The trouble with traditions is, once you start them, you have to keep them going.
Actually, I can’t take credit for starting the tradition of the sweet storybooks. That honor belongs to my Little Aunt Marge (as opposed to Big Aunt Marge, whose Christmas presents are a whole ‘nother story).
As a child, every Christmas I eagerly anticipated my own personal “book” filled with rolls of hard candy in ten different flavors, including the “grown-up” ones like wintergreen and butter rum.
For a couple of weeks, at least, I didn’t need to sneak into my mother’s coat pockets or beg her to release from her purse those precious candies.
So, as my nephews and nieces were born, I decided to carry on the tradition of the sweet storybooks. I will tell you, however, when the count of my siblings’ progeny increased to eight, getting those books became something of a challenge.
It has been rare, these past few Christmases, when I have been able to get all of the books at the same store. As soon as the Christmas goodies fill the shelves (this year, before Halloween), these little books seem to be gobbled up overnight. Most stores don’t restock them.
This year, I am proud to say, I got all of my books all in one place, but I had to buy them before Thanksgiving. So, I broke one tradition, not officially starting my shopping until after Thanksgiving, in order to ensure another.
This year, these books are especially meaningful.
I still remember last Christmas, how my nephew, Matthew, teased me about those storybooks. He was a grown man, after all: 27 years old. He had his own house and a good job. But Aunt Mary was still buying him one of those storybooks.
In May, we lost Matthew to a heroin overdose.
And my grief is peculiar. It’s the little things that ambush me. I have been fretting about those darn storybooks almost from the day of his funeral. I could not bear the thought of walking out of the store with less than eight storybooks.
Tradition, you see. I had promised myself that I would buy “the kids” these books until they were 30 or until they had children of their own.
Last Christmas, and all the previous Christmases for 27 years, I never would have guessed that someone might be gone.
But I believe that Matthew is still with us, just in a better place and waiting to tease me, once again, someday.
So, I guess you know what happened with those storybooks this year.
I bought eight.
Fox writes from Cape May.
