Well, the Christmas season is once again upon us, as evidenced by the decorations, which started appearing in some stores before Halloween and on some neighborhood homes in time for Thanksgiving; the frenzied sales; and the harried shoppers. Tragically, though, in my opinion, the real meaning of Christmas has been lost, at least for most people, and has been
for years now, in the rampant materialism that has become so much a part of the
season. There
was a time, however, when things were different. There was a time when I believed in Santa Claus, as well as miracles.
When I was a child, the Christmas season
unofficially began with the arrival of the Sears & Roebuck Christmas
Catalog (Mama called it “the Wish-book”), a veritable cornucopia of wonders
that my siblings (Vicki and Bud) and I would pour over each day after school
right up until Christmas Eve. Of course, by then, that wish-book was pretty
ragged looking from all the wear and tear, but turning its dog-eared pages
still managed to leave us in wide-eyed awe. Not that we dared hope for certain
items that wish-book offered, for example, elaborate (and expensive) dolls
dressed in velvet coats trimmed with “real” mink for Vicki and me, or
electric-train sets complete with towns, bridges, and farms for Bud. Those
things were for richer children, like the banker’s daughter and the doctor’s
sons.
Still, dreaming on a smaller scale was
allowable, so dream we did, on past Thanksgiving and into December when the
countdown of days until Christmas slowed down to an agonizing crawl. But at
least the teachers at school were getting into the holiday spirit by then,
which helped pass the time; and we got to sing Christmas songs (Yes, we even
sang the religious ones back then); participate in the Christmas play (It was
always a reenactment of the Nativity, complete bales of hay, a makeshift
manager, and a doll swaddled in a baby blanket); and decorate the classroom
tree with silver-and-gold-painted sweet-gum balls, chains made from colored
construction paper and held together with flour-and-water paste; and strings of
burnt popcorn and squashed cranberries.
As for our family tree, well, although we
kids didn’t figure it out until we were older, Daddy usually had one already selected
well before Christmas, given he was always traversing the woods and fields throughout
the year, hunting rabbits in the fall and winter, strawberries in the spring,
and blackberries in the summer; and during his ramblings he’d make a “mental
note” whenever he’d glimpse a particularly bushy, well-shaped cedar. Then,
usually about two weeks before Christmas, he’d tell us kids to “go bundle up”
(Georgia winters were quite chilly back before global warming), because it was
time for us to go find the “perfect” Christmas tree. And off we’d go, the four
of us, traipsing through the Georgia woods, with the bare tree limbs rattling
overhead, the wind nipping at our noses, and the family dogs, excited over the
outing, scampering ahead over the carpet of dried leaves and pine needles and
boldly leading us on our quest.
Once our tree was located and downed (Bud,
being the boy, usually had the honor of wielding the hatchet), we would drag our
prize home, where Daddy would fashion a stand out of lumber, nail the stand to
the tree’s base then the living room floor (Yes, that’s how it was done in the
old days, at least for us poor folks); and we kids would proceed to decorate
the tree with strings of blue, red, green, and orange lights (the big,
old-fashioned kind of bulbs); glass ornaments (most were older than we and
looked it); silver and gold garlands; and as many handfuls of icicles as we
could manage to drape neatly over the lowest limbs and fling haphazardly over
the highest limbs. Of course, some years, if Daddy could afford it, we also had
fake snow. It came in a can, and you sprayed it on the tree, making quite a
mess in the process; but it sure looked pretty, at least to us kids, although I
don’t think Mama much cared for it.
When Christmas Eve finally arrived, like
children everywhere, my siblings and I had a difficult time sleeping since our
stomachs were aflutter with butterflies of anticipation, and when we finally
did doze off, our heads were filled with visions of—what else but sugarplums.
Then, at the crack of dawn, the linoleum floor icy beneath our bare feet, since
Mama had just kindled a fire in the coal heater and it hadn’t yet had time to
warm the house, the three of us would go dashing into the living room, slide
under the tree, and squeal in delight over our presents, as well as three of
Daddy’s old socks, each filled with an orange, a tangerine, an apple, assorted
nuts, peppermint sticks, and cream-filled chocolate drops (We didn’t have a
fireplace or a mantle, so we laid our “stockings” under the tree—Bud always got
the middle spot, Vicki the left, and me the right, although don’t ask me why;
that’s just the way we did it).
Daddy always made breakfast on Christmas
mornings. The meal was a tradition: his “world-famous” waffles with sorghum
syrup; fried ham (He raised the hog himself); scrambled eggs (He also raised
the chickens that laid the eggs); and fresh milk (Yes, Daddy had a milk cow as
well, although we eventually starting buying milk from Mr. Jones’s Dairy, not
that I can recall why, although it probably had something to do with the latest
findings on a process called pasteurization). And do you know something?
Although I have dined in some fancy high-priced restaurants over the years
since then, I can still vividly recall not only the aroma but also the taste of
Daddy’s Christmas breakfast while those “gourmet” meals have long ago been
forgotten.
My mama died in 1991 and my daddy in 1997,
and the more I think about those Christmases long past, the sadder I become.
I miss my parents. Moreover, try as I might, I cannot recall even one Christmas
during my adulthood that can even remotely compare to those of my childhood, at
least in terms of holiday spirit and joy. I wonder why this is the case. After
all, my family was poor, “dirt-poor” to be exact, so my brother, sister, and I knew
not to dream “too big,” even at Christmas. Yet, being children, we did dream;
and our parents, being the people they were, did everything within their power
to make their children’s dreams come true and their Christmases memorable.
The point I’m trying to make, I guess, is
that Christmas—or any other day of the year for that matter—should never be
about how much we can get but how much we can give to those whom
love. My parents were poor, at least in terms of money and material goods, but they
gave their children unconditional love. They also gave them precious memories.
So, this—my Christmas blog—is dedicated to my parents. Thank you, Mama and
Daddy, for helping your children believe in miracles.
