Greetings Family and Friends,
Another catastrophe in my mother’s perpetual struggle to
counter the natural effects of aging has resulted in her incapacitation. As
Jefanie and Cymphanie refused this noble task, the responsibility of
representing the ebbs and flows of the Yancey family adventures in the annual
Christmas letter falls to me, the young man of the clan. I only hope that my
contribution to the recorded history of the Yancey saga will be somewhat worthy
of the tale to be told.
My father’s annual change in vocation recently uprooted our
family from a humble space to an ostentatious houseboat on the Great Salt Lake.
Apparently, his former altruistic passion connected him with a subculture that
involves numerous forms of human organ trafficking. Mormon theology
characterizes the value of a soul as “great.” It appears that for my father,
“great” can be delivered in a metal briefcase every three weeks.
As previously mentioned, mother’s sense of social inadequacy
only intensified during our short-lived poverty. After awakening one morning to
the realization that what appeared to be an entire murder of crows had
imprinted themselves near her eyes she turned to the Internet in desperation.
It seems obvious that a home remedy of botulinum toxin is not to be injected
into one’s face, but my mother often shows signs of irrationality. Her head
remains sufficiently swollen that it hinders her ability to communicate, but it
has reduced to the point that the seagulls no longer fear her. Although none of
us can confirm this, but we suspect the high pitched mumbling sound is to
beckon the birds, the low pitched sound is to summon one of us to get her
smoothie straw.
I feel like I should pause at this moment to reflect upon
the recent change in our household dynamics. With my mother’s complete reliance
upon others she has uncharacteristically submitted herself to a deferent role
in the household. Finally, my father has taken upon himself as the traditional
dominant male role so endemic within our culture. It is clear that neither is
comfortable with this arrangement. My father says that it is ironic we live on
a boat as it feels as if Gilligan and the Skipper have switched jobs. I am too
young to understand that reference, but seeing my father at the helm of our family
ship keeps me wearing a life jacket on both literal and metaphorical levels.
As for my siblings. Jefanie and Dallin split up two weeks
prior to their wedding. I may be just a kid, but it was clear that our mother’s
involvement in the planning process was a factor in the growing chasm between
the two lovebirds. When she booked exactly the same itinerary as Jefanie and
Dallin’s honeymoon the situation exploded. Dallin must have called in some
favors with a certain General Authority uncle as he was called back on his
mission for two more years. The
lack of precedent suggests either revelation or evasion was the motive.
Jefanie’s reaction was quite surprising as she ceased her excessive
activities to focus full attention on decorating the house for Christmas. Of
course, this was back in our Midvale house and in April. The strangest layer to
all of this was how Cymphanie rallied to her side. As the spring transitioned into summer, the two became
inseparable. Bonded in a common goal, the two pooled their limited resources
and hand crafted beautiful decorations and ornaments for the house and tree.
The connection between the two healed each of them as they aligned themselves
in true sisterly love. They laughed together. They cried together. They supported each other. They lifted
each other. They became true sisters in every sense of the word.
Then our mother sent Cymphanie off to boarding school. The
argument (which was more mumbling due to the swelling) was that the houseboat
only had four cabins and she needed one for her office. We haven’t heard much
from Cymphanie since her departure, just the occasional postcard with hand
written couplets from Dante’s Inferno. Jefanie has continued to decorate the
houseboat, but oddly fits in as Christmas lights light many houseboats.
As for me, life continues in its mundanity. In all
likelihood, mother has bored you with the details of my life in previous
letters so I will not expound on my daily experience. Suffice it to say that as
I emerge from childhood to adolescence, I face the challenge of navigating my
own time at sea. As a shaky captain and unstable crew mentor me, I anticipate
the fast coming day when I take the helm myself. I see in this an opportunity
to outshine my roots. Until then, do not pity me.
May all of your holiday wishes come true.
Love,
Jeff, Stephanie, Jefanie, Cymphanie and me.
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