Christmas Memories

This time of year, we often sit back and think of the "good old days" when gas prices never even approached $2.00 a gallon, families always got along, and children respected their elders. Of course, realistically speaking, only the first one was ever really true, but that doesn't stop us from sugar-coating the past and presenting our comfortable view of personal history. I am just as guilty as the next person when I think about how much better things were when I was a kid... but then, I didn't pay the bills, didn't care about politics, and was happy enough with my brothers and parents that I couldn't imagine an unhappy holiday.

Christmas was always a huge family affair; everyone would cram into Grandma and Grandpa's house and jostle for a position by the pot-bellied stove. I remember my grandfather smoking his pipe and rocking in an old recliner with an afghan draped over the top. The upright piano in the front room always tempted me, but it was off-limits when the whole family was around. I was generally too distracted by my cousins and the gifts to be upset by this, which is a good thing when I remember the instrument's desperate plea for tuning, and my complete lack of skill. I remember the smell of wood smoke and pipe tobacco, the soft light on the dining room table, and the general sounds of happiness that seemed to permeate the walls and linger on long after the holiday visits. Their house was a happy place.

Of course, we had our own small celebrations at home, too. Christmas morning was footie pajamas and sparkling paper, bubble lights and a warm fireplace. When I grew too big for footie pj's--a fact which vexes me as I am convinced that footies should be available beyond toddler sizes--it was flannel nightgowns and knitted slippers that Grandma had made. The cat would be buried under the wrapping paper by the time we were through, one black paw occasionally popping out to bat at our feet. Breakfast was sometimes pancakes, stacked high and smothered in butter, sometimes eggs and bacon and toast with butter and jam, and sometimes just good old cold cereal. It didn't matter really; we were together and we were happy. In the eyes of a child, these things go on forever, but I got a strong dose of reality in 1990. My middle brother enlisted in the United States Marines, and Grandpa passed away.

My brother's enlistment didn't hit home right away. I understood that he would leave, but I didn't know when or for how long, and it faded from my mind rapidly as summer continued on. Grandpa's death, however, had an immediate and powerful impact. I was not unacquainted with death, but this was the first time it had been someone with whom I had formed a bond. I distinctly remember looking at a small carving of a stork that I had watched him make, and feeling terribly empty because I had never learned how to handle the blades without cutting my fingers. I also remembered my fumbling early attempts at wood burning, and his careful encouragement and patience as he taught me how to feel the pressure of the stylus and the give of the wood. He was a remarkable carpenter and I felt that I had lost the one teacher who understood--perhaps because he had six daughters--that girls could take up practices typically reserved to men. As the pain of his passing began to fade, a new sadness crept in; Christmas would not be at our grandparent's house this year. I took some comfort in the fact that we would be together at home. And then, on December third, my brother was off to boot camp.

Christmas morning in 1990 began like something out of a stereotypical Hollywood picture. Holiday music played softly on the radio. The world was coated in fresh powdery snow that sparkled in the sunlight. The sky was a crisp and brilliant blue, the lights danced around the tree, and the cat was curled up in front of the fireplace, one eye lazily surveying the living room. She was waiting for her paper pile, unfazed by the family of five-minus-one shuffling half-heartedly across the faded green carpet. The world seemed dimmer somehow, like the color had been slowly siphoned away leaving only hints of the original tone behind. We passed gifts with weary smiles and poorly-worn masks of cheer, each person trying to be strong for all the rest, each one trying to hide the sense of emptiness that hung in the air. Among all my memories of Christmas, this one always stands out in sharp contrast, thrusting its way to the front like an angry bull bent on breaking my holiday spirit. It has never won.

As difficult as it was to endure at the time, that morning has been one of my most important experiences in life. I learned how to cope with loss and accept change, how to comfort and be comforted. I understood not only how much my family meant to me, but how many little things they did for me that I had never considered. And I learned that there will be moments in life that are dark, but they are just that--moments. They pass and are filed in the banks of our memories, the pain diminishing over time.

The memory of Christmas in 1990 does not end with us sitting around the living room with faded smiles and awkward silence; it ends with a phone call. Breaking who knows how many rules, my brother had slipped out of the barracks to call home. We rapidly passed the receiver around, tears welling in our eyes as we heard his voice softly quavering on the line. Mom was the last one holding the phone when my brother informed her that the MPs were there and he had to go (To this day I haven’t found out exactly what kind of punishment he might have received, but it never stopped him from finishing his training; he’s still in the Marines and is looking forward to retirement in a few years). As we hung up the phone, a kind of calm descended on us. The emptiness faded and we embraced, laughing and crying at the same time, releasing the sadness that had welled up inside us in a rush of emotion. Even Dad was wiping his eyes. When I think of Christmas, I remember this moment and I smile. Nowadays it is very rare for us to all be together in the same place, but we are always together in that moment, in my memory, and in my heart.