About the time the vein on my neck was going to explode from the stress of the holidays, I suddenly had a warm, fuzzy feeling. it was because I had to pick up our holiday ham.
It was strange that I felt sentimental about my annual trip to the ham store. Frankly, I don't even care that much for the sugary-coated variety. I actually prefer the canned ham of my youth, even with the vision of that disturbing layer of gelatinous goo firmly etched in my mind. But some years back, my parents decided that the glazed type tasted better. Likely my father just liked that it was already sliced.
So why was I suddenly looking forward to picking up the holiday ham? Well, I always do this chore on the 23rd, arriving about an hour before the store opens. In the long line with me are about seventy-five other ham seekers, bundled up in their coats with coupons in hand, all patiently waiting for that moment when the ham store employees open their doors.
What I like about standing outside the ham store is that it's a forced moment of calm between the hectic pace of the previous three weeks and the even more hectic pace of the upcoming three days, a welcome breather from the shopping, cleaning, wrapping, cooking, and hosting duties.
But more than that I enjoy talking with my fellow ham seeker. It starts with the offer of an extra coupon. Then, once the ice has been broken, we are emboldened to move on to other ham-related topics like, "Have you tried the spicy mustard," or perhaps some insight on the pies, "How's the French apple?"
The conversation often segues from the Christmas menu to anticipation over holiday plans. Last year, I chatted with a woman who excitedly introduced a young girl at her side, "This is my granddaughter visiting all the way from South Carolina. It's her first time in California and she's all mine for two weeks!"
The woman in front of me volunteered, "I can't even eat this ham. My doctor has me on low-salt diet, but my son loves it. He's flying in from college later today."
Then I met an older gentleman who apparently lived fairly close to me in the foothills. We started talking about our shared experiences with fire and mudslides. Soon we were one-upping each other with our tales of woe, "The fire came to the top of our street," he said.
"Came right up to my backyard, and then we were evacuated from the mud four times," I bragged.
"Well we had mud in our basement. It ruined everything!"
Okay mister, fine. You win.
I guess it might seem odd that I look forward to this time with strangers. After all, there's plenty of holiday cheer around my own home between school performances, a fortunate bounty of gifts under the tree, and the pending arrival of our large extended family.
But there's something about the camaraderie of waiting in that cold line, sharing both a common purpose and anticipation over holiday plans, that puts me in a festive mood and reminds me of the true joy of Christmas. It's easy to lose track of that between the shopping, cleaning, wrapping, cooking, and hosting duties, so it's nice to give pause for a reminder, whether it comes at church or at the local ham store.
When the doors finally open, my fellow shoppers and I offer up our holiday wishes and then rush inside to quickly grab our hams and quickly pay. I'm lucky to leave the ham store with more than a main course for Christmas dinner, I leave with my holiday spirit rejuvenated, fueled up and ready for the days to come.