Prologue
The Following is a composite of memories from somewhere between the ages of 2 and 6.
My parents and siblings may not recognize these memories, as I may not recognize theirs,
for memory is a selective and personal thing.
These are shadows of Christmases past, as remembered and stored in a small child’s
brain. I hope they vibrate a chord in you and help you recall some of the wonder and
magic of Christmas.
A CHRISTMAS MEMOIR
The days leading up to Christmas were filled with anticipation. Decorations were
being added daily, until the walls were decked and the end tables were stacked with the
appropriate figurines. The Nativity set was lovingly set out on the top of the Television,
the other object of worship. I sounded out Christmas carols on the piano as quietly as
possible, so not to wake my father who was working the midnight shift.
In 1960, the year I was in the first grade, I recall Christmas coming as the smell of
white paste and wet wool. Our class room desks were arranged in a giant square around
the room, and in the center a real Scotch Pine was placed. During the final week before
Christmas vacation, the art teacher would come to our room and lead us through the
making of decorations such as snowmen and women, candy canes and red and green
construction paper chains that were strung up criss-cross the ceiling, and looped around
the tree. We all had to make our personal ornament. Mine was a construction paper
Santa, appropriately red, with black crayoned boots and a beard and coat trim of cotton
from the nurse’s office. He had a huge gold buckle on his wide black belt and blue eyes
that twinkled. Well, at least I left a white square in one that was supposed to represent
the twinkle.
Now, as this memoir is written, my mother still hangs it gently in the center of the tree, so it won’t get knocked off and ruined. Even as an adult, I still feel the wonder that went into making it, and pride that my personal ornament has lasted this long.
On the last day of school, we had a Christmas party and packed away our candies
and decorations in brown paper sacks to take home on the bus. We would be released
from school as everyone shouted “See you next year!” and pile onto our buses clutching the
paper sacks with our coloring and worksheets, art projects, and of course our ornaments
we had worked so hard on. We said good-by to our best friends for a while. We would be
on different sides of the planet until the day after Christmas, when we were allowed to
call them and compare gifts. And inevitably during the litany of gifts we would get side
tracked and completely forget to mention some of them.
My grandmother would arrive when vacation started, with much fanfare on the
scale of the arrival of the Queen Mother. She would come north on the Greyhound, and
be met at the bus stop by my father, my sister and I. We had to be spit polished, and the
house had to be spic and span. My mother would stay behind to make doubly sure
Grandma’s room was in order. She would alight from the bus bright as a penny, her
rouged and powdered cheeks glowing, her feathered hat set like a jewel on her tinted
perm. Her vast collection of aqua Samsonite luggage began to emerge from the giant door in the cargo hold of the Greyhound, jostled forward by the husky driver and my dad who placed them on the sidewalk in descending order of size.
I watched from the back seat of the DeSoto with great big butterflies in my belly. The number of suit cases was my private gauge of how long she would stay, and I never wanted her to leave. She had been an elementary-school teacher since 1917, not to mention Class Clown at Potsdam Normal, and she knew how to get to a child’s heart.
After our cheeks were pinched and our bright eyes remarked upon, Her Emeraude
Scented Highness was ensconced in the front seat. We drove home and the whole
performance was repeated in reverse as the luggage was loaded into her room. While
this was happening, we were treated to the opening of the purse.
Grandma had a giant black Patent Leather purse that I am sure could have easily
concealed a small child. The clasp was gold and very strong. At first I would try to open
it, my duty as the oldest child. She would be too busy removing her hat and gloves and
getting her coat off, and the clear plastic coverings over her high heels had to be pulled
off. But, when the pocket book opened there would be a waft of the smell of Juicy Fruit
Gum and we were treated to a stick each.
Sometimes it took a few minutes to find in the vast recesses of the purse, but then
Grandma could always reach in and locate them, handing them out like Trick or Treats.
In hindsight I recognize this as a tactic to distract us from the unpacking of her
gifts from those suitcases. On her other visits it was always a treat to watch as she
unpacked, but now, I know the largest suit case held her last-minute gift ideas, and the
quantity of luggage did not necessarily foretell her length of stay.
As Christmas grew near, the annual box of Ribbon Candy she brought was set out
on the coffee table. I tried to like it, but never could get past the acid green brittle loops
that shattered in your hands and threatened to “put your eye out”. Between the ribbon
candy and the peanut brittle, I am lucky I have a tooth left.
Eventually, after teasing ”When are we getting the tree?” It would appear on the
porch, scenting the sharp air with its piney aroma. Usually it had to sit on the porch for a
few days, they said, to open up, to melt the gobs of snow clinging to its needles, but I
now know it was waiting for my mother to get time to put it up. She worked full time as a Registered Nurse, and left in the morning before daylight, and came home after dark.
My sister and I would agonize over that tree, and when it was finally brought in, we’d
have the Christmas Tree Dance, skipping gaily around the tree in circles before it was
decorated, like some instinctual pagan welcoming ritual, while it stood in its metal stand
in the middle of the linoleumed living room. One year, our dance was so frantic we
knocked it over and were sent our room to calm down. We were mortified.
I remember one Christmas (or two) when they built a fake fireplace at the end of
the double living room. They took pictures of me in my footed pajamas, looking intently
up its non-existent chimney. Grinning, with Kodak in hand, they coaxed me to see if
Santa was coming. I thought to myself, how can he come down inside a bunch of red
cardboard blocks? Yet I looked up inside it, as self-doubt set in. Maybe he could, I
thought. Wasn’t he Santa, and wasn’t Santa a magical creature? He magically filled our
little parlor with gifts, things we loved and treasured, things we didn’t know we’d even
wanted, secretly in our deepest selves.
I admit, he had a little help deciding what to bring us. Every year we would say
our list to Daddy and after he wrote them down, he would take us out to the snow bank
and put our lists in an old coffee can. Then he would light them on fire, and we could
actually see the black letters whirling up into space on their way to the North Pole.
There, they would settle on His great red book, and form words.
Then came THE NIGHT.
Christmas Eve. The excruciatingly long night. There would be Church and
Supper and Bath Time, then Mom would read us ” ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas”
. And it is true, visions did dance in our heads as we lie there in the dark, and every creak
and crackle was listened to with wonder.
If we were at all reluctant to go to bed, we would be told the story of how Sharp
Eyes, one of Santa’s most trusted Elves, was watching us, ready to report any misbehavior, or there would be footsteps on the roof and reindeer bells jingled outside on
the lawn to spur us up the stairs and into our beds.
Later, I found out that my Uncle Dan came over without anyone knowing, and
added these sound effects. But the magic was so manifest, my skin prickled. Because of
this, there is part of me that will always believe.
One Christmas Eve it seemed like there was no night at all. I crawled into bed,
shut my eyes, opened my eyes and it was morning. I could smell the coffee brewing in
the percolator. It must have been the previous day of sledding that tired me out so.
As I came down the stairs and peered over the banister, there was a pinkish glow
hovering like mist, coming from the tree lights and reflecting off the tinsel and wrapping
paper. There was no movement, only the pendulum of the clock reminding me that time
had not stood still.
I crept a little further down the stairway and saw Grandma’s rocker gently
moving, her apricot colored curls showing slightly above the back of the chair. She sat
alone, admiring the tree, sipping her coffee and soaking in the peace, wearing her
husband’s old wool plaid bathrobe for remembrance, and missing him, I supposed. He
had died the year I was born.
I silently chose a seat on the sofa trying not to disturb her private thoughts, and
helped her in her vigil. Since that time, when I was around five, this has also been part of
my ritual.
We turned the radio on, and as it warmed up, Christmas Carols drifted into the air.
As the house came awake and daylight came through the east windows, the
excitement began to build. Soon the family, one by one, would gather at the tree. My
sister, only about two, would kneel near the tree, her eyes shining with the lights. Some
presents were lifted carefully, and checked for names, everyone unwilling to destroy the scene.
Mom would join Grandma with her coffee cup, and we would watch for Dad to come
up the hill and pull into the drive-way. In his Pinkerton Guard Uniform he would act
surprised and ask “Who was here?’
We would all laugh that Daddy forgot it was Christmas and begin passing gifts around. There were still, at that time, only the two of us little girls. My brother and baby sister had not yet been thought of. We would choose a present for Grandma, and sit at her feet as she opened it, then Dad, then Mom, and finally one of us girls would get to open a box.
We weren’t the kind that tore open the paper greedily and threw it helter skelter,
we savored every piece of tape, every fold, slowly revealing our gift. Some how it made
Christmas last a little longer.
After a while, we drifted to the kitchen where breakfast was served, and the turkey
was stuffed, trussed and put into the oven for our Christmas dinner.
The photographs in our album are tribute to the hard work and sacrifice my
parents and grandmother made to give us a magical, loving, thoughtful experience. They
show our quiet, glowing, gift filled space; the tree and its lights, the cards suspended
across the archway.
They show the peace. And some of the pictures show my little sister and I in our
matching nighties and Pixie hair cuts, grinning in front of the tree, red spots in our eyes.
Diane E. Dockum
Marble Hill Press 