Holidays with my cousins were a lot more like cage boxing than Hallmark Christmases. I had more than forty first cousins, mostly wild animals. By the time my aunts and uncles herded them to the scene of the crime, they just opened the car doors and all Hell broke loose. Exhausted from defending themselves and the babies on the ride over, it was every man for himself. God help anybody in the way.

They’d rip through the house under the guise of needing the bathroom and a drink of water, destruction in their wake, before being cast out into the yard or to the barn if it was raining, like demons into swine.  While they passed through, they destroyed anything in their wake.  We always hid our loot, but the evil little devils usually managed to mark something for destruction, even if it was no more precious than a dish or Christmas ornament.  Actually, they were cast out onto the other cousins. We’d get a baseball or football team going, all the big kids on one team, so the little ones never got a chance to bat, or got mowed down in football. They’d go squalling in to their nosy daddies who’d come out long enough to straighten us out a vague semblance of fairness, often lingering to play a while.

Once the games started, it was chaos. It was survival of the meanest, shoving kids down, stomping eggs little ones dropped, squalling, and even a few bloody noses. Crazy Larry kept trying to pee on us while we were distracted. One aunt in particular didn’t think her big kids ought to have to share at the end of the day.  It was perfectly fine it her kids here gaged all the nuts, best of the Christmas feast, or desserts.  She heaped their plates with goodies, saying she’d eat what they didn’t.  Her boy Kenwin would demand, More chicken(turkey, ham)Mama, more shicken!”  She loaded his plate till he staggered, unconcerned that there was a tribe to feed besides him.

Ah, family. Better get busy. I have company coming. But not Crazy Larry. He’s in the witness protection program.

I can always tell when the Christmas Season has arrived when Bud announces, “We really don’t have any money to spend on Christmas this year.” We’ve been married forty-five years so I’ve heard that at least forty-five thousand times.  It wouldn’t matter if we had just won the lottery, he’d be worried about the taxes we have to pay on the bonanza!

This year, I surprised him.  Way back in October, I announced.  “We really don’t have any money to spend on Christmas THIS year.  You can just take care of the shopping.”

It only took him an instant to say, “Okay.  I’m through.”

“That’s what I thought you’d say.”  Of course, I’d already done my shopping.

Not long after that, he bought himself a nice pair of rattlesnake-proof boots.  “This will be my Christmas present.  Don’t buy me anything.”

“No problem,” I meant it.

A few days later, we made a trip to Missouri so he could hunt with his cousin, necessitating purchase of more gear and an out of state license.  They don’t give those away.  “This trip and the hunting license will be my gift.  Don’t buy me anything.”

“Don’t worry.  I won’t.  Remember, we are short on money THIS year.”

Yesterday after lunch, Bud said, “Don’t worry about getting me a Christmas gift.  There’s only one thing I want and I’ll take care of it.”

“But what about all the other stuff you already got.  I thought that was your Christmas,” I reminded him.

“Well, this is only seventy dollars and it’s on sale now at Bass Pro!”

“Oh, that’s different!  What are you going to get me?”

“Didn’t you ever get that vacuum cleaner you wanted for your birthday?”

“No, I thought you might get it since it was my birthday.”

“Well, I never know exactly what you want.”

If he lives till spring, I’m going to hide those rattlesnake-proof boots.