A Strange Christmas

Fictional memoir

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Photo by Thomas Ciszewski on Unsplash

As a child, I never knew how to be around my grandfather. That is to say: he made me uncomfortable. At the time, before all my disappointment about my own father, I loathed the trips we'd take along Pacific Coast Highway, the black ribbon of road paralleling the blue sea in Southern California.

During Christmas and for Thanksgiving, Dad, Mom and I would pile into the Jeep Cherokee--this was before I started drinking in high school, before punk rock, before my grandfather's terminal cancer--and drive the hour and a half south to Malibu, from Ojai. I'd watch the beaches passing by, admire the waves, the surfers in the cold November or December water. White frothy waves crashed on craggy rocks near million dollar homes.

Then we'd take a left up that long, windy road, leading into the hills, and we'd drive all the way to the top, parking along the curb on the steep slope, Dad arrowing the front tires inward so if the car for some reason went backwards the tires would hit the curb, not slide all the way down the mountain, crashing into someone's home.

The house was not huge but it was not small either. A massive deck surrounded the whole place. Floor-to-ceiling windows reflected the glare of the harsh winter sun. On the back deck you could gaze out and see the glimmering city lights of Los Angeles, from so high up.