Editor's Note: Following on from her excellent debut post, Janet gives us further insights into what it's like to live the slow life in the big city of Portland, Oregon - now sharing how her little family is turning Christmas commercialism on its head whilst still enjoying the true spirit of the holiday season.
Last Christmas marked our first as homeowners, and Chris and I were flat broke. Instead of spending money we didn’t have on gifts no one needed, we decided to start a family tradition that honored our slower paced lifestyle and personal politics, yet made Lucy feel as if she were part of something larger than our tight-knit, three-person unit.
A good place to start, we thought, would be to pay homage to the city’s decorated tree on Christmas Eve. We took the bus downtown and were soon standing in awe of the towering Doug Fir. What a marvel! The only thing missing, it seemed, was the hordes of like-minded people. I had little time to think about where everyone might be, however, as Lucy was in need of a bathroom break. We headed through the eerily deserted streets to Nordstrom’s, one of the few “public” restrooms in downtown Portland. It was Lucy’s first trip to a department store, and she enthused wildly over the festive holiday music swelling up from a live pianist stationed at the base of the first floor escalator. As we chugged up to the second floor, I took in a panoramic view of the store, shocked to discover it was as empty as downtown had been! Empty streets on Christmas Eve are one thing, but a popular department store is something entirely different. It was our first year living in Portland — were people in the Pacific Northwest less crazed about Christmas than they were in Washington DC? It was in the nation’s capitol that I’d funded my way through college working retail, and I remember with painful clarity toiling thanklessly behind the cash register many a holiday while impatient customers cut each other off in line, exchanged obscenities or in one instance, threw punches.
The scene at the Portland Nordstrom’s couldn’t have been more different. Idle salesclerks chatted affably in small groups; I took advantage of the downtime to approach one for help with a purchase I’d been intending to make for months—some new, and much needed, lingerie. While I sequestered myself in the fitting room, Lucy amused herself with one of the full length mirrors in the women’s department. We have a picture of her on all fours, enthralled with her gilded reflection as the seat of her pants slips low to reveal one very cute, very visible bum. It remains one of her father’s favorites photos.
After leaving Nordstrom’s, we decided to head for home on foot, knowing we could pick up the bus along the way if we got too tired — a happy compromise for those of us (me) seeking a little adventure but wanting the assurance of a nice bailout at the ready should she get too tired, and those of us who thought a five mile trek in the cold and rain was a surefire recipe for the Best Christmas Eve Ever. One of us — the one getting the “free ride” while her parents trudged uphill, pushing an umbrella stroller meant for brief, indoor shopping excursions — settled in beneath her rain cover, sucking her thumb placidly and, I like to think, enjoying a view decidedly different from the one most babies get, turned backwards in their car seat as their parents zoom across town.
The first leg of the trip took us across the beautiful Hawthorne bridge, and we stopped in the middle to snap a few scenic pictures. Despite countless trips across the bridge — always in a bus — I’d never seen what lies below the steel planks that absorb the weight of thousands of commuters five days a week. Nestled there among a heap of discarded appliances, scrap metal and trash, sat a row of cheap vinyl tents. Given the wintry weather, it was hard to think of anyone living in those circumstances. I silently wished them well, and moved on.
Once we stepped off the bridge, we were in our home territory — sort of. Chris and I live in the SE quadrant of Portland, a few blocks off Hawthorne Boulevard, which is a shopping district known for its trendy boutiques and eateries. Our home, however, sits in a quiet residential street far enough from the activity to almost make us forget we’re so close to it. Sorely in need of a break — we’d been taking turns pushing the stroller and were equally worn out from the task — we ducked into a tavern for a pint of holiday cheer and snack. Nothing could’ve been finer than sitting in the warm cozy restaurant, watching the throngs of holiday shoppers (so this is where they all were!) knowing we had not one thing to buy for anyone. And not because we’d done all our shopping earlier, either: for Christmas we’d told our respective families not to expect gifts this year — other than the occasional charity donation made in their name — and had limited Lucy’s presents to a few hand me down blocks and books picked up at the local thrift store. Between the two of us, Chris and I set a $20 limit on what we would buy for the other. For Chris I bought some primrose to plant in our barren yard and I had already been shown the $3.99 skein of yarn that would one day, I was told, morph into a fashionable yet functional scarf. Suffice it to say the scarf had yet to be knitted, and so far I was feeling mostly OK with the indeterminable lag time. I say “mostly” because this was my first Christmas on such a steep budget, and although I loved the idea of rejecting our society’s consumerist impulses — and largesse — it still smarted knowing there would be no surprises for me when I woke Christmas Day. To move myself away from self-pity, I focused on the warm plate of hummus set before me, digging in with relish. I grew happily exhausted, realizing just how physically arduous our trek home had been. It was then that I felt how inspirational, and satisfying, it is to live in the moment, with zero expectations for what lies ahead — a way of thinking that doesn’t always come naturally for someone like me, addicted as I am to dwelling on both the mistakes of my past and the eternal possibilities of the future.
But it turns out the most potential for gratification really does lie in the present moment. And had anything been different about our day — had the sun been out and the temperature balmy; the thirty pound babe-in-arms regressed to a weightless newborn, able to be pushed along like a featherweight — I’m certain I wouldn’t have arrived at the same conclusion. When it came time to walk that last mile, I eagerly donned my rain jacket, hat and gloves, ready for the challenge.
Home was just around the corner, and we would soon be there.
