Sounds of the Season
written by: Gary Zenker
Christmas carols are one of the sounds that remind me of the holiday as I was growing up. Mom played them in the background as the smells of her candied yams and gingerbread cookies filled our home.
My home was always the gathering place on Christmas Eve. On Christmas morning, Mom, Dad, my brothers, and I would make the two-hour trek to Maryland and Aunt Dee’s, followed by the half-hour drive to Uncle Joe’s and return home late that night. The back of the car would be filled with bags of gifts for us, replacing those we had taken for others. But it was our house that everyone chose for Christmas Eve.
The year I was ten, sixteen loud relatives crowded around the seldom-used dining room table. That table had been my grandmother’s and looked it. It took people on either end pushing and pulling as Dad would direct us with “now” and “stop” to coordinate the action until we finally pulled the table far enough apart to insert the leaves.
Although I didn’t know it at the time, this would be the Christmas I remembered the most. During the next few years, family would move out of the area and stop traveling to my house, and an argument of some kind would eliminate one or two of the others. Saddest of all, this would be the last one my Pop-pop would be alive to attend. But for this year, the family was together.
“So, who wants dark meat,” my father would ask. It was his standard joke as the primary meat on the table was pork, ‘the other white meat.’
“I’ll have some,” my cousin Raelene spoke up while reaching for the potato dish. As she reached, her sleeve didn’t, and exposed an elaborate tattoo with skulls, stitches, and flames.
“A tattoo? I thought I forbid you from getting a tattoo,” Uncle Jake exploded. “Tattoos are for tramps.”
“You can’t tell me what to do with my body. And I’m not the tramp of the family,” Raelene yelled back. She didn’t name anyone specifically but stared at cousin Jolene, who might have stood to object were it not for the fact that her pregnant belly made fast movements impossible.
Her Dad, my Uncle Ted, shot up as he slammed his open palms against the table. “At least my boy isn’t celebrating the holiday ‘up-state’.” They used the phrase ‘upstate’ when they really meant ‘in the slammer for stealing cars.’ I rode a couple of times with Uncle Jeff in his snazzy Camaro, his very cool Jeep, and his blue Thunderbird. I didn’t realize until later why he drove a different car every time I saw him.
“Please sit down! And be careful with the china,” Mom pleaded. She was down two settings since Christmas the previous year when Uncle Robert attempted to show the table his waiter skills and tripped on the rug.
I surveyed the table to see who had not yet entered the discussions. My brothers and I were too young to have done anything so wrong that would involve us. Pop-pop was just returning to his chair; I hadn’t seen him leave, but he always seemed to be going to the bathroom. What a great time to return, I thought.
The commotion was loud in the tiny room, with shouting and fist banging blotting out the background carols. I lost track of who was defending whom.
Suddenly, we all heard the loudest, wettest, most ripping fart any of us had ever heard.
We all looked at each other, trying to determine the source. After a few seconds of silence, my Pop-pop spoke up.
“I’m sorry. Too much prune juice today, I guess. We all may want to move out of here for a bit.”
Everyone quickly forgot the angry looks and words in their effort to leave the room as quickly as possible. The closest safe location was the den, so we all settled there, next to the tree. Parents in the chairs and sofa, kids on the floor; there was silence.
“Let’s open some gifts.” Mom reached under the tree and grabbed a box. “Sid,” she announced, and the box was passed from person to person until it reached the named family member. Each recipient read the label and announced who it was from, with the process being repeated until all of the gifts were distributed.
My family spent the rest of the evening thanking and kissing each other, and even singing along with the carols that played. I don’t remember if we ever went back to our meal. In the midst of those gift openings, Pop-pop whispered in my ear, “Come out to the deck.” I dutifully followed him out the back door and into the cold air.
“I’m an old man,” he stared me in the eyes.
I smiled. “Not old.”
“Old enough to know when things start to go off track and how to reroute them.” I must have had a puzzled look on my face because he added, “One day that will make more sense to you.”
Then he handed me an already-opened box. “This is a gift for you. But given the commotion, I needed to borrow it.” He patted me on the head. “I’m not sure whether I want you to remember this particular Christmas or not. But if you do, I hope that you will remember it in the right context. They may be a crazy family, but they’re your crazy family. I love you.”
Years later, even after I lost the remote control and the gift stopped working, I kept it on a shelf in the back of my closet. When I moved out of my parents’ house, it made its permanent home in my memory box.
That battery-operated fart machine was a huge step up from the whoopee cushions I had previously owned, and for a ten-year-old, the best gift a kid could get. Especially because it restored a part of the Christmas magic.
- Sounds of the Season - December 17, 2025
