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.