Fifteen Christmases ago I prepared to leave Washington, D.C.,
and a five-year stint in politics, to return to journalism. It was
a perilous journey.
The plan was straightforward: Finish work as a Capitol Hill
staffer on Friday the 20th; spend Saturday loading my little
Saturn; crash that night on a friend’s sofa-bed in the suburbs
(where a loaded car would be less likely to be broken into); drive
to a maternal aunt’s house near Asheville, N.C., on Sunday; and
arrive home in New Orleans on Monday the 23rd (with a jaunt
Christmas Day to my paternal grandparents’ in Pass Christian,
Miss.), there to logistically regroup for a while before my new job
in Little Rock.
But as I made trip after trip up and down the stairs from my
third-floor townhouse bedroom that Saturday while filling my car to
the gills, I found myself feeling flushed, faint, dreadfully
headachy. By the time I reached the ‘burbs that night, I was
shaking like a horror-movie survivor and my whole body ached like
an accident victim’s. All night long: fever and chills, chills and
fever. When my friend checked on me in the morning, I could barely
lift my head; she had to steady my hand just for me to drink some
water. It was the flu, the worst I’ve ever had. I slept, tossed,
turned, and slept some more all day Sunday. The story was the same
on Monday. My friend would leave for the day—holiday errands on
Sunday, work on Monday—and return to find me still on her sofa as
a derelict, one she kindly kept nourished with soups, breads, and
herbal tea.
On the morning of Christmas Eve, determined to be home in time
to celebrate, I willed my only partly restored self onto the
highway. By the time I reached my aunt and uncle near Asheville, I
felt like one of the undead—but they renewed me as only a loving
family with a delicious dinner can. I determined to press on: The
big family Christmas at my grandmother’s on the Mississippi Coast
would be at 1 p.m. the next day, and I was still nine hours away.
My uncle—advising me repeatedly not to keep driving, but to no
avail—reluctantly did the math, figured how far I needed to get
that night, and called ahead to reserve a room at a Days Inn in
Newnan, Georgia. He gave me directions through a mountain shortcut
to shave an hour from the interstate route, and off I tottered.
Three problems: My overloaded Saturn labored on the hills, the
night featured occasional flurries that made the road slick…and on
the mountain-road route, most of the gas stations were closed for
Christmas Eve. As bleary-eyed panic set in, my “low gas” dashboard
light glimmered weakly for quite some time before, thankfully, I
finally found an Exxon with working pumps.
I reached Newnan at midnight, collapsing into the motel bed. All
night long, my head pounded, my skin was clammy, and something
smelled utterly vile. Up at seven, I finally understood the latter
problem when I sat on the undisturbed side of the bed to put on my
shoes: That previously untouched part of the mattress was damp,
almost sodden. Christmas morning it was, and I was flu-ridden in
west Georgia in a room fouled by who knows what. Next: Five more
hours of shaky driving, fueled by stubbornness and bitter coffee,
to grandmother’s house we go.
Finally arrived on the Mississippi coast at noon, ashen and
nearly incoherent, I was sent straight to bed. An hour later,
though, a strange semi-revival. Surrounded by family, restored by
the smell (and then taste) of Christmas dinner, rejoicing in the
spirit, I found myself of a mid-afternoon feeling halfway human
(although the flu would linger two more weeks). The fireplace
glowed, my grandmother beamed, and mirthfully bad puns flew across
the table. Honoring silly family tradition, my father led the
Hillyer men in an off-key rendition of Pogo’s “Deck us all with
Boston Charlie.” Boola boola Pensacoola, Hullabaloo!
“Cary Mristmas, bevryody,” I kept saying, deliriously. “Crary
Mistmas!” Home and family never felt so good.
