Memories of Christmas
My brother, two years older, and I would find the extra-early morning inviting, unlike most days of the week when rising from our warm beds proved more challenging. I'm sure Christmas morning holds fond memories for those who found little treasures awaiting them in bulging stockings hung by the fireplace, like us. The tidy-wrapped packages nestled underneath the prickly pine-scented branches would have their content revealed after breakfast. A few new arrivals now presented themselves in front of the live tree which was beginning to lose its needles. The magic which occurred in the darkness told of the arrival of a jolly fat man who was allowed to enter our house while we slept. Yes, that seemed perfectly sane.
In the kitchen, our mother would start coffee by filling the percolating pot with cool water. She would add just the right amount of granulated coffee grounds into the perforated tin cup and then insert the slender hollow tube into the crevice in the bottom of the pot. Finding the detachable cord in the towel drawer, Mom would plug it into both pot and wall. She would listen for the water to circulate through the cylinder ensuring that everything was perfectly positioned. Coffee percolating would make the most amazing gurgling sound as the water crested the tube and bubbled into the glass bulb in the lid. The water would change from clear to amber to a deep roasted brown giving us a clue when the brew was almost finished. Soon the red light would turn green telling Mom that perfectly hot coffee was ready to serve. Coffee never smelled so good, except maybe on camping trips when you could believe it tasted as good as its aroma promised.
A saucepan would be placed on a low-temperature burner to warm milk for delicious Ovaltine or hot chocolate depending on what was available in the cupboards. Kitchen cabinets were often called cupboards in middle-class blue-collar homes. Microwave ovens were just coming out, but we still worried about getting radiation in our food, so using the stovetop made more sense. Mom would often put me in charge of stirring warm milk until it formed a thin layer of skin indicating it was time to add the chocolate. The secret hiding place for stale marshmallows was revealed as Mom would open the rarely used dishwasher. Our dishwasher was mounted on castors and rolled to the sink where she would attach a hose. It seemed that the dishwasher was a more convenient place to store oversized pots and pans, and food she didn't want us to find than a means to wash dishes. Most often I was her dishwasher.
Mom would bake for weeks in preparation for both Christmas Eve and Christmas day. The warm savory breakfast she would bake was a nice change from the cold bowl of Kellogg's cereal that we most often consumed. Sweet, gooey cinnamon rolls were so enticing that it was hard not to sneak barely noticeable nibbles. Those nibbles were often blamed on little fingers, yet quite often belonged to our dad who tried to hide his incredibly deceitful sweet tooth.
My brother and I were allowed to peer down the six steps leading to our family room but were never allowed to enter until our grandparents arrived. Dad alone was downstairs poking at the firewood that he had placed on the wrought iron grate several days before. Ensuring that the firewood was now dry, Dad would roll up old, previously refuged newspaper from the garage and stuff it beneath the wood. He would rattle the flue to ensure that it was open before lighting a long fireplace match that he kept on the mantle. No one in the family was allowed to start a fire except Dad. The fire was bound to be warm and toasty by the time we were allowed to go downstairs. It wouldn't be long and the sliding glass door would be flung opened to cool the overheated room or to suck the smoke out of the house if he forgot to open the flew. We didn't often enjoy a fire in our fireplace, but always on Christmas morning.
The doorbell rang and our long, black and tan dachshund barked a greeting. Wagging her tail and overly excited, she would wriggle and flip trying not to tinkle as she met familiar old faces that emerged from the chilly December air. Quick reminders would be spoken not to bend down to pet the dog as she was ushered outside. The hope for a white Christmas would be spoken of for weeks and often was perfectly timed for us to enjoy, but often involved my brother shoveling the steps and walkway to our front door before our grandparents arrived.
We always hoped for a white Christmas as much, if not more so, than the gifts we had selected from the Sears and Roebuck catalog that we had thoroughly perused at least a dozen times leading up to Christmas morning. Corners turned on the pages to remind ourselves of our selection. More often than not, we were pleased with the white snow. More so than remaining hopeful that we would receive exactly what we had requested on our Christmas lists. Things changed for the better the year our mother began to work in the credit department at Sears and was able to offer the jolly fat man a discount.
Dad would greet his parents at the front door and help them remove hats, scarves, boots, and coats. My brother was quick to open the garage door and offer to help escort packages from their trunk into the family room. Grandma would head into the kitchen with a box of homemade pies, Pumpkin, Pecan, Apple and Blueberry. She knew each of our favorites and one pie wasn't enough to satisfy all the diversified tastes.
Grandpa, who walked by shuffling his feet would gingerly step down the six steps to the lower landing of our tri-level home. His lower back always bothered him so his knees were slightly bent as he walked. If his hands were empty, he often applied pressure with the back of his hand to his kidneys, his palm facing out. It was so familiar he could have applied for a trademark. He was careful to make sure the dog didn't get between his feet as she was so eager for his attention. He would conceal a gift he intended for our overly-stuffed Christmas stockings in the pocket of his work pants. I don't believe we ever saw Grandpa dressed in anything but his army green work pants and matching cotton work shirt. He was a hardworking factory man who never lost the twinkle in his eye even when downsizing cost him a job or two. A roll of silver dollar coins, ten to be exact, were wrapped in the red netting that had previously held oranges. He would sneak over to pretend to observe the crackling fire and with a stealth-like move hover over the top of my brother and my stocking to drop the coins into place. It was never a secret, but we pretended like we didn't know where the silver dollars came from. He liked it that way. After breakfast and long after gifts had been unwrapped, we would examine the coins commenting on the date they had been minted and if there were pure silver or had the copper-like core. You could easily tell what was authentic. We never intended to spend our silver dollars as we were convinced that they would increase in value once they went out of circulation.
With cups of coffee and hot cocoa in hand, we would all gather downstairs for the first ritual of Christmas: opening our stockings. This would be followed by a warm delicious breakfast and conversations of recipes which Grandma always seemed to hold interest. Once dishes were removed from the table, the dishwasher, me, was excused to go downstairs. Mom and Grandma would be the last to arrive, while my brother and I waited with bated breath. Does anyone really remember what that idiom actually means? Okay, so we were eager. Soft Christmas music was playing from a thirty-three which crackled as the record player needle skipped across the grooved surface. We listened to Bing Crosby's White Christmas.
The sound of ripping paper soon overtook the sound of Christmas Carols. As nicely wrapped and ribboned packages now revealed open boxes, the paper was strewn everywhere, we expressed gratitude and thanksgiving for the gifts that were concealed only moments before. Grandma's gift seemed to override our parent's clothing rules. The outfits she had sewn on her treadle machine couldn't be returned. I loved them. My brother, too, would receive the brand of tennis shoes he had only dreamed about but told he would never own. Bless her!
Our Christmas traditions were simple but full of deep and rich memories. What remains in my mind the most is the beautiful exchange of love between my grandparents and our family. My grandparents left this world more than thirty years ago, my dad's been gone for a few, but our memories lived beyond them. My husband also has fond memories of years-gone-by. In our now somewhat small family Christmas, much of the pomp and circumstance of old family traditions are behind us. We don't gather as much with family but find ourselves at the UPS store shipping gifts here and there. More common than packages are plastic gift cards we insert in envelopes. No need to truly understand someone's taste, no desire to offend them by buying something they would most likely return. We live in a society where we satisfy our longings immediately, no need to wait for its arrival under a Christmas bough. Relatives buried, family members separated by distance, we no longer seem to have the glue that holds us together. The artificial Christmas tree, more convenient than the one we use to water, the crackling fire now turns on with an electric light switch on the wall; the coffee no longer percolates, it brews in seconds, so much has changed. The packages under the tree no longer resemble mysteries, but certainties on what was purchased over the internet and found on our credit card bills.
However, one thing will never change. We continue to celebrate the true meaning behind our Christmas celebrations, the birth of Jesus. We still sing the same songs, and we again focus on a little town in Bethlehem. Our fond memories move our thoughts forward when we know that we will join some of those who have gone before us. Our Savior, Jesus Christ, who loves us and gave Himself as a gift from heaven never changes. He came to rescue and restore our relationship with the heavenly Father. Let us not forget the moments we love from our childhoods, but more importantly, let’s never forget the reason for the season. Jesus alone is our hope and our anchor.
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