Divorce, and the Holidays

The Holidays do not look kindly upon divorce. The Holidays prefer that Mama be in her kerchief and Papa be in his cap, getting along wonderfully, napping frequently.

The season can be particularly difficult for those who have given up trying, but not yet moved on--people in the Limbo of separation--legally still married, but emotionally estranged. Their holiday revolves around scheduling time with the children and dividing up invitations from mutual friends--if, indeed, those invitations come at all any more. No one wants a guest who could potentially displace the mirth of the gathering.

My first home as a separated man, after leaving the antique farmhouse I had lovingly restored, was a beach cottage located on a sand spit between the ocean and a salt marsh. It was the only house on the road not built on pilings. It was protected instead by a V-shaped wooden barrier facing the ocean, designed to redirect storm waves to either side, across the road, and into the marsh. If the high tide was above 11 feet, I had to park my aging Saab on a ramp or risk a salt water bath for my brake linings.

Still, it was the type of place I had always wanted to live. The sound of the waves was constant, and the closeness to nature was intense. On many mornings I’d startle a great blue heron fishing for smelt in the marsh near my car, and his disconcerted squawking would cause me to smile an apology. The sun rose over the ocean and set over the marsh, and the schoolie stripers were around through mid-October. I found the solitude therapeutic, and I could call on nearby friends and family when I began to feel any loneliness.

Suddenly it was late November. On most days, no other cars traveled the beach road. I’d leave for work and return home in the dark. The cottage was warm and snug, but the sound of the waves took on a more foreboding tone. The wind was constant, but on most days, still more invigorating than bitter. Thanksgiving came and went without much agitation; my children, home from school, came with me to my sister’s home, and no one mentioned that one less place than usual had been set at the table.

Then came December, and with it, the feelings of isolation increased. Christmas loomed ahead, bringing with it the fear of feeling like an outcast or a failure. For almost two decades I had slipped downstairs early to light the tree and prepare the camera. This Christmas, I would be waking up alone in a tiny house, the only occupied and decorated house within a half-mile. A small pile of inexpertly-wrapped presents lay under a miniature tree. I had two invitations for Christmas Eve, but waking up alone on Christmas morning worried me. Dark shadows hovered at the edges of my consciousness.

My daughter, ever the genius of empathy, declared that she would be over early Christmas morning with a stocking for me. No, I told her, I had agreed that she would spend Christmas morning with her mother. I’d be fine, I told her. I’d probably sleep in anyway, I lied.

Nevertheless, earlier than had been agreed, my irrepressible daughter showed up on Christmas Day with a stuffed stocking for her Dad. I don’t remember what was in it--some socks, perhaps, maybe shampoo or shaving cream. Probably a CD or two. Whatever was in there, however, was exactly what I needed.

Five years have gone by since then, five Holiday seasons. I live in a different place now. I no longer need a V-shaped barrier to protect me from the storm surge. In the interim, my father has passed away, and another romance has flourished and faded.

As the Holiday season approaches each year, my children make arrangements that ensure that both I and their mother feel their presence and their love. It’s never perfect, but it gets better. It does. It gets better.