the day. My mother, Gramma and I were watching a video. My mother picked up one of the remotes--we had, like, three. The model specific ones that came with tv and vcr, and the ginormous, silver, expensive-as-fuck universal one that controlled the vcr, tv, and the satellites that beamed the tv signals into our home. It was this futuristic behemoth that she appropriated at the beginning of the movie.

Anyway, she rewinds then goes back to normal playback mode. Puts the remote down. A few seconds later, the video rewinds again. My mother picks up the remote and presses play. Doesn't say anything. She thought the button had gotten stuck.

It happens again, a minute later.

Then again.

Then again.

I'm afraid I was the one who finally gave the game away by giggling uncontrollably. My mother looked over at me, then at Gramma, who had the vcr remote hidden on the side of her leg away from my mother . . . who'd obviously forgotten about it, swept up as she was with love for the shinyhuge! universal remote. I dunno if Gramma 'fessed up, or if mom finally twigged on her own, but I do remember all the indignance.

Gramma and I laughed for what felt like hours, while my mom--I won't say fumed, but there was minor sulkage and definite poutage. To this day, she, if I bring it up, she gets this snooty look on her face and says we ganged up on her.

Probably true. But no less funny for it. At least to me. As practical jokes go, it was probably lame, the sort of thing a little kid would go gaga over. I'm sure there are funner, happier moments than that. There're certainly worse (like the time my Gramma accidentally locked me in the cellar; mom sent me to get something and my Gramma didn't realize I was down there, saw the open door, closed it and turned off the light. I must've been down there screaming and crying for all of ninety seconds before anyone missed me).

It's one of the best memories I have of my Gramma. There are probably a hundred that, with some prompting, I could retrieve, but this is one of the few that's never been far from my mind. I couldn't have been more than eight years old, but I remember it a lot more clearly than many other things that've happened more recently.

I guess I'm just thinking about her more since it's getting close to Christmas. On December 23rd, 1990, she told me that she was dying, all calm and patient, even when I started blubbering on her and leaking from various parts of my face. She'd been sick for over a year, by that point, so I don't know why I was so surprised and hurt. Anyone with a lick of sense could've seen the end was nigh for her.

She died December 30th.

Despite that, I remember that aside from a few somber moments--very few, since I determinedly put what she'd said out of my mind--it was a very Christmas-y Christmas. Or maybe it just seemed that way because it was the last I had with her. The Christmases after that were--I haven't really had a Christmas-y Christmas since then. Some were better than others, in terms of quality of presents or whether or not there was anything decent on tv.

But whatever that sappy, Chrsistmas spirit is, I think 1990 was the last year I felt it. Now, Christmas is just Xmas, another federal holiday. I'm glad I don't have to work/go to school/change out of my pjs. Glad if I get pressies, but cool with it if I don't. But I don't feel that feeling. It's like I don't know how anymore, and maybe that should bother me. Maybe, whether it's Christmas Day, Solstice, Channukah--National Atheist Gathering Day, whatever, maybe everyone should get have that one day a year where they feel all Christmas-y and kindly toward their fellow man.

This has been an exceptionally long week. I haven't gone out and gotten shit-faced since May. I think tonight's a good night to do so. Hasta luego and Happy hols, if I forget to say it over the next few weeks.