I sometimes strongly dislike summer in San Francisco. It's not the weather itself that gets me down, though I do appreciate the occasional trip to a sun-drenched, warmth-radiating park somewhere outside the city to reminder me that this is the season of breaks from school, barbecues and trying to cool off. No, it's that summer here, with its low-hanging clouds reflecting the light in such a soft, white hue, reminds me of Christmas at home.
And it's not Christmas at home, per se, that tugs my heart into a funk. It's that Christmas just isn't what it used to be. Time was that the reflections of the fog might have made me giddy with expectation of the festive season five or six months forward, with its baked-apple-scented craft fairs, its Johnny-Mathis-crooning record players, its red-and-green-foiled-wrapped packages under earthy, ornament-laden pine trees. I've always loved those parts of Christmas -- and I hope I always will, though wonder seems to fade with each passing year. But Christmas now comes also with a snack-plate-sized helping of heartache, a missing of things that weren't and now won't be, and with an overall shroud of gloom, along the lines of the sadness brought by the mention of "he-who-must-not-be-named" in the last Harry Potter books.
Since my grandfather passed away three years ago, Christmas -- and, for me, Christmas-in-August, a.k.a. summer in San Francisco -- has been several levels of tough. There's the absence he leaves behind, of course. That uniting voice, the one everyone looked to, the one secretly keeping family members in line, gatherings running like clockwork, food on the table and presents in stockings for the first 26 years of my life. There's also the absence of a full-family Christmas, something I'd always dreamed of but will never have: grandparents, parents, aunt and uncle, brother, self and all significant others of the youngest generation, all under one roof together. It just wan't meant to be.
More presently painful, though, is the family rift that's broken out. After years of daily phone calls -- and, after my grandfather's death, near-daily visits -- two of my closest family members had the kind of fight that leads to vows of silence. They haven't spoken in two years. Trips home now can be a careful dance, something I imagine kids with divorced parents go through: Saturday afternoon at one house, Sunday morning at another, trying to squeeze in a half-hour visit here, all while trying to prevent any feelings of neglect. Gone are the large, beer-soaked gatherings; there's no pick-up baseball games, no penny poker games. It's still nice to be home -- but visits are quiet, with unspoken questions and tensions hiding just below the surface.
In San Francisco, thousands of miles away, I can escape this heart-tug on most days. I can sink myself into my work, a hike, a new movie, a great meal. That is until that fog rolls in and I start waking up, not to lazy August sunshine and dreams of one last trip to the beach, but to hazy carol-tinged memories of what was and longings for memories that won't be.
And it's not Christmas at home, per se, that tugs my heart into a funk. It's that Christmas just isn't what it used to be. Time was that the reflections of the fog might have made me giddy with expectation of the festive season five or six months forward, with its baked-apple-scented craft fairs, its Johnny-Mathis-crooning record players, its red-and-green-foiled-wrapped packages under earthy, ornament-laden pine trees. I've always loved those parts of Christmas -- and I hope I always will, though wonder seems to fade with each passing year. But Christmas now comes also with a snack-plate-sized helping of heartache, a missing of things that weren't and now won't be, and with an overall shroud of gloom, along the lines of the sadness brought by the mention of "he-who-must-not-be-named" in the last Harry Potter books.
Since my grandfather passed away three years ago, Christmas -- and, for me, Christmas-in-August, a.k.a. summer in San Francisco -- has been several levels of tough. There's the absence he leaves behind, of course. That uniting voice, the one everyone looked to, the one secretly keeping family members in line, gatherings running like clockwork, food on the table and presents in stockings for the first 26 years of my life. There's also the absence of a full-family Christmas, something I'd always dreamed of but will never have: grandparents, parents, aunt and uncle, brother, self and all significant others of the youngest generation, all under one roof together. It just wan't meant to be.
More presently painful, though, is the family rift that's broken out. After years of daily phone calls -- and, after my grandfather's death, near-daily visits -- two of my closest family members had the kind of fight that leads to vows of silence. They haven't spoken in two years. Trips home now can be a careful dance, something I imagine kids with divorced parents go through: Saturday afternoon at one house, Sunday morning at another, trying to squeeze in a half-hour visit here, all while trying to prevent any feelings of neglect. Gone are the large, beer-soaked gatherings; there's no pick-up baseball games, no penny poker games. It's still nice to be home -- but visits are quiet, with unspoken questions and tensions hiding just below the surface.
In San Francisco, thousands of miles away, I can escape this heart-tug on most days. I can sink myself into my work, a hike, a new movie, a great meal. That is until that fog rolls in and I start waking up, not to lazy August sunshine and dreams of one last trip to the beach, but to hazy carol-tinged memories of what was and longings for memories that won't be.
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