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Show 68 That part of the tradition I hadn't thought about. Usually Angie's party was held earlier in December, and it was far less subdued and quiet than the stay-home Christmas Eve I was envisioning. Even though nobody in my family except my mom liked Aunt Angie's parties-and I assume this was the case with youth and semi-youth across the board-they were well attended by all ages. Relatives I had forgotten about always showed up at this party. Angie was on my mom's side of the family, the Thomas side, where Utah County is, has been and forever will be home-or, at worst, rendezvous point around Christmas. Every family brought a plate of cookies or brownies and descended down the stairs into Angie's basement-tumed-preschool-tumed-party-headquarters, with Mickey Mouse illustrations teaching kids how to count still perimetering the walls. I told my mom I didn't think I could go this year. She asked why. I said I was tired. She said Oh, I hoped we could go as a family was all. I said, All right, I'll go. We had space for Ina in the minivan because my brother was in Ecuador, so we loaded her into the front seat, crammed everyone else in the back, and drove. It was dark when we parked on the street a few houses down. We walked into the house, down its throat to the congested basement, warm from excessive laughter and too many bodies. We were just in time to catch the other Michael playing "Silent Night" on the piano. Other Michael was a year younger than I was and I always felt a rivalry with him. I was older but he was more charming, more talented and played to the crowds better. He had a thespian exaggeration to |
