Christmas Memories (part two)

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.