You And Yours

by John Christmann

Here is what I don’t get about Holiday cards: why do we have to send them during the holidays? Why can’t we send them during a month that doesn’t have holidays, like say August, when all we are doing is drinking beer on scratchy beach sand? I mean, it’s not like we don’t have enough to do at this time of year without posing unwilling children for a cute picture or writing creative essays about how great the year has been. I don’t know about you, but the last thing I need in December is an art project. And going to the post office to get stamps? Forget about it.

Like many traditions, sending cards during the holidays endures, even though the activity itself can feel more like plucking pine needles from the carpet or enduring massive headaches after festive parties. But as stressful as it is to get them out, I must admit it is fun to receive them year after year, which I suppose is what they are all about. Even so, many of the cards I receive make me feel more like an underachiever than a cheerful recipient of good tidings. You see, it is usually at this most reflective time of year—when I am assessing the damage to my credit cards and the future of my children’s education—that I am sweetly informed that my old acquaintances, who should not be forgot, are busy acquiring second homes in the Bahamas and raising photogenic children who are Nobel laureates, Broadway actors, and Olympians.

Call me wretched, but I would take great glee if just once I received a card with an unflattering photo and a note which read something like:

What a year it has been! Our son Joey finished his term at County Correctional with time off for good behavior (we were so relieved!), our daughter Misty graduated from high school with a 2.4 grade average (she still hopes to become a professional wrestler after the baby is born!), and Grandma, bless her heart, is still with us and none the worse for wear after little Billy decorated her with Christmas lights and accidentally set her on fire. We feel so blessed.

OK, call me pathetic too.

When I was a boy my mom spent long December hours signing scores of ornate Christmas cards, often writing personal notes to friends until her hands cramped. I remember once looking at one of the cards. It was sitting open on the dining room table next to a large stack still waiting to be addressed. The card said something sweet like, Wishing You and Yours a Special Holiday Season. It was written in large swirling script that I could barely read. The rest of the card was filled with my mom’s chicken scratch, which was completely illegible and detracted significantly from the grand impact of the stately card.

“Who is it to?” I asked my mom.
“It’s to an old friend I haven’t seen in years.”
“Why does it say Wishing You and Yours? Who are Yours?”
My mom was completely engrossed in completing the card. “Who are my what?” she replied scribbling furiously.
“Not What! Yours! It says You and Yours! Who are Yours?”
“Whose?”

It went on like this for a few minutes until she finally stopped writing and listened to what I was asking.
“You and Yours is an old expression,” she explained. “No one uses it much anymore. The only time I ever see it is in Christmas cards. It means to you and your loved ones.”
“Why doesn’t it just say to You and Your Loved Ones?” I asked.
“Because then it wouldn’t sound like a Christmas card,” she replied, putting her chaotic pen back to work.

Over the holidays we collected lots of cards. I kind of liked being a Yours. It made me feel special. My mom tacked them to a felt Christmas tree that hung from a bent nail in the hall. They were shiny and had all sorts of winter scenes. Some had gold and silver trim that glinted in the light. I thought they might be valuable and secretly took one and hid it in my sock drawer until I could locate a black market for such a thing. Months later my mom found it and puzzled over it for days. I have no idea how it got there, I said. I used that excuse a lot over the years.

As I became a young adult on my own I actually started receiving cards; first from relatives and coworkers, then slowly from friends—usually women, because unlike me and my male friends, they were selfless and thoughtful. At the time I was single and didn’t have any Yours hanging around my apartment, and being barely out of adolescence, a condition I still suffer from today, I laughed out loud every time I received a card wishing me and mine the happiest of New Years. I blamed this response on a hygiene teacher in Junior High who ended each gym period with the embarrassing directive, “OK men, take you and yours into the shower.”

Slowly, as my male friends became married, I started getting cards from them too. Most were written by their wives, and for awhile it was awkward receiving their warmest greetings extended to me and my gym shorts.

Over time I felt obligated to send cards out myself, at least to those that kept me on their list year after year. But by this time I had developed very specific thoughts about Holiday cards. They should be non-denominational. They should not be overly sentimental or retreat to worn Dickensian phrases like You and Yours. They should be humorous and reflect who I really was: a juvenile at heart. And they should be readily obtainable after Christmas, because that is when I got around to sending them.

As the world matured around me, I noticed that the Holiday cards I was receiving were becoming more sophisticated. They often included beautiful photographs—airbrushed and cropped—accompanied by carefully written Holiday letters glowing with the accomplishments of each and every family member. These were the portraits of perfect families. For a while I attributed this not to the communicativeness of my friends or to the growing richness of their life experiences, but to their mastery of the computer. But to be honest, I was embarrassed. Because here I was, without Yours or noteworthy success, still scrounging for cards in the sale bin at Walgreens and valiantly trying to get them out before Valentines Day.

When I got married, things changed dramatically for the better. Despite my questionable contribution, I now was part of a perfect family, which only grew more perfect as we had children. I now had a house full of wonderful Yours, and despite the rather inconvenient timing, the holidays were my turn to gloat. I told my wife in no uncertain terms my views on the important attributes of a good holiday card—humor, optimism, nothing too syrupy or over sentimental . . . inexpensive. She happily handed me a stack of paper and a bunch of crayons. “OK funny man,” she said, “get to it.” It has been my job ever since.

So here I am. It is a few days before Christmas and I still have not sent out our annual holiday card. For once, I don’t know what I want to say. I have mastered the point and click digital camera, I have significant expertise in digital editing software, I can spell check and change fonts, I even know how to replace ink cartridges in the printer. I am in complete control of my family’s legacy for the year, and can easily edit out those bad stretches that were marked by worry, setbacks, tears, and really bad hair cuts. If I want I can swell with pride and create perfection . . .

On the cover of a heavy card threaded with a silver ribbon we are standing in front of a Christmas tree. Behind us is our second home, Buckingham Palace. Behind that, in the distance, are the great pyramids. I look surprisingly like George Clooney; my wife like Heidi Klum. Our kids are smiling broadly. My oldest son is holding up the eight gold medals he won this summer in Beijing. My daughter is seated at a table signing Harry Potter books. My younger son is holding his hands triumphantly in the air—he was recently elected the first black president of the United States you know . . .

Or I can create something a little more modest; because in truth, during this season in particular, I feel different. This year I feel the very real need to touch those people who are important to me, whether I have known them for thirty days, thirty months, or thirty years. I realize it is not perfection that I want to convey, just as it is not really perfection that I have received from so many acquaintances over the years—it is simply the connection with caring people that makes my life feel full and continuous. It is the warmth that a beautiful font can’t possibly convey and an airbrush can’t possibly improve. This is the card I want to send.

And so I search my files and find a picture of the kids taken over the summer. It is poorly lit and awkwardly posed, for although I have mastered the digital camera, I have not mastered the art of photography. But the image is as it should be—an image of smiling kids, an image of children without care. I center it and sprinkle a few words of self-deprecating humor, then print it on a heavy sheet of crisp white paper. And finally, with a pen, I carefully craft the words I want to convey—not the words I think I should write. They are barely legible, but they are warm and heartfelt and full of meaning. I read it them out loud.

Wishing You and Your Loved Ones Joy in the New Year

It is a really nice card, even coming from me.
And I send it now to you, and everyone I know.