Christmas, Apparently...
by Butch Maxwell
It's Christmas Eve at 114 Oak Street, and Holly Hartwell has the entire day in a binder: forty-nine laminated tabs covering dietary restrictions (confirmed, suspected, and emotionally motivated), arrival windows, and the correct dessert position of her husband Nick's fruitcake. Then the electrician returns with a follow-up question about the wiring. Then their son Chip arrives an hour early with a girlfriend and...
It's Christmas Eve at 114 Oak Street, and Holly Hartwell has the entire day in a binder: forty-nine laminated tabs covering dietary restrictions (confirmed, suspected, and emotionally motivated), arrival windows, and the correct dessert position of her husband Nick's fruitcake. Then the electrician returns with a follow-up question about the wiring. Then their son Chip arrives an hour early with a girlfriend and a rival fruitcake that is mostly Brazil nuts. Then come five frozen carolers, a delivery driver with an unclaimed package the size of a refrigerator, a professional Santa booked for the wrong street — and their daughter Noelle, newly divorced, still wearing her coat, arranging mugs with a precision that has nothing to do with mugs. Her ex-husband is with the carolers. As the circuits fail, the smoke alarm finds harmony with an uninvited tenor, and an electric butter churn runs off the Christmas village outlet, the binder finally meets the one variable it can't measure. A holiday farce about the people who hold Christmas together and the moment they get to put it down.
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