Who Has a Kegger on Christmas Eve?

Garrett and I spent this last Christmas in Kingman, Arizona with my parents and my brother. With our own adult children scattered across the country, our empty-nesting Christmases come in all varieties these days. This year brought us back to my parents’ home — and me back to being the kid in the family equation.

Christmas Eve found Garrett and me out together, not at a family gathering but instead grabbing a beer. And then I noticed the stacked kegs next to me.

Who has a kegger on Christmas Eve?

Flashback.

Christmas Eve 1983 began with our traditional family celebration at my grandparents’ home in Remsen, Iowa. Mom baked her famous wreath dessert, and her siblings towed their kids and side dishes through the blustery Midwestern winter night.

Missing that year was my oldest brother, Matt, who had recently graduated high school and was serving in the Army, stationed in Germany. It was the first Christmas our immediate family wasn’t all together.

My brother Mark was a senior in high school, and I was a junior. As the family festivities began to wind down, we planned to walk home — old enough to leave early without much issue, yet still expected home.

Typically, Mark and I enjoyed our time with our extended family, but this year we had only visions of keggers dancing in our heads.

In Remsen, certain houses were known for having parties. The family hosting the Christmas Eve kegger that year lived just a few blocks from us and had three kids in high school. Their house was a favorite party headquarters.

Mark got word of a party and quietly shared the details with me. Wanting to go with him, I followed his lead as we told our parents we were stopping at a friend’s house for their family celebration. It was on our way home. Instead, we went to the kegger. Together.

Trudging through the growing drifts of snow, we joined a house filled to the brim with our teenage friends. We were not the only ones to get the Christmas Eve message.

With no adults in sight, I hung with Mark, drinking keg beer and socializing with his friends until we knew it was time to go home.

Walking home together through the knee-deep snow, our friends' voices faded. But the sound of the church bells was our stark reminder that we were late. Under the moonlit sky, we were to be greeted by a well-lit back door and our awaiting father.

“Who has a kegger on Christmas Eve??”

Although I vividly remember the question and the concerned look on Dad’s face, I don’t remember how we answered. But I felt immediate shame—for leaving our family celebration early for beer and for lying to our parents.

Memory is a fickle beast. Years later, I asked both Dad and Mark what they remembered about that night. Dad didn’t recall that Christmas Eve kegger, let alone waiting up for us. Mark didn’t remember specifics either—but he did remember that during that stretch of high school, being only a year apart meant we were suddenly at the same parties, with the same friends.

What I remember most from that night was scheming with my brother and being included as his little sister. Walking home in two feet of snow, tipsey teenagers on Christmas Eve - that’s what small town memories are made of.

For me, the memories of this night hinge on the detail of being with my brother—and then being greeted together by Dad. There was a happy feeling to arriving at a quiet home without a kegger in the basement. We were never a fancy family. And we weren’t a partying family. But we always felt love.

Thanks, Mark, for letting me tag along. And thanks, Dad, for caring. (Sorry about the kegger.)