A Practice of One’s Own

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Pam Pepper

I guess it’s inevitable at this time of year to wax nostalgic. One remembers holidays past, and I’m particularly vulnerable to memories of childhood holidays. Our family celebrates Christmas.

My memories of those childhood Christmases have stayed with me in ways that memories of, say, my third-grade science project have not. (Now, my 11th-grade science project is a different ball game, mostly because the three million petri dishes in which I had carefully cultivated various forms of mold melted in the Mississippi Delta heat on the drive to the fair. The trunk of my car reeked until the day it went off to the junkyard. But I digress.)

True, the strength of those holiday memories is derived, in part, from the breathless anticipation of Santa’s arrival, kids being the acquisitive little creatures that they are. (I remember when I got old enough to know that Hanukkah lasted for eight days; there was a theory going around among the minor set that Christmas celebrants got the short end of the stick. Kids!) But there was more to it than that.

In those childhood years, the whole season from early December through the end of January was suffused with this aura of magic. Everything was more vivid — the colors, the sounds, the smells, the tastes of the everyday world were heightened. Songs that you didn’t get to listen to all year were suddenly played as many times as you liked. All of a sudden, it was okay to eat yourself into a stupor.

Those you loved the most were there, and their only reason for being there was to spend time with you. Even the food was different food than what we normally had: turkey, cornbread dressing, sweet potato casserole, cranberry sauce (the jelly kind that comes in a can, with no berries), green bean casserole (it was the south, and not that far in time from the 1950s, so casseroles containing virtually unidentifiable vegetables which had been cooked to within an inch of their lives and disguised with a crunchy topping were still considered haute cuisine), and home-made yeast rolls. And for dessert, our family staple — almond macaroon pudding, complete with whipped cream and a cherry. You looked forward to that meal all year, and to the fact that you got to eat it with your fun uncle and your glamorous aunt and your adored grandmother and many others.

I am not naive enough to think that those holidays actually were as perfect as they are in my memories. I’m sure they were times when we kids were blissfully ignorant of the adult storms raging around us. (There had to be one year where my father had a questionable suggestion for my grandmother regarding what she could do with the turkey sandwich she pressed on him at 5:00 p.m., when lunch had concluded a mere two hours before.)

As I have aged, however, and particularly as I moved into the sometimes hectic world of solo practicedom, I began to note the loss of the general glow, the aura that surrounded that special time. As the years passed, the press of other things began to make the holiday season feel more like an obligation than a joy. Year-end tax issues, clients wanting matters resolved before the holidays, boards with calendar fiscal years demanding attention — it all made it hard to step out of frantic work mode and into carefree, joyous holiday mode.

Even holiday activities that are pleasurable — catching up with old friends through holiday cards, baking special treats, decorating the house, being invited to parties — seem like more tasks that need to be accomplished in that pitifully short 24-hour day, rather than joys to be experienced and savored. Add in the fact that my family is now scattered to the four corners — this year we have a contingent in Mississippi, a contingent in Colorado, one in Milwaukee and one in, believe it or not, Paris (yes, the French one, not the one in Texas) — and the stress of deciding where and with whom the holidays can be spent can tilt the scale to "please-just-let-me-live-through-this-one."

So I found my reaction interesting when I recently received an e-mail from a colleague — a solo practitioner — who indicated that he wouldn’t be available to work on a particular matter in mid- to late-December because he’d be "taking some time to enjoy the holidays." My initial reaction was stunned surprise — not work when you could be working? Take time off of work to — gasp — do something other than go to the hospital for non-elective surgery? Incomprehensible!

But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that it was my reaction, not his decision, that was shocking. Every year, I find myself missing the days when holidays were actually pleasurable (okay, with the exception of the green bean casserole). Yet when confronted with someone who does something to ensure that his holidays are pleasurable, I react like your run-of-the-mill, dyed-in-the-wool, stereotypical workaholic.

So this year, I’m going to try to take some time out here and there, despite the pile of stuff on my desk (and my floor, and my credenza, and my chair …). I’m going to take my little boy to see holiday lights. I’m going to try to have a date with my husband. We’re going to bake cookies. I’m going to stop on my way to work and have a peppermint hot chocolate. Maybe I’ll even look out the window, and indulge in a few memories of those treasured holidays from years past.

Whether you celebrate Hanukkah, Christmas or Kwanzaa, I wish for you what I wish for me — a little window of magic, a special time that stands outside the every-day routine, a chance to bask in the glow of celebrating with the ones you love, without regard to what, back at the office, desperately needs to be done. It’ll still be there in January, but hopefully we’ll make memories that will remain long after the matters are done.

Have the most joyous of holidays.

After her clerkship on the Eleventh Circuit Court of Appeals, Pam Pepper served as a federal prosecutor in Chicago and Milwaukee. Since 1997, she has had a private criminal defense practice, working in federal courts in Chicago, Madison and Milwaukee and in state courts around southeastern Wisconsin.