Christmas cards: A story about the tragedy and hilarity behind years of lies and triumphs
Guest Column by Rebecca Cooney
Picture day at the Christmas tree farm
It is a cold mid-November day in the 1980s. We are in the family Pontiac station wagon we called the “old jar of peanut butter.” Seven of us are crammed into the car – my father driving with mom at shotgun, my teenage brothers in the middle and my sister and me in the rear-facing back seat. Christmas carols play on the warbly AM-only radio while mom chatters to no one about all the help she will need when we get home.
Grumbles fall under breaths as we pull into the vast parking lot of the Moraga Christmas Tree Farm. It’s another year of schlepping in our rain boots to the middle of nowhere to watch dad measure and remeasure every tree in the lot. This is the real deal. Trees must be fresh and chopped by the men. But that is not the main reason we are here.
Today is picture day my friends. And it WILL BE perfect. We are dressed in coordinated outfits; hair affixed just right. The boys are freshly shaven, the girls are primmed. And “By George!”, there will be open eyes and teeth in those grins. Whether rain or sleet or snow – complaints are not welcome here. Oh no – this is mom’s annual moment and we are a HAPPY HAPPY family.
After an hour of wandering the rows of too-tall, too-short, too-bruised timber, dad finally decides on a tree. The tripod and camera are set up. We are cold; we are wet; spirits are falling. She lines us up in front of the winning shrubbery – short ones in the front, taller ones in the back, a place for dad after he sets the :15 automatic timer on the camera. And the countdown begins. 15-14-13….the light is blinking… 8-7-6-5… “Say cheese everyone!” says my mother. Click! She groans. Somebody moved, another was looking down. This little dance repeats 5, 10, 15 times as the deterioration of my siblings’ dispositions escalates. We fidget, pinch each other, fall in the mud as tempers flare and pushing ensues. Through clenched teeth mom says with exasperation – “smile or you die.” And there it is. Another year of Christmas cheer.
An origin story of the annual family Christmas card
I am the youngest in a family of seven – a blended brood with three boys, two girls, and two parents at the helm. As born-again Christians, my mom and dad took Christmas very seriously. They went all-out. So, by the time I was born, my mother was on year 13 of her devotion to putting together annual Christmas cards complete with a family photo, long letter, and religious-themed poem. She is now 81 years old, and this tradition lives on.
The setting for the annual Dietzman family Christmas photo varied. Most years it was at the Christmas tree farm or our backyard among unraked autumn leaves and dog poop. One year it was taken at the edge of my aunt’s pool – a big risk given the siblings’ inability to behave with decorum.
My favorite is the year we were in front of a large iron gate fence that had zero affiliation with our day-to-day operations. Why? I have no idea. Through the years our photos showcased bad perms, too-long sideburns, my sister’s unfortunate Goth phase, and various dogs or cats who stayed calm long enough to make an appearance. Attire was almost always coordinated but without fail, the one who looked the most fabulous was my mother. Decked to the nines in her mixed knit finery, stylish slacks, and perfectly coiffed hairdo – this woman was not messing around.
Without fail, the final selected photo out of dozens taken in each dreaded photo session would showcase dear mama lookin’ like the queen she is. The rest of us could be picking our nose, mid-sneeze, or looking off in the distance. But come hell or high water, she would look amazing.
Accompanying this charming image in the holiday envelope is the illustrious annual Christmas letter – the personification of both lies and triumphs. These were pure comedy, I assure you. Written in first person and often without the consultation of her husband or children, my mother would weave a quilt of truth-adjacent exaggerations mixed with action shots and pull-out scripture quotes.
Lies and triumphs personified
As I put together this little story, I looked at some of these past treasures so I could refresh my memory and grab a few quotable gems. One from 2001 opens with the joys of my dad’s recent retirement, highlights of my parent’s move from southern California to eastern Washington, the celebration of their 40th wedding anniversary, and to top it off – the great over-share of my mother’s rotator cuff surgery. Then we get the “news on extended family.”
According to this letter my brother is “serving the Lord” as pastor of missions at his church in northern California. My sister [who at this point on husband No. 3 but this is of course not included] is living it up in southern California with their two dogs [that tear up the house] and cat. My 7-year-old nephew is described as a “real whiz-kid” who has been enrolled in the GATE program. He was a bright child for sure – but this title! In this same breath the letter also comments that my sister and her son “read the Bible and pray together every night.” To this I say, “Huh?” On to paragraph No. 4 where I am highlighted with my now-former husband and our 18-month-old daughter. Our section is pretty benign, but I do appreciate the unnecessary mention of our devotion to Christ and regular church attendance with a buried side note that we were in the process of buying our first home. The final paragraph features news about my other two brothers and their families. Here the “sweet dispositions” of children are mentioned along with job updates of the two grown men. The letter closes out with a very detailed collage of too-small images of my parents, siblings, nieces, nephews, and pets.
The last item in the envelope is the annual Christmas poem – a special add-on that my mom writes every year. They are always Christian-centric, include the birth of Jesus, and without fail, mention some sort of barn animal in the vicinity.
What is most endearing about the annual Christmas photo, letter, and subsequent poem is the valiant effort of my dear mother to present this often-fractured family in the best light. And who can blame her? The truth is that over the years my mother contended with divorces and relationship break-ups, job crises, ungrateful children and grandchildren, obnoxious relatives, and the loss of loved ones. But haven’t we all? Imagine if we all wrote the REAL story in our letters? Wouldn’t that be a form of comedy in itself?
So, I write this in tribute and gentle jest – an ode to my mom and her devotion of more than 65 years of coordinating annual Christmas photos, writing the best letter she could muster, and sharing her lovely poetic talents.
I close with one of her early poems from 1976:
WHAT GIFT CAN I GIVE?
Bright candles on a holly wreath
Beside a sparkling Christmas tree,
Where gay-wrapped packages beneath
Invoke excitement, mystery.
Joyous carols fill the air,
Stores abound with things to buy,
Puzzles, games, a fuzzy bear,
Cars that roar and dolls that cry.
Eager children, grown-ups, too,
All desire some special treat,
Hoping wishes will come true,
To make each holiday complete.
What hidden message lingers here,
Within each festive, jolly scene?
Through all the frolic, fun and cheer,
What does “Christmas” really mean?
The Bible tells the story of
The Babe, a Virgin would conceive,
He was to be God’s gift of love,
for all the world to receive.
Three wise men travelled from afar,
Searching for this special King.
They journeyed toward a glorious star,
Their priceless treasures for to bring.
Shepherds resting in the night,
All alert to pending danger,
Followed angels taking flight,
To worship at a lowly manger.
In that simple cattle stall,
Upon a bed of softest hay,
Lay Baby Jesus, Lord of all,
The precious Gift of Christmas Day.
What present could I give the King
That would be worthy to impart?
My worship, praise and love I bring,
The priceless treasure of my heart.
C.D., 1976
