Rouse - Its all relative: two families, three dogs, 34 holidays, and 50 boxes of wine ... a memoir

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This author is available for select readings and lectures. To inquire about a possible appearance, please contact the Random House Speakers Bureau at or (212) 572-2013.

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Copyright 2011 by Wade Rouse

All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Crown Publishers,
an imprint of the Crown Publishing Group,
a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
www.crownpublishing.com

CROWN and the Crown colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Rouse, Wade.
Its all relative : two families, three dogs, 34 holidays, and 50 boxes of wine a memoir / Wade Rouse.1st ed.
p. cm.
1. Family lifeFiction. 2. Humorous stories. I. Title.
PZ7.R76218 2010
[Fic]dc22 2010010952

eISBN: 978-0-307-71872-3

Jacket design by Kyle Kolker
Jacket photography Radius/SuperStock

v3.1_r1

For my mother

My holidays will never be the same

For my father

Im still with you, buddy

For my man

You still make me believe in Santa, the Easter Bunny, God, love, family, myself, but, mostly, us

For my fans

You make me wake up every morning, with a pounding heart, ready and excited to write. You make my dream come true.

Readers need to know that names (besides mine, Garys, and those of a few of our family and friends) and identifying characteristics have been changed, and, in some instances, characters were composited, locations and details recast, and time compressed. As with most family tales, Im sure some have grown over the years, considering many were passed on to me through the generations by my parents (my mother told me many tales about my father, and vice versa), grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, and family friends over endless boxes of wine and slices of pie. And despite the fact that some of these holiday tales may have morphed, or become lore over the years, all evolved out of the Rouse House. And continue to do so today.

To spend a holiday with family, especially mine, I once told Gary, is a lot like self-catheterization: Its an experience that may cause extreme pain, something you may not always wish to revisit, but one that youll never forget.

I relay these stories, truly, because I love my family, and because laughter, stories, and boxes of wine are what bonded us. And will forever.

W hen I was very young, Santa Claus used to make an appearance at my house every few years.

One year he would rumble through our front door, in full belly laugh and beard, carrying a sack stuffed with presents.

And thenwith very little fanfare and in the days before we could order an Amber Alerthe would simply go missing.

When I got old enough, I began to understand this wasnt the way the real Santa operated. I mean, I saw the cartoon Christmas specials. Santa was supposed to come every year. He wasnt a solar eclipse.

So I finally gathered the nerve to ask my father one Christmas why Santa didnt come to our house more often, fearing, perhaps, that our Ozarks home was too isolated for his reindeer to find, or, worse, that I had been naughty instead of nice.

Instead I remember my father looking directly at meas he dribbled some blood-colored wine out of a boxand saying, Santas preoccupied right now. Nixon needs a little extra help.

And then all the adults sitting in front of the fireplace laughed and said, Aint that the fuckin truth.

I was still a tiny boy who lived in the middle of nowhere, a boy who had a fondness for ascots and Robby Benson. I still believed I might receive an Easy-Bake oven or Barbie instead of a Daisy BB gun and fishing lures. I still believed my parents might move to New York City on a whim, and I would become a Rockette.

Mostly, however, I just needed somethinganythingin which to believe so I could survive another year in the Ozarks.

And if it was the fact that Santa would visit me when he wasnt busy helping the president, then so be it: I would instead laser my attention on the Easter Bunny.

Finally one Christmas, after a few no-show years, Santa came rushing through our door carrying a sack of toys and a case of Hamms.

Santa? I asked.

Damn, my jingle balls are hot! Santa exclaimed, rather than the Ho! Ho! Ho! I was expecting. And then he yanked down his beard to chug a beer and lifted the low-hanging pillow I thought was his bowlful of jelly to air out his chestnuts and said, I could be winning some big money right now playing craps instead of doing this gig. I cant believe I didnt win the company bonus this year. Damn that Joe Reynolds!

The realization that the fat man in the red suit was actually my great-uncle came to me with shocking clarity, like Moses from the mountain.

And then my great-auntobviously a touch tipsy and turned on by the unexpected peek at Santas bag of goodiesproceeded to ask Kriss Kringle when he was going to fill her stocking.

Its getting itchy, Santa, she said, slurring slightly.

My ears were quickly covered by adult palms, but the damage had already been done.

My holidays had been obliterated forever.

That precious Christmas memory and now-famous morsel of family lore, however, led me to a number of profound conclusions:

• There was no Santa.
• The reason behind my aunts itchy stocking was not that it was made of polyester.
• Joe Reynolds was bound to have a good year after a string of bad ones.
• Nixon indeed needed all the help he could get.
• And no family holidayno holiday, periodis ever as perfect as we dream it will be.

I should know.

My family always had the best of intentions with our holiday celebrationsbe it Valentines, Easter, Fourth of July, Halloween, Thanksgiving, or New Yearsbut it was the follow-through that was disastrous. We were like the Ricardo-Mertzes.

What mother would dress her son as a Ubangi tribesmansending him out in blackface, with a fro, giant lip, and pillowcasefor Halloween in the Ozarks? Mine.

What father would bury his childrens Easter eggs becauseas an engineer and former military manthe fun was in the hunt? Mine.

What partner would dress as Oscarhis head wrapped in gold lamjust to prove his love of the Academy Awards and of me? Mine.

Who in their right mind would dress as a leprechaun on St. Pattys Day just to get free drinks? Okay, that was me, but the point is this: Looking back today, that Santa epiphany may have been the best Christmas gift that could have ever been given to me. For I received the gift of clarity; I received the gift that kept on giving.

The Jingle Balls incident made me understand that holidays were notand did not have to beperfect in order to be beautiful. It made me realize that all families are dysfunctional, especially during the holidays, and that while most celebrations are well-intended, they are also usually diarrhea-inducing.