how my
own parents were uncomfortable around any discussion of my
sexuality. But Betty-Sue Ford had treated me as family from the
beginning; apparently she was not at all bothered that her son had a
male partner rather than a female one, or that I was nine years older
than him.
After all, none of that mattered to us.
Chris’s family were completely opposite to my own; a big, tumbling,
noisy, messy group of people who talked over each other, argued
good-naturedly and laughed so much. It took much less time than I’d
expected for me to fit right in.
Being Scottish, my own family didn’t celebrate Thanksgiving and
made more of a fuss around the big Christian holidays. For that reason
I could see the trips to Florida in November becoming a regular thing.
In the past six weeks I had learned that Chris was someone who didn’t
just get into the holiday spirit, he flung himself face first into it and dragged along with him anyone who might be looking slightly less
than cheerful. I had managed to reign him in with most of the
decorating in our apartment, coming to an agreement that downstairs,
the decorations would be limited to a tasteful display of glittering
lights on the hallway table. Upstairs, he turned into a sparkling,
tinseled fairy grotto.
The whole of our living room area, which was on the top floor of the
building, was covered in lights and assorted Christmas décor. The tree
(that we’d had to drag up two flights of stairs to get in place) was
covered in fairy lights, decorations hung from the ceiling, tinsel was
draped on any surface that could support tinsel-drapery, baubles and
candy canes and twinkly lights and fake snow on the windows. It was
gaudy. It was horrific.
It was Chris.
So I loved it.
While he continued to bake and sing along to the radio, I grabbed my
new laptop and fired it up to answer some emails while sat at the
breakfast bar, away from his floury hands. Despite the fact that
Christmas break was well underway, I still had the occasional student
sending me an email asking for advice or help with assignments. If I
didn’t have any messages to answer I liked to stay on top of the news
websites.
I wasn’t paying much attention to what Chris was doing, although I
couldn’t help but notice when he switched the trays around in the
oven and his cookies were set out to cool. He seemed to be done, for
today at least.
It didn’t take long for him to do the few dishes and put the kettle on to boil, making a pot of the Christmas coffee I’d picked up that week
when doing our grocery shopping.
“Thanks,” I said as he handed me a mug, hot and strong, as I liked it.
I’d always thought there was something special about being able to
spend time with someone without the need to fill each moment with
conversation. Being with Chris was just easy.
I’d already finished wrapping up most of our gifts, but apparently
Chris had done some last minute shopping without me. After dinner
he spread himself out on the floor in the living room with paper, bows
and confetti to wrap into the layers.
I left him to it, occasionally providing a finger to hold a bit of paper in place before he taped it, and watched the TV while sprawled out on
the sofa. The gift-exchanging celebration with our family and friends
would happen on Boxing Day, a tradition I’d brought with me from
Scotland which Americans did not seem to share. It originated from
the times when people still had servants; on the day after Christmas
they’d be given a box of gifts – usually food or clothes – from the
master of the house. The day was a public holiday in Britain and we
were going to celebrate by inviting almost everyone we knew to
spend the day with us.
For me, the most important part of the holiday would be spending it
with Chloe. In the past year my daughter and I had continued to grow
closer, mostly due to Chris’s intervention. She had turned fifteen over
the summer and was
own parents were uncomfortable around any discussion of my
sexuality. But Betty-Sue Ford had treated me as family from the
beginning; apparently she was not at all bothered that her son had a
male partner rather than a female one, or that I was nine years older
than him.
After all, none of that mattered to us.
Chris’s family were completely opposite to my own; a big, tumbling,
noisy, messy group of people who talked over each other, argued
good-naturedly and laughed so much. It took much less time than I’d
expected for me to fit right in.
Being Scottish, my own family didn’t celebrate Thanksgiving and
made more of a fuss around the big Christian holidays. For that reason
I could see the trips to Florida in November becoming a regular thing.
In the past six weeks I had learned that Chris was someone who didn’t
just get into the holiday spirit, he flung himself face first into it and dragged along with him anyone who might be looking slightly less
than cheerful. I had managed to reign him in with most of the
decorating in our apartment, coming to an agreement that downstairs,
the decorations would be limited to a tasteful display of glittering
lights on the hallway table. Upstairs, he turned into a sparkling,
tinseled fairy grotto.
The whole of our living room area, which was on the top floor of the
building, was covered in lights and assorted Christmas décor. The tree
(that we’d had to drag up two flights of stairs to get in place) was
covered in fairy lights, decorations hung from the ceiling, tinsel was
draped on any surface that could support tinsel-drapery, baubles and
candy canes and twinkly lights and fake snow on the windows. It was
gaudy. It was horrific.
It was Chris.
So I loved it.
While he continued to bake and sing along to the radio, I grabbed my
new laptop and fired it up to answer some emails while sat at the
breakfast bar, away from his floury hands. Despite the fact that
Christmas break was well underway, I still had the occasional student
sending me an email asking for advice or help with assignments. If I
didn’t have any messages to answer I liked to stay on top of the news
websites.
I wasn’t paying much attention to what Chris was doing, although I
couldn’t help but notice when he switched the trays around in the
oven and his cookies were set out to cool. He seemed to be done, for
today at least.
It didn’t take long for him to do the few dishes and put the kettle on to boil, making a pot of the Christmas coffee I’d picked up that week
when doing our grocery shopping.
“Thanks,” I said as he handed me a mug, hot and strong, as I liked it.
I’d always thought there was something special about being able to
spend time with someone without the need to fill each moment with
conversation. Being with Chris was just easy.
I’d already finished wrapping up most of our gifts, but apparently
Chris had done some last minute shopping without me. After dinner
he spread himself out on the floor in the living room with paper, bows
and confetti to wrap into the layers.
I left him to it, occasionally providing a finger to hold a bit of paper in place before he taped it, and watched the TV while sprawled out on
the sofa. The gift-exchanging celebration with our family and friends
would happen on Boxing Day, a tradition I’d brought with me from
Scotland which Americans did not seem to share. It originated from
the times when people still had servants; on the day after Christmas
they’d be given a box of gifts – usually food or clothes – from the
master of the house. The day was a public holiday in Britain and we
were going to celebrate by inviting almost everyone we knew to
spend the day with us.
For me, the most important part of the holiday would be spending it
with Chloe. In the past year my daughter and I had continued to grow
closer, mostly due to Chris’s intervention. She had turned fifteen over
the summer and was
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