An added benefit of the Christmas season was the fact that we got out of school for two weeks. This was such a momentous occasion that the school threw a party to celebrate. For the days leading up the party, even the teachers were excited. I didn’t realize it then, but I’m pretty sure the prospect of not seeing their classroom full of snotty, sneezing, smelly kids for two solid weeks was the best gift they could imagine.
Those were the days when it was still called a “Christmas party,” and we were able to sing songs about the Nativity in school without fear of offending anyone. Sure, we might sometimes say “Happy Holidays,” but it wasn’t because we were trying to avoid the word “Christmas.” We knew what it was all about, and we weren’t ashamed of it.
For some reason, the teachers thought it was a good idea to draw names in class and exchange gifts. In a perfect world, this might be a joyous sharing of absolutely equitable Christmas treasures. Unfortunately, there was always at least one kid who got burned during gift exchange, and it was usually me.
While other kids got Yo-Yo’s or Slinky’s, I got the incredibly exciting “book of Lifesavers.” By the time the school day was over, most of the good lifesavers were gone, shared with friends who didn’t get enough chocolate, cupcakes and corn chips at the party. I went home with a partial box of butterscotch, some of which I was pretty sure had been tried and rejected back into the package.
Fortunately, I had other things to think about. Each December my little church presented an epic production of the nativity story, and as one of the young Shepherds, my dramatic responsibility weighed heavily upon me. Despite the fact that my wardrobe consisted of a flannel robe and a towel on my head, I took our play seriously. Not only did I have to convey the sense of duty required to watch over my flock of sheep by night, I also had to express the awe of suddenly seeing an angel (which was usually my cousin wearing a white sheet and homemade wire halo).
We did basically the same play every year, and I appreciate that now. I never got tired of the story. I never got bored. Even at a young age, I learned and understood what the true meaning of Christmas was all about. It was a wonderful gift.
I recall the excitement of practicing and then watching my Dad and other men of the church building the sets and running the wire for curtains. Like the angel costumes, the curtains were also white sheets, hung by safety pins, which made a metallic whirring noise as they opened and closed across the stage. I can remember that sound as clearly today as it made back then.
Instead of theatrical lights, we had a round, plastic wheel of colors which rotated over a single 75 watt light bulb, bathing the stage in an alternating blue, red and yellow glow. It may have been low tech, but the effect was dramatic. If that’s hard for you to imagine, you’ll just have to take my word for it.
I’m not exactly sure how our tiny church was able to present the play each year. By the time we cast Mary, Joseph, Elizabeth, the Angels, the shepherds, the wise men and the Inn-keeper, I don’t really know who was left to watch the play except my mother (who was not the theatrical type). Word must have gotten out about our thespian skills however, because when the lights went down on those cold Sunday nights in December, we always had pretty decent crowd.
Today we get a bit fancy in our Christmas productions. We have to put a modern spin on it, as if the old story isn’t good enough. Even in church, it’s rare to hear an old fashioned Christmas Carol anymore. Like all things these days, we’re sure we can do it better, even telling a story that needs no editing, revision or sequel.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Christmas Memories (part one)
We didn’t have a lot of fancy material possessions when I was a kid, and I think that was a wonderful thing. We didn’t get allowances every week or money just because we asked for it. I can only imagine the look on my parents faces if I had made plans to go hang out with my friends and then said, casually, as I walked out the door, “Oh, I need twenty dollars…for food and stuff.” Instead of cash, Mom would have probably packed me a sandwich. Dad would have ignored me entirely.
That was the way it was, and I am much better for it.
We had what we needed; food, clothes and a warm and loving home. We shared our toys and we took care of them. If our bicycle broke, we repaired it. We didn’t demand another. We learned to tape and solder, so that when the little wires running to the battery on our transistor radio twisted and broke (which they always did), we could fix it ourselves. We knew that we would not be getting another radio any time soon.
Christmas was special though, because we could make a list and get things we never would have requested throughout the year. Mom would get the JCPenney and Sears Christmas catalogs in the mail in early November, and I can remember spending hours looking through the expansive toy section, which was like a magical view into Santa’s Workshop.
We had to choose carefully, however. With four kids, budgets were still limited. We could not ask for anything too expensive, and we understood that. It didn’t really matter though, because when you don’t have a lot, you appreciate anything you get so much more. Besides, there was lot more to Christmas than the presents.
Before we bought our fake scotch pine, the men of the family used to go to my Uncle Jack and Aunt Christine’s farm to cut a live tree. It wasn’t a Christmas tree farm, like I’ve taken my kids to. It was just a farm that had some trees here and there amongst the acreage.
I don’t remember much about the trees, but I remember the excitement of the hunt. We’d trudge through the fields and up and down steep hills, hop over streams and climb over rocks, determined to find that perfect evergreen; not too tall…not too skinny. Standing there with Dad and my brothers in the cold, early December wind, we’d look at each candidate and imagine it strung with lights, ornaments and tinsel.
Once found, Dad would chop it down with the ax he was carrying and we would drag it out, probably losing half the branches and needles on one side as we journeyed back to the truck. That didn’t matter much to us though, because we knew that we only needed one good side to any Christmas tree. The bad side went toward the wall.
Once it was in its stand and perched in the corner of our living room, we’d put on the lights. It was very different than today. This year I put around two hundred and eighteen strands of lights on our tree at home, or so it seemed. Every time I’d think I was done, Connie would pull out another set and say, “it needs more on that side.” In our Christmas pictures, you will notice that I’m wearing sunglasses.
My childhood tree had one, maybe two strands of lights, but they used bulbs the size of my fist, not the tiny bulbs we use today. After the lights were draped around the tree, we’d hang the fragile, shiny glass ornaments. These always made me nervous. The limbs of the tree never seemed sturdy enough to hold them, and I imagined them all dropping to our hardwood floor at once, shattering in a million pieces. I let the others hang those.
Next came the tinsel, distributed carefully from top to bottom, and not too close to the melting heat of the colored bulbs. Again, I was cautious, as each bump against the limbs seemed possible to dislodge an ornament and send it crashing. When, at last, the star was placed on the top (usually with some difficulty), we’d stand back and look at our delicate, beautiful tree. In my mind, it was always a masterpiece.
After the tree went up in early December, presents would mysteriously begin appearing while we were at school or asleep. Each day, I would do a quick count; both the total number of gifts and those which were specifically for me. Those with my name always received a gentle shake, with my ear close to the package for tell-tale signs of its contents. Anything that rattled was a good thing. Clothes did not rattle.
Back then we didn’t compare numbers or box size with our siblings. I don’t think it ever crossed my mind to wonder if David or Wayne or Tracy got bigger, better or more than me. That doesn’t mean I was or am a spectacularly generous and all around wonderful person. It was just the way things were back then.
Many nights I would slip into the living room and turn off all the lights except for those on the tree, then lie on the floor and get lost in the bright colors. My mind would be full of thoughts and wide awake in ways that my tired, adult mind can’t even comprehend anymore. It wasn’t just the dreams of gifts and what might await me on Christmas morning, although that was certainly a part of it, it was the sweet promise of all things Christmas. It was always the best time of year.
That was the way it was, and I am much better for it.
We had what we needed; food, clothes and a warm and loving home. We shared our toys and we took care of them. If our bicycle broke, we repaired it. We didn’t demand another. We learned to tape and solder, so that when the little wires running to the battery on our transistor radio twisted and broke (which they always did), we could fix it ourselves. We knew that we would not be getting another radio any time soon.
Christmas was special though, because we could make a list and get things we never would have requested throughout the year. Mom would get the JCPenney and Sears Christmas catalogs in the mail in early November, and I can remember spending hours looking through the expansive toy section, which was like a magical view into Santa’s Workshop.
We had to choose carefully, however. With four kids, budgets were still limited. We could not ask for anything too expensive, and we understood that. It didn’t really matter though, because when you don’t have a lot, you appreciate anything you get so much more. Besides, there was lot more to Christmas than the presents.
Before we bought our fake scotch pine, the men of the family used to go to my Uncle Jack and Aunt Christine’s farm to cut a live tree. It wasn’t a Christmas tree farm, like I’ve taken my kids to. It was just a farm that had some trees here and there amongst the acreage.
I don’t remember much about the trees, but I remember the excitement of the hunt. We’d trudge through the fields and up and down steep hills, hop over streams and climb over rocks, determined to find that perfect evergreen; not too tall…not too skinny. Standing there with Dad and my brothers in the cold, early December wind, we’d look at each candidate and imagine it strung with lights, ornaments and tinsel.
Once found, Dad would chop it down with the ax he was carrying and we would drag it out, probably losing half the branches and needles on one side as we journeyed back to the truck. That didn’t matter much to us though, because we knew that we only needed one good side to any Christmas tree. The bad side went toward the wall.
Once it was in its stand and perched in the corner of our living room, we’d put on the lights. It was very different than today. This year I put around two hundred and eighteen strands of lights on our tree at home, or so it seemed. Every time I’d think I was done, Connie would pull out another set and say, “it needs more on that side.” In our Christmas pictures, you will notice that I’m wearing sunglasses.
My childhood tree had one, maybe two strands of lights, but they used bulbs the size of my fist, not the tiny bulbs we use today. After the lights were draped around the tree, we’d hang the fragile, shiny glass ornaments. These always made me nervous. The limbs of the tree never seemed sturdy enough to hold them, and I imagined them all dropping to our hardwood floor at once, shattering in a million pieces. I let the others hang those.
Next came the tinsel, distributed carefully from top to bottom, and not too close to the melting heat of the colored bulbs. Again, I was cautious, as each bump against the limbs seemed possible to dislodge an ornament and send it crashing. When, at last, the star was placed on the top (usually with some difficulty), we’d stand back and look at our delicate, beautiful tree. In my mind, it was always a masterpiece.
After the tree went up in early December, presents would mysteriously begin appearing while we were at school or asleep. Each day, I would do a quick count; both the total number of gifts and those which were specifically for me. Those with my name always received a gentle shake, with my ear close to the package for tell-tale signs of its contents. Anything that rattled was a good thing. Clothes did not rattle.
Back then we didn’t compare numbers or box size with our siblings. I don’t think it ever crossed my mind to wonder if David or Wayne or Tracy got bigger, better or more than me. That doesn’t mean I was or am a spectacularly generous and all around wonderful person. It was just the way things were back then.
Many nights I would slip into the living room and turn off all the lights except for those on the tree, then lie on the floor and get lost in the bright colors. My mind would be full of thoughts and wide awake in ways that my tired, adult mind can’t even comprehend anymore. It wasn’t just the dreams of gifts and what might await me on Christmas morning, although that was certainly a part of it, it was the sweet promise of all things Christmas. It was always the best time of year.
Friday, December 4, 2009
Awkward
You have to worry about how your day is going to turn out when you make a little girl you don’t even know cry before it's even 5:00am. Even if your words or actions are completely unintentional, that has to be a bad sign.
At 5am this morning I am standing outside the Baltimore Washington Airport Marriott, waiting for the shuttle to take me to the airport. Just as it arrives, a family comes out behind me, Mom and Dad staggering into the early morning air much as I had done, but their daughter was bouncing with enthusiasm.
She looked to be about four years old, and her chattering, nervous energy reminded me of my own daughters at that age. She pulled a little pink, furry suitcase that no doubt carried her most prized possessions and hugged a white teddy bear tightly with her other arm.
I’ve seen families like this at airports many times; slipping away for a weekend getaway on an early Friday morning, or getting a head start on a week’s vacation. The girl seemed excited to be going on a flight. I wondered if it was her first time flying. I made some quick assumptions, which, as we all know, is not a good thing.
We get on the shuttle and the little girl and her mother sit across from me. The Dad sits behind them. The girl continues to chatter, asking her Mom one question and then another, all in that random, seemingly pointless way that kids do. The Mom was still half asleep, so she answered with the least effort possible. “Yes,” “no,” and nodding.
Although I have a general policy of being somewhat “anti-social” in public when it comes to adults, I can’t resist smiling at a little kid. At one point in her reverie, she happened to glance my way and I couldn’t help but grin. She smiled back and seemed to realize that I was somewhat more responsive to her charms than her parents that morning.
I decided to engage in a bit of conversation, since I knew the shuttle ride would be short and we’d soon be separated in the crowd of travelers and multitude of flights. Imagining her excitement in sharing details of her trip to the beach or maybe Disney World, I leaned toward her and asked, “So, are you flying somewhere fun today?”
The smile instantly faded from her face and she looked at her Mom, who was looking out the window and didn’t hear what I asked over the drone of the shuttle bus engine. The girl turned back to me, lower lip trembling and eyes welling up with tears, and said, “My granny died.”
It was a much longer ride to the airport than I thought it would be, and not nearly as crowded once we got there as I had hoped. As I sit her now, near my gate in terminal D, I can see them…Mom, Dad and now somber child, sitting quietly in the corner. With my luck, they will not only be on my flight, but probably share my row of seats.
At 5am this morning I am standing outside the Baltimore Washington Airport Marriott, waiting for the shuttle to take me to the airport. Just as it arrives, a family comes out behind me, Mom and Dad staggering into the early morning air much as I had done, but their daughter was bouncing with enthusiasm.
She looked to be about four years old, and her chattering, nervous energy reminded me of my own daughters at that age. She pulled a little pink, furry suitcase that no doubt carried her most prized possessions and hugged a white teddy bear tightly with her other arm.
I’ve seen families like this at airports many times; slipping away for a weekend getaway on an early Friday morning, or getting a head start on a week’s vacation. The girl seemed excited to be going on a flight. I wondered if it was her first time flying. I made some quick assumptions, which, as we all know, is not a good thing.
We get on the shuttle and the little girl and her mother sit across from me. The Dad sits behind them. The girl continues to chatter, asking her Mom one question and then another, all in that random, seemingly pointless way that kids do. The Mom was still half asleep, so she answered with the least effort possible. “Yes,” “no,” and nodding.
Although I have a general policy of being somewhat “anti-social” in public when it comes to adults, I can’t resist smiling at a little kid. At one point in her reverie, she happened to glance my way and I couldn’t help but grin. She smiled back and seemed to realize that I was somewhat more responsive to her charms than her parents that morning.
I decided to engage in a bit of conversation, since I knew the shuttle ride would be short and we’d soon be separated in the crowd of travelers and multitude of flights. Imagining her excitement in sharing details of her trip to the beach or maybe Disney World, I leaned toward her and asked, “So, are you flying somewhere fun today?”
The smile instantly faded from her face and she looked at her Mom, who was looking out the window and didn’t hear what I asked over the drone of the shuttle bus engine. The girl turned back to me, lower lip trembling and eyes welling up with tears, and said, “My granny died.”
It was a much longer ride to the airport than I thought it would be, and not nearly as crowded once we got there as I had hoped. As I sit her now, near my gate in terminal D, I can see them…Mom, Dad and now somber child, sitting quietly in the corner. With my luck, they will not only be on my flight, but probably share my row of seats.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
