Showing posts with label Christmas. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Christmas. Show all posts
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Tis the Season
Okay, so I did attend an extended family function on Sunday. My mother hosted a Christmas get together at her place. She lives in a 3-floor retirement community. She was able to reserve the common room for about three hours.
Spouse had to work, but Son and I attended. For the most part it was all right. Spent a lot of time sitting with nothing to do and no one to talk with. I'm just not aggressive that way. The older I get the less I figure anyone wants to talk with me, so I virtually never interject myself, other than to say hello. Especially with people I have not seen in a long time.
My aunt and uncle I have not seen since last winter, when mother had cancer surgery. My one niece I saw last spring, and I saw my sister just a week ago. Other than that it's been years. Some of the young ones I have never seen.
My nephew's wife came up to Son and me and told Son she didn't think he remembered her. She could have said that about me, too. I hadn't a clue who she was until she told Son.
When we left Son made an interesting comment.
"Why is everyone in our family fat? Including the children?"
Well, everyone is a bit of an exaggeration. I did a tally. Only two out of three. My younger sister's family are all acceptably thin, and my brother's youngest son is downright skinny. So those seven were not fat. And Son is not fat. And there was another little boy who was not fat. But the rest of us? Yeah, I'm afraid so.
It wasn't that way forty years ago. Then, the ratio was at least reversed. It may even have been greater in favor of thin and skinny. Times have changed. So have lifestyles.
But now it is time for our Christmas season. Son gets off school in a few minutes and does not have to return until January. He's looking forward to that. I have mixed feelings about it. His being around means a lot less time on the computer for me, and even less writing.
Oh, well. I like having Son about. Mostly.
Spouse had to work, but Son and I attended. For the most part it was all right. Spent a lot of time sitting with nothing to do and no one to talk with. I'm just not aggressive that way. The older I get the less I figure anyone wants to talk with me, so I virtually never interject myself, other than to say hello. Especially with people I have not seen in a long time.
My aunt and uncle I have not seen since last winter, when mother had cancer surgery. My one niece I saw last spring, and I saw my sister just a week ago. Other than that it's been years. Some of the young ones I have never seen.
My nephew's wife came up to Son and me and told Son she didn't think he remembered her. She could have said that about me, too. I hadn't a clue who she was until she told Son.
When we left Son made an interesting comment.
"Why is everyone in our family fat? Including the children?"
Well, everyone is a bit of an exaggeration. I did a tally. Only two out of three. My younger sister's family are all acceptably thin, and my brother's youngest son is downright skinny. So those seven were not fat. And Son is not fat. And there was another little boy who was not fat. But the rest of us? Yeah, I'm afraid so.
It wasn't that way forty years ago. Then, the ratio was at least reversed. It may even have been greater in favor of thin and skinny. Times have changed. So have lifestyles.
But now it is time for our Christmas season. Son gets off school in a few minutes and does not have to return until January. He's looking forward to that. I have mixed feelings about it. His being around means a lot less time on the computer for me, and even less writing.
Oh, well. I like having Son about. Mostly.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Christmas Countdown
Time again for shameless self-promotion. I realize it’s in bad form, but I figure, what the h*ll. It’s my blog. If I’m not going to promote myself then why have it?
Christmas is a time for nostalgic thinking and feelings. We remember what it was like to be young and sitting before the tree waiting for the go-ahead to begin presents.
In our house Daddy handed out presents. Nobody else. After a few years, when I was older (and so was Daddy) I helped by crawling under the tree to get the hard to reach presents. Also, Daddy would hand me the presents to hand to those who weren’t sitting within easy reach. That way he didn’t have to crawl all over the floor. When Helvie got older she helped, too. I didn’t like that. I liked it when it was just Daddy and me.
We were poor, but things cost pennies in those days. For $5 my parents could buy six presents for every child (there were seven of us, and although Ranlen was up north he still had presents under the tree). Every year one child would be picked to get a special Christmas. Their presents cost a bit more than the others, but they didn’t get so many either. But we often had both sets of grandparents and Aunt Cile with us. And sometimes another aunt and/or uncle. We could have as many as fifteen or twenty people there. And with each person getting at least five presents, that meant a lot of presents under the tree. But think of this: seventy presents for less than $200. That’s what we were able to do back in the 60s.
So what has all of that to do with shameless self-promotion? Uh, nothing. I got off on a tangent. I think I’ll stay here and save the self-promotion for another post. You don’t mind. Right?
In The Old House, we had that giant living room (25’ x 15’) with the 12’ ceilings. This meant we could have very large trees – which we did. They cost nothing, so why not? While hunting up north Daddy and Alfred would go out into the forest, find a tall white pine, cut it off at eight to ten feet off the ground, and that would be our Christmas tree. They only guessed at the height, and twice we had to shorten it to fit in the living room. But they were wide. Quite able to hold all of the presents beneath.
We had blinking lights, but they didn’t flash on and off. When I say ‘blinking lights’ I mean blinking lights. As in, why don’t the d*mn things work this year? Now we have to find the one bulb that is keeping the others from lighting.
There was nothing more magical to me than to sit before a 12’ decorated Christmas tree with a monstrous pile of presents beneath. Never mind that only a handful were for me. Never mind that nearly every present I got cost less than a dollar. Maybe two. Except, every so often, when it was my turn to get the special Christmas.
I realize that Christmas, as a concept, is about the birth of Jesus, but let’s be real. It’s one thing to know that (we all do, right), but it’s quite another to see it as the primary focus of the season. Christmas is for children. Even Jesus said, “Suffer the little children to come unto me.” There is nothing wrong with Christmas being a season for children. Personally, I think it far better to keep Christmas for children (and we all have a child in us some place, right?) and the entire year for God, rather than the other way around. I am aware that Christmas is the time when we acknowledge the birth of Jesus. But even as a Christian, I have to admit, when I think of Christmas I think of children sitting before a decorated tree with presents beneath. It’s a magical time. Anything could be in those packages. Even when you knew it couldn’t. But it is a wonderful time for believing. And speaking for myself, I need that more than anything.
There. That was much better than what I was going to talk about.
Christmas is a time for nostalgic thinking and feelings. We remember what it was like to be young and sitting before the tree waiting for the go-ahead to begin presents.
In our house Daddy handed out presents. Nobody else. After a few years, when I was older (and so was Daddy) I helped by crawling under the tree to get the hard to reach presents. Also, Daddy would hand me the presents to hand to those who weren’t sitting within easy reach. That way he didn’t have to crawl all over the floor. When Helvie got older she helped, too. I didn’t like that. I liked it when it was just Daddy and me.
We were poor, but things cost pennies in those days. For $5 my parents could buy six presents for every child (there were seven of us, and although Ranlen was up north he still had presents under the tree). Every year one child would be picked to get a special Christmas. Their presents cost a bit more than the others, but they didn’t get so many either. But we often had both sets of grandparents and Aunt Cile with us. And sometimes another aunt and/or uncle. We could have as many as fifteen or twenty people there. And with each person getting at least five presents, that meant a lot of presents under the tree. But think of this: seventy presents for less than $200. That’s what we were able to do back in the 60s.
So what has all of that to do with shameless self-promotion? Uh, nothing. I got off on a tangent. I think I’ll stay here and save the self-promotion for another post. You don’t mind. Right?
In The Old House, we had that giant living room (25’ x 15’) with the 12’ ceilings. This meant we could have very large trees – which we did. They cost nothing, so why not? While hunting up north Daddy and Alfred would go out into the forest, find a tall white pine, cut it off at eight to ten feet off the ground, and that would be our Christmas tree. They only guessed at the height, and twice we had to shorten it to fit in the living room. But they were wide. Quite able to hold all of the presents beneath.
We had blinking lights, but they didn’t flash on and off. When I say ‘blinking lights’ I mean blinking lights. As in, why don’t the d*mn things work this year? Now we have to find the one bulb that is keeping the others from lighting.
There was nothing more magical to me than to sit before a 12’ decorated Christmas tree with a monstrous pile of presents beneath. Never mind that only a handful were for me. Never mind that nearly every present I got cost less than a dollar. Maybe two. Except, every so often, when it was my turn to get the special Christmas.
I realize that Christmas, as a concept, is about the birth of Jesus, but let’s be real. It’s one thing to know that (we all do, right), but it’s quite another to see it as the primary focus of the season. Christmas is for children. Even Jesus said, “Suffer the little children to come unto me.” There is nothing wrong with Christmas being a season for children. Personally, I think it far better to keep Christmas for children (and we all have a child in us some place, right?) and the entire year for God, rather than the other way around. I am aware that Christmas is the time when we acknowledge the birth of Jesus. But even as a Christian, I have to admit, when I think of Christmas I think of children sitting before a decorated tree with presents beneath. It’s a magical time. Anything could be in those packages. Even when you knew it couldn’t. But it is a wonderful time for believing. And speaking for myself, I need that more than anything.
There. That was much better than what I was going to talk about.
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Christmas Season
2nd UPDATE: I deleted the original post. It's what I wanted to say, but not the way I wanted to say it. So I'll just leave the first update.
UPDATE: I just thought of something my sister told me. My niece is now a proud mother of two bright and wonderful children. Her daughter, a second grader, was with her in the car listening to Christmas music when the verse, "It's the most wonderful time of the year" came caroling through the car. With complete innocence my great-niece asked her mother, "Mommy, is Christmas really the most wonderful time of the year?" In true fashion, proving she is indeed descended from my parents, my niece replied, "No, dear. That's just a song. The most wonderful time of the year is summer."
UPDATE: I just thought of something my sister told me. My niece is now a proud mother of two bright and wonderful children. Her daughter, a second grader, was with her in the car listening to Christmas music when the verse, "It's the most wonderful time of the year" came caroling through the car. With complete innocence my great-niece asked her mother, "Mommy, is Christmas really the most wonderful time of the year?" In true fashion, proving she is indeed descended from my parents, my niece replied, "No, dear. That's just a song. The most wonderful time of the year is summer."
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Sometimes I Have Not Been Nice at All
Animal Day, huh? Well, this probably isn't what you had in mind when I wrote that, but here goes.
I grew up in rural Minnesota. No big deal. We had electricity and a telephone. For a while it was party line, but Daddy's job required he have access to a telephone and so my parents sprung the extra money and got a private line. I still recall the number: 5008. Didn't have to use the prefix if you called within the area.
There were various wildlife creatures about, but nothing exotic. Supposedly, a black bear took up residence near my house, but I think that was foolish child's talk. I never heard an adult say they saw one. I don't recall even seeing that many deer. Mostly, the wildlife consisted of birds, squirrels, and a few other miscellaneous rodents. Generally, if one were to see an animal larger than a squirrel it would be a pet or a farm creature.
We did not have much for farm creatures at The Old House, despite the place originally being a farm. We got rabbits once, for Easter. But the dogs broke into the shed where we kept them and killed them all. We had chickens, too. And ducks. The chickens were nice because they walked the yard and took out the wood tics, of which the area was well inundated. Before we got the chickens you couldn't walk across the yard without picking up a half dozen. The first thing you did when you got inside was use the bathroom to sift through your clothes. After the chickens, no wood tics.
When Daddy was diagnosed with cancer, my parents sold the place and moved into the city. Roseville. A suburb north of St Paul, near the State Fair Grounds. That fall I was to be a senior in high school. I wanted to graduate in the school where I had spent most of my growing up. (I was afraid to go anywhere else. "The H*ll That You Know.") So my parents arranged for me to board at a retired minister's placed about five miles from the high school. The man was a control maniac and I didn't particularly enjoy my stay. In fact, shortly before Daddy died, I left that place and went to Roseville to live. I drove the thirty or forty miles distance daily for the rest of the year.
So what has all of this to do with animals? Well, Mr Minister (not his real name) fancied himself a part-time farmer. He raised cattle and planted hay. Well, one day I come home from school to find Mr Minister had forgotten to close the pasture gate. As I drove up the lane I could see the monsters milling about on the yard. Now I had never had anything to do with cows. All I knew about them was: a) they gave milk; b) chopped up, they made excellent burgers; c) the smallest of them weighed twice what I did.
I drove my car as close to the house as possible and then dashed inside. Safe, I went upstairs to my room and proceeded to write.
About an hour later Mr Minister comes home and ushers the cows back into the pasture. Then he comes upstairs and proceeds to yell at me and tell me what an idiot I am for not noticing the cows were out. I told him I had noticed. He asked why I hadn't put them back in the pasture. I responded by saying there were thirty cows and one me. And since most of them weighed more than a thousand pounds and I weighed less than two hundred I didn't like the odds. He told me I was stupid. Everyone knew cows were slovenly creatures who wouldn't hurt anyone. Well I didn't know that, and I told him so.
He made me feed the cows in the pasture after that. You can make teenagers do things, you know? If he tried to do that today I'd tell him where he could put his feed. Well, he's probably long gone now. He was older than I am now when I was seventeen. But I drove the tractor (now that was a treat) into the fields, pulling a wagon filled with hay. The cows saw me coming and began to hurry to intercept me. I didn't like that. Tame or not, I didn't particularly relish getting squished between the cows and the wagon, or knocked to the ground under their feet. So I climbed across the hitch and tossed hay down for the bovines and then drove away.
Mr Minister wasn't really a bad man. He was just a control freak. He hated it that I had a car. He hated that I could drive to Stephen's house without having to ask him permission. He hated it that I never showed him my homework. (I never showed it to my parents, why should I show it to him? Ah, for the record, though. Spouse and I keep close tabs on Son's homework. He's straight 'A'. I was straight 'C', which pissed off teachers and counselors alike.)
I tolerated his meddling until Daddy began to get worse. Then Mr Minister's meddling became an interference and I left shortly after Thanksgiving. That Christmas I took all of my money (I had a job at a pizza shop) and spent it all on Christmas presents. Stephen was with me and kept insisting I buy Mr Minister a gift. I didn't want to. I thought he was a horse's a*s, and I told Stephen so. But Stephen kept pestering me, so I finally relented. And here is where my sense of humor took over.
Against Stephen's wishes, I found a little plastic statuette. They were popular back in the 1970s. They were about six inches tall, made of hard plastic, and completely tan. The figures were of all sorts of things, and on the bases were inscriptions. You know the kind? "I Love You." "You're My Friend." "All The Best." Fun stuff. And some of it quite silly.
I chose a little man with an incredibly fat belly. He stood with his arms spread wide. And stuck - right in the middle of his belly-button - was a giant screw. The inscription? "Thanks For Everything!"
I bought that.
Stephen was beside himself with distress. At first he thought I was only joking. But then I paid for it and put it in a little brown paper bag. He fussed and worried as I drove out to where Mr Minister lived. He kept begging me not to give that to the old man. By chance, Mr Minister was at the end of the lane, clearing snow, as I drove up. He smiled and said, "Hello, Bevie." I smiled and said, "Hello." He asked what I was up to. I said I had bought him a Christmas present, and then I handed him the bag. He thanked me and I drove away, never to see him again.
Every so often I think about that and wonder: how did he react when he saw the gift? Did he understand what I was trying to tell him? Or was I just another teenage punk?
I grew up in rural Minnesota. No big deal. We had electricity and a telephone. For a while it was party line, but Daddy's job required he have access to a telephone and so my parents sprung the extra money and got a private line. I still recall the number: 5008. Didn't have to use the prefix if you called within the area.
There were various wildlife creatures about, but nothing exotic. Supposedly, a black bear took up residence near my house, but I think that was foolish child's talk. I never heard an adult say they saw one. I don't recall even seeing that many deer. Mostly, the wildlife consisted of birds, squirrels, and a few other miscellaneous rodents. Generally, if one were to see an animal larger than a squirrel it would be a pet or a farm creature.
We did not have much for farm creatures at The Old House, despite the place originally being a farm. We got rabbits once, for Easter. But the dogs broke into the shed where we kept them and killed them all. We had chickens, too. And ducks. The chickens were nice because they walked the yard and took out the wood tics, of which the area was well inundated. Before we got the chickens you couldn't walk across the yard without picking up a half dozen. The first thing you did when you got inside was use the bathroom to sift through your clothes. After the chickens, no wood tics.
When Daddy was diagnosed with cancer, my parents sold the place and moved into the city. Roseville. A suburb north of St Paul, near the State Fair Grounds. That fall I was to be a senior in high school. I wanted to graduate in the school where I had spent most of my growing up. (I was afraid to go anywhere else. "The H*ll That You Know.") So my parents arranged for me to board at a retired minister's placed about five miles from the high school. The man was a control maniac and I didn't particularly enjoy my stay. In fact, shortly before Daddy died, I left that place and went to Roseville to live. I drove the thirty or forty miles distance daily for the rest of the year.
So what has all of this to do with animals? Well, Mr Minister (not his real name) fancied himself a part-time farmer. He raised cattle and planted hay. Well, one day I come home from school to find Mr Minister had forgotten to close the pasture gate. As I drove up the lane I could see the monsters milling about on the yard. Now I had never had anything to do with cows. All I knew about them was: a) they gave milk; b) chopped up, they made excellent burgers; c) the smallest of them weighed twice what I did.
I drove my car as close to the house as possible and then dashed inside. Safe, I went upstairs to my room and proceeded to write.
About an hour later Mr Minister comes home and ushers the cows back into the pasture. Then he comes upstairs and proceeds to yell at me and tell me what an idiot I am for not noticing the cows were out. I told him I had noticed. He asked why I hadn't put them back in the pasture. I responded by saying there were thirty cows and one me. And since most of them weighed more than a thousand pounds and I weighed less than two hundred I didn't like the odds. He told me I was stupid. Everyone knew cows were slovenly creatures who wouldn't hurt anyone. Well I didn't know that, and I told him so.
He made me feed the cows in the pasture after that. You can make teenagers do things, you know? If he tried to do that today I'd tell him where he could put his feed. Well, he's probably long gone now. He was older than I am now when I was seventeen. But I drove the tractor (now that was a treat) into the fields, pulling a wagon filled with hay. The cows saw me coming and began to hurry to intercept me. I didn't like that. Tame or not, I didn't particularly relish getting squished between the cows and the wagon, or knocked to the ground under their feet. So I climbed across the hitch and tossed hay down for the bovines and then drove away.
Mr Minister wasn't really a bad man. He was just a control freak. He hated it that I had a car. He hated that I could drive to Stephen's house without having to ask him permission. He hated it that I never showed him my homework. (I never showed it to my parents, why should I show it to him? Ah, for the record, though. Spouse and I keep close tabs on Son's homework. He's straight 'A'. I was straight 'C', which pissed off teachers and counselors alike.)
I tolerated his meddling until Daddy began to get worse. Then Mr Minister's meddling became an interference and I left shortly after Thanksgiving. That Christmas I took all of my money (I had a job at a pizza shop) and spent it all on Christmas presents. Stephen was with me and kept insisting I buy Mr Minister a gift. I didn't want to. I thought he was a horse's a*s, and I told Stephen so. But Stephen kept pestering me, so I finally relented. And here is where my sense of humor took over.
Against Stephen's wishes, I found a little plastic statuette. They were popular back in the 1970s. They were about six inches tall, made of hard plastic, and completely tan. The figures were of all sorts of things, and on the bases were inscriptions. You know the kind? "I Love You." "You're My Friend." "All The Best." Fun stuff. And some of it quite silly.
I chose a little man with an incredibly fat belly. He stood with his arms spread wide. And stuck - right in the middle of his belly-button - was a giant screw. The inscription? "Thanks For Everything!"
I bought that.
Stephen was beside himself with distress. At first he thought I was only joking. But then I paid for it and put it in a little brown paper bag. He fussed and worried as I drove out to where Mr Minister lived. He kept begging me not to give that to the old man. By chance, Mr Minister was at the end of the lane, clearing snow, as I drove up. He smiled and said, "Hello, Bevie." I smiled and said, "Hello." He asked what I was up to. I said I had bought him a Christmas present, and then I handed him the bag. He thanked me and I drove away, never to see him again.
Every so often I think about that and wonder: how did he react when he saw the gift? Did he understand what I was trying to tell him? Or was I just another teenage punk?
Friday, December 26, 2008
So, Christmas is over, and everyone goes back to hating one another, treating one another like dirt and generally crushing the spirits of any who happen to get into their way. Right?
No. Not really. Do you know what I honestly believe? I believe only a few people actually change over the Christmas Holiday. I think most of us act the same all year. It's just that few people pay attention until this time of year. The people who helped me with advice on how to improve my writing did not do it because Christmas was coming. They did it because that is what they do. And they do it all year. The media likes to perpetuate the stereotype that people are only nice at Christmas - which means all the generosity and kindness is phoney. I say that's the lie. The truth is, people who are nice are nice all year. Kind people are kind all year. Helpful people help all year. Giving people give all year. The list goes on. (It also includes the crap behaviors, such lying, cheating, stealing and what have you.) We don't change for a day and then change back. Not really.
But how was your Christmas? I hope it was at least as much as you desired. Since I cannot hear your answer now, I will tell you how our day went.
Son has been excited about this Christmas for several weeks now. It's been fun to watch him squirm as time stood still for him. He said he wanted to hand out presents Christmas morning, or at least the first. Spouse and I agreed.
For us, Christmas begins on Christmas Eve. We watch my all-time favorite Christmas Movie: Scrooge, starring Albert Finney. When it originally was released in theatres I did not go see it. It sounded dumb. Then, a year or two later, I caught it on television and fell in love with it. Even as a teenager its haunting tone touched my heart. And I really liked the portrayal of 1800s London.
When the movie was over Son opened a small present. It was a book: The Cat Before Christmas. It was a silly parody of The Night Before Christmas. When he finished reading it aloud, I read The Night Before Christmas, The Christmas Letters and The Christmas Miracle of Jonathan Toomey. Then we did something which has become a tradition for two years now: we watched logs burn in a fireplace on television. The entire concept is stupid, and yet we watch with great fascination. It's about thirty minutes long, and Christmas music plays. Then there is an announcement about the station and it starts over again, but with new music. We didn't stay up to midnight this year. Spouse was crabby and we shut down early.
I was the first to arise. I usually am. That was around four. Son got up a couple of hours later, and Spouse about a half hour after Son. We set up the video camera and filmed the reading of The Gospel according to Luke, just like in A Charlie Brown Christmas. Then the packages were handed out, beginning with a piece of artwork Son made this past week. He drew a Christmas Tree with presents. He gave hugs and kisses.
The presents were handed out, each to each. Regarding quantity, Spouse had the most this year. Normally, that honor goes to Son. But I didn't have a box the right size, so I divided my gift to Spouse into several packages. Everyone seemed happy with everything they got. Son bought me the third installment of the Eregon series: Brisinger. He actually had the most money to spend.
We had a light lunch and watched a movie Son bought for Spouse. We played some games, computer and table top. The free turkey (a local grocery store gave out free turkeys for customers who spent sixty dollars with them over the month of November) was ready at three and we ate while watching my second favorite Christmas Movie: We're No Angels, starring Humphrey Bogart, Peter Ustinov and Aldo Ray.
There were more games and then another movie. After that the day was over and we shuttled off to bed.
I hope your day was good. I know not everyone got one, and if that includes you I am sorry. Maybe things will begin to improve for you now. I hope so.
Have a great day today! God bless you!
No. Not really. Do you know what I honestly believe? I believe only a few people actually change over the Christmas Holiday. I think most of us act the same all year. It's just that few people pay attention until this time of year. The people who helped me with advice on how to improve my writing did not do it because Christmas was coming. They did it because that is what they do. And they do it all year. The media likes to perpetuate the stereotype that people are only nice at Christmas - which means all the generosity and kindness is phoney. I say that's the lie. The truth is, people who are nice are nice all year. Kind people are kind all year. Helpful people help all year. Giving people give all year. The list goes on. (It also includes the crap behaviors, such lying, cheating, stealing and what have you.) We don't change for a day and then change back. Not really.
But how was your Christmas? I hope it was at least as much as you desired. Since I cannot hear your answer now, I will tell you how our day went.
Son has been excited about this Christmas for several weeks now. It's been fun to watch him squirm as time stood still for him. He said he wanted to hand out presents Christmas morning, or at least the first. Spouse and I agreed.
For us, Christmas begins on Christmas Eve. We watch my all-time favorite Christmas Movie: Scrooge, starring Albert Finney. When it originally was released in theatres I did not go see it. It sounded dumb. Then, a year or two later, I caught it on television and fell in love with it. Even as a teenager its haunting tone touched my heart. And I really liked the portrayal of 1800s London.
When the movie was over Son opened a small present. It was a book: The Cat Before Christmas. It was a silly parody of The Night Before Christmas. When he finished reading it aloud, I read The Night Before Christmas, The Christmas Letters and The Christmas Miracle of Jonathan Toomey. Then we did something which has become a tradition for two years now: we watched logs burn in a fireplace on television. The entire concept is stupid, and yet we watch with great fascination. It's about thirty minutes long, and Christmas music plays. Then there is an announcement about the station and it starts over again, but with new music. We didn't stay up to midnight this year. Spouse was crabby and we shut down early.
I was the first to arise. I usually am. That was around four. Son got up a couple of hours later, and Spouse about a half hour after Son. We set up the video camera and filmed the reading of The Gospel according to Luke, just like in A Charlie Brown Christmas. Then the packages were handed out, beginning with a piece of artwork Son made this past week. He drew a Christmas Tree with presents. He gave hugs and kisses.
The presents were handed out, each to each. Regarding quantity, Spouse had the most this year. Normally, that honor goes to Son. But I didn't have a box the right size, so I divided my gift to Spouse into several packages. Everyone seemed happy with everything they got. Son bought me the third installment of the Eregon series: Brisinger. He actually had the most money to spend.
We had a light lunch and watched a movie Son bought for Spouse. We played some games, computer and table top. The free turkey (a local grocery store gave out free turkeys for customers who spent sixty dollars with them over the month of November) was ready at three and we ate while watching my second favorite Christmas Movie: We're No Angels, starring Humphrey Bogart, Peter Ustinov and Aldo Ray.
There were more games and then another movie. After that the day was over and we shuttled off to bed.
I hope your day was good. I know not everyone got one, and if that includes you I am sorry. Maybe things will begin to improve for you now. I hope so.
Have a great day today! God bless you!
Thursday, December 25, 2008
Happiness
This song is from my all-time favorite Christmas move: Scrooge, starring Albert Finney. Most musical versions have Scrooge's love sing after breaking up with him. I've never felt that worked. This version has her singing before. It makes the breakup all the more heartwrenching.
It's a happy song. Enjoy.
It's a happy song. Enjoy.
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Christmas Fun
Part of the fun of Christmas is decorating. Putting lights on the trees. Lights on the windows. Lights on the eaves. Lights in the yard. And then there are the bulbs and ornaments, garland, glittering icicles, stars, angels, fake snow, giant Santas, reindeer, Nativities and an unlimited supply of homemade things. It is fun to not only decorate, but to go look at what others have done.
We just got home from an eleven mile drive - and we never left town. Well, we did go to the neighboring town, but as the two meld so seamlessly it seems like one town. Anyway, we drove eleven miles, but we were never more than three miles from home. A waste of fuel? Yeah. I suppose. No wonder we're poor, huh? So what? I love seeing what other people have done.
There is one property, just over a mile from us, in which the entire property has been done up. Dozens of Christmas figures decorate the lawn, the house and fill even the back yard. It inspires a belief in magic which is hard to describe. Lights of every color adorn Santas, snowmen, a Nativity, candles, Disney Characters, stars and the house and fence. There are three or four others which are nearly as magnificent. A couple of places are dark this year which, in the past, had been done up well. I do not know if the darkness is due to tragedy or if the previous decorators just moved away.
Traveling about to look at lights is an annual tradition for me. I remember Daddy driving us a lot more than eleven miles just to get to the decorations. There was one area, I think it was some place in St. Paul, where the entire block was done up like a Disney Parade. It took almost an hour to view it because we had to get in line. And once in line, you were locked in place. This street had a lot of music and animation. I don't know exactly where it was, but I have never seen anything like it since. Just on YouTube. But not live.
There is a house not too far from us which we did not visit this year. I call it the Castle House, because it is monstrous. I'm certain it has to go for at least a million dollars (if one could sell a house in these times). Every line on the house has been outlined with lights, and since the house rests on the top of a hill overlooking a lake it can be seen from over a mile away. It's about ten miles from here, so we didn't go this year.
There is a security in seeing lights on other houses. Particularly so since we do not have lights on our house or in our yard. We have the tree, standing in a corner near our front window. A string of lights frames the window. Another frames the glass surrounding the front door. We have a Winnie the Pooh and Tigger, but they are not out this year. Tigger's cord shorted out a few years ago. I suspect Pooh's has, too. In any case, they are not out.
Electric lights, bulbs, garland and what have you have nothing to do with the real meaning of Christmas. The real meaning is God taking on human form to show us he really does understand what it is like to live on earth. So what that he probably wasn't born in December. That's not the point. That we include him in our celebrations is. It doesn't take much. He hears our thoughts better than we hear each others' voices. And I very much doubt he minds it that we decorate with lights and such. He probably is not offended that we play make-believe. After all, make-believe is a form of creation, and since we are in His image, it is only natural we imagine.
Christmas is a fun time, whether we include Jesus or not. We don't have to. That's the wonderful thing about God. He lets us play as we will. But if the thought should strike you this year, tell him thanks for the lights and presents and other things you enjoy about Christmas.
I hope you are having a wonderful Christmas. Don't get hung up and crabby when things don't go as planned. That's part of the magic of Christmas. If you can laugh at the muck ups now, they will be all the more fun to recall later. Enjoy.
Merry Christmas!
We just got home from an eleven mile drive - and we never left town. Well, we did go to the neighboring town, but as the two meld so seamlessly it seems like one town. Anyway, we drove eleven miles, but we were never more than three miles from home. A waste of fuel? Yeah. I suppose. No wonder we're poor, huh? So what? I love seeing what other people have done.
There is one property, just over a mile from us, in which the entire property has been done up. Dozens of Christmas figures decorate the lawn, the house and fill even the back yard. It inspires a belief in magic which is hard to describe. Lights of every color adorn Santas, snowmen, a Nativity, candles, Disney Characters, stars and the house and fence. There are three or four others which are nearly as magnificent. A couple of places are dark this year which, in the past, had been done up well. I do not know if the darkness is due to tragedy or if the previous decorators just moved away.
Traveling about to look at lights is an annual tradition for me. I remember Daddy driving us a lot more than eleven miles just to get to the decorations. There was one area, I think it was some place in St. Paul, where the entire block was done up like a Disney Parade. It took almost an hour to view it because we had to get in line. And once in line, you were locked in place. This street had a lot of music and animation. I don't know exactly where it was, but I have never seen anything like it since. Just on YouTube. But not live.
There is a house not too far from us which we did not visit this year. I call it the Castle House, because it is monstrous. I'm certain it has to go for at least a million dollars (if one could sell a house in these times). Every line on the house has been outlined with lights, and since the house rests on the top of a hill overlooking a lake it can be seen from over a mile away. It's about ten miles from here, so we didn't go this year.
There is a security in seeing lights on other houses. Particularly so since we do not have lights on our house or in our yard. We have the tree, standing in a corner near our front window. A string of lights frames the window. Another frames the glass surrounding the front door. We have a Winnie the Pooh and Tigger, but they are not out this year. Tigger's cord shorted out a few years ago. I suspect Pooh's has, too. In any case, they are not out.
Electric lights, bulbs, garland and what have you have nothing to do with the real meaning of Christmas. The real meaning is God taking on human form to show us he really does understand what it is like to live on earth. So what that he probably wasn't born in December. That's not the point. That we include him in our celebrations is. It doesn't take much. He hears our thoughts better than we hear each others' voices. And I very much doubt he minds it that we decorate with lights and such. He probably is not offended that we play make-believe. After all, make-believe is a form of creation, and since we are in His image, it is only natural we imagine.
Christmas is a fun time, whether we include Jesus or not. We don't have to. That's the wonderful thing about God. He lets us play as we will. But if the thought should strike you this year, tell him thanks for the lights and presents and other things you enjoy about Christmas.
I hope you are having a wonderful Christmas. Don't get hung up and crabby when things don't go as planned. That's part of the magic of Christmas. If you can laugh at the muck ups now, they will be all the more fun to recall later. Enjoy.
Merry Christmas!
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
The Fat Old Santa By the Tree
Daddy loved Christmas - as an adult. As a child his Christmases were ordeals to be endured. You see, Daddy was born in 1922 - to a woman without a husband. He suffered mentally and physically for being a "bastard" until he grew large enough to defend himself against his uncles and any others who sought to hurt him. As a child, Daddy hated Christmas.
Things changed magically and wonderfully for him when his children reached the ages when they understood Christmas meant lights, and presents and food and fun and magic. I think Daddy got to live the youthful joy of Christmas as a full-grown man. He shared Christmas with his kids almost like he was a kid himself. We loved it. His laughter still echoes in my head. I'm glad it's there. I often draw upon it, like listening to a favorite song.
Like the rest of us, Daddy would visit The Tree unabashedly to see what presents might be there for him. And like the rest of us, he would try to guess the contents through weight, sound and an idea of the person who gave it. What was so frustrating was that he was so often right. We couldn't figure out how he did it. He would laugh like Jolly Old St. Nicholaus himself and declare he had the power to "see through the paper". Of course, we knew that wasn't true. Well, we kind of knew that. Okay. We thought it could be true.
He was defeated one year by my mother and Gayanne. It was the funniest thing I remember about him and his Christmas presents.
Daddy was a truck driver. For years upon years he drove a straight truck in the Minneapolis-St. Paul area. (A 'straight truck' is a single unit vehicle, as opposed to a tractor-trailer.) It was difficult work because, as the driver, he was required to help load and unload the truck at each stop. No forklifts. This often meant backbreaking work. Literally backbreaking. Daddy suffered from severe back pain most of his life.
Every year Daddy would apply to become a 'road driver'. These were drivers who drove out of Minneapolis to other cities in the five-state area. (Minnesota, Iowa, Wisconsin and the two Dakotas.) Road drivers didn't always have to help load and unload. (He ended his career driving a dedicated run to Chicago and back in which he no longer had to do any manual work.) Well, one year he was told he had made it! He would start driving over the road when business picked up again after the Christmas lay-off. (Every year it seemed my dad would be out of work from around Christmas until late winter.) He was happy. It was something to look forward to.
It was also something for which he needed a suitcase. Although driving over the road, he would still drive a day cab, not a sleeper. (Day cabs have no sleeping berth.) Although we couldn't afford it, Mother went to a luggage store and bought Daddy a fantastic soft-sided leather suitcase. It had a big interior with pockets all over the place to hold odds and ends. Daddy was going to love it! The problem was, Mother did not want him guessing the gift before he opened it. So she concocted this plan and had Gayanne implement it. The plan was this:
Gayanne had gift for sewing. She was better at it than anyone we knew - including Grandma. In fact, Gayanne designed and made the attendants' dresses at my wedding. I always felt Gayanne missed her calling in life. She could have been a fashion designer, or even been another Edith Head. It didn't happen.
Anyway. What Mother had Gayanne do was to make the new leather case stuffing for a life-sized Santa Claus. They weren't able to make him stand, but that was all right. They sat him down beside The Tree where he watched over the growing pile of presents. On his chest was a large tag which read: To Lloyd From Helen.
Everyone hung around the tree waiting for Daddy to come home. When he did we could hardly sit still until he came into the living room. When he came in he made the survey, but he didn't pay attention to Old Santa. He was grown up, so he tried to hide his disappointment in not finding anything new for him, but we could see it. I don't know who it was who burst first. It may have been me. Perhaps Helvie. But Daddy was directed to the Santa Claus. When he saw Santa was not just a decoration his eyes lit up and we could see his thoughts working feverishly to guess what was in there.
He got teased a lot in the final days before Christmas. Helvie and I were not allowed to tease. (We had big mouths.) When Christmas Day finally arrived, Santa was the final present to be opened. Daddy still had no idea. For the first time I could remember, Daddy didn't know! Christmas was a time of magic. I knew it! When he opened it, he was happy. You could always tell with Daddy. He kept that leather case to the day he died. I am glad he had some merry Christmases before he left. I am glad I was part of some of them.
You all have a Merry Christmas, too.
Things changed magically and wonderfully for him when his children reached the ages when they understood Christmas meant lights, and presents and food and fun and magic. I think Daddy got to live the youthful joy of Christmas as a full-grown man. He shared Christmas with his kids almost like he was a kid himself. We loved it. His laughter still echoes in my head. I'm glad it's there. I often draw upon it, like listening to a favorite song.
Like the rest of us, Daddy would visit The Tree unabashedly to see what presents might be there for him. And like the rest of us, he would try to guess the contents through weight, sound and an idea of the person who gave it. What was so frustrating was that he was so often right. We couldn't figure out how he did it. He would laugh like Jolly Old St. Nicholaus himself and declare he had the power to "see through the paper". Of course, we knew that wasn't true. Well, we kind of knew that. Okay. We thought it could be true.
He was defeated one year by my mother and Gayanne. It was the funniest thing I remember about him and his Christmas presents.
Daddy was a truck driver. For years upon years he drove a straight truck in the Minneapolis-St. Paul area. (A 'straight truck' is a single unit vehicle, as opposed to a tractor-trailer.) It was difficult work because, as the driver, he was required to help load and unload the truck at each stop. No forklifts. This often meant backbreaking work. Literally backbreaking. Daddy suffered from severe back pain most of his life.
Every year Daddy would apply to become a 'road driver'. These were drivers who drove out of Minneapolis to other cities in the five-state area. (Minnesota, Iowa, Wisconsin and the two Dakotas.) Road drivers didn't always have to help load and unload. (He ended his career driving a dedicated run to Chicago and back in which he no longer had to do any manual work.) Well, one year he was told he had made it! He would start driving over the road when business picked up again after the Christmas lay-off. (Every year it seemed my dad would be out of work from around Christmas until late winter.) He was happy. It was something to look forward to.
It was also something for which he needed a suitcase. Although driving over the road, he would still drive a day cab, not a sleeper. (Day cabs have no sleeping berth.) Although we couldn't afford it, Mother went to a luggage store and bought Daddy a fantastic soft-sided leather suitcase. It had a big interior with pockets all over the place to hold odds and ends. Daddy was going to love it! The problem was, Mother did not want him guessing the gift before he opened it. So she concocted this plan and had Gayanne implement it. The plan was this:
Gayanne had gift for sewing. She was better at it than anyone we knew - including Grandma. In fact, Gayanne designed and made the attendants' dresses at my wedding. I always felt Gayanne missed her calling in life. She could have been a fashion designer, or even been another Edith Head. It didn't happen.
Anyway. What Mother had Gayanne do was to make the new leather case stuffing for a life-sized Santa Claus. They weren't able to make him stand, but that was all right. They sat him down beside The Tree where he watched over the growing pile of presents. On his chest was a large tag which read: To Lloyd From Helen.
Everyone hung around the tree waiting for Daddy to come home. When he did we could hardly sit still until he came into the living room. When he came in he made the survey, but he didn't pay attention to Old Santa. He was grown up, so he tried to hide his disappointment in not finding anything new for him, but we could see it. I don't know who it was who burst first. It may have been me. Perhaps Helvie. But Daddy was directed to the Santa Claus. When he saw Santa was not just a decoration his eyes lit up and we could see his thoughts working feverishly to guess what was in there.
He got teased a lot in the final days before Christmas. Helvie and I were not allowed to tease. (We had big mouths.) When Christmas Day finally arrived, Santa was the final present to be opened. Daddy still had no idea. For the first time I could remember, Daddy didn't know! Christmas was a time of magic. I knew it! When he opened it, he was happy. You could always tell with Daddy. He kept that leather case to the day he died. I am glad he had some merry Christmases before he left. I am glad I was part of some of them.
You all have a Merry Christmas, too.
Monday, December 22, 2008
Ghosts of Christmas Past
Today is House of My Youth day, but I kind of took a side rail yesterday to Christmas memories. Still, after so many years in the Old House I fancy I can come up with a related Christmas memory.
Most of our family Christmases took place in our living room. Then, in January, we would close that room off to conserve heat/fuel. I seem to recall having Christmas in the dining room one year, but I may be wrong. And there was at least one year when we did Christmas up at Grandma's in Willow River.
Our trees at the Old House were all monstrous. They were free, so we could afford any size we wanted. For a few years we had this awful topper. It looked like the end of a spear or something, with a big ball near the base filled with "angel hair", which made you itch. That was replaced by a five-pointed star. Plain, but no scratching required. Our electric lights were the big bulbs. D-size, I suppose. And they did not blink. I always wanted blinking lights. The wonderful thing about our lights was that if one bulb burned out, none would shine. This involved a process of determininig the offending bulb. Gayanne usually took charge of that.
Each year our parents would pick one of their children to dote on for Christmas. I remember when it was Judayl's turn. She wanted only blue lights. The rest of us moaned and groaned, and I believe there was more than one fight about it, but in the end it was Judayl's decision and, like the rest of us, Judayl wasn't going to be bullied into changing her mind. We had blue lights that year. I don't recall what all Judayl got that year. Heck, I can hardly remember what I got in any given year. What I remember more than the presents was how happy I was at Christmas.
Christmas was a big deal at school back then. There would be official gift exchanges, and Christmas programs depicting the Nativity. That's against the law now. Pity. I didn't know what the programs were about (back then), but I liked them. I liked the songs and the plays. I wanted to be picked for a part in the plays, but I never was. It was always the same kids every year - the popular ones. The ones who couldn't remember their parts when they were reading them. Morons. I knew all the parts by heart. But I was never picked. (I was a bit of a hellion, and teachers just didn't pick hellions for anything - except slapping.) I suppose it's right about taking the Nativity out of school, but it's still a shame. Those programs added so much. And let's be real: most of us kids didn't have a clue about the message. I didn't. Not then. I knew all of the lines, but I didn't know what it meant. That came later.
An example of how difficult I could be would be Christmas in second grade. Like all kids my age I was excited about Christmas. What a wonderful time! It was the only time of the year when grown ups let themselves believe in magic. Sure, it was all pretend. But that's the biggest part of fun - pretending!
Well, we had a Christmas tree in our classroom, and everyone was required to bring a gift. Gifts stereotypical for boys and girls had to be marked, "boy" or "girl". This is how it worked:
All of the presents were placed under the tree. Presents were grouped according to "girl", "boy" or "either". Numbers would be drawn to determine the order that students went up to select a gift. Mrs. Fickling, our teacher, stood close at hand to make sure no boy got stuck with a "girl" gift, and vice versa. (This meant she would sometimes take away the right of choice and direct a student to a particular present.)
Well, I was having a blast. This was fun! Too much fun for Mrs. Fickling. I wound up getting slapped. Not only that, but I was automatically placed last in line. I had been in the first twelve. This pissed me off! As far as I was concerned I had done no wrong. So what if I was a little loud? It was Christmas, for Christ's sake. (pun intended) Well, it wasn't fun anymore. My attitude was, to hell with it. So when my turn finally came, and there was just the one present left, I wouldn't go get it. Mrs. Fickling ordered me to. I said no. She came to my desk and ordered me again. I said no. Slap. Go get it! No! Slap. She grabbed my shoulder. She dragged me to the tree and put the present in my hand. I threw it. Slap. She dragged me back to my desk and put the present in front of me. (If you have read my earlier posts, then you will notice a pattern which took place with most of my grade school teachers. I got slapped a lot.) Then she went to the front of the class and gave the release to open presents.
I did not open mine. It sat unattended while I cried in my hands. Mrs. Fickling told me to open it, but I was willing to be slapped to death before I was going to do that. Some of my classmates, understanding this at some unspoken level, hurried and opened it for me. It was a giant candy cane, except it didn't have the curve part. It was also broken into a million-zillion pieces. I let my classmates eat it. I ate none of it. That was the price of pride and stupidity.
It's odd, though. I was involved in present exchanges at school from kindergarten through at least grade five, and maybe six. But I only remember one gift: a candy cane which I never tasted. I wonder why that is?
Christmas at the Old House was never like that. Mother (who was not above slapping any more than the teachers were) did not slap at Christmas. She just threw us out of the house and didn't let us back in for at least an hour. There are a lot of things I miss about being at the Old House. I think Christmas may top the list.
May your Christmas be a wonderful one this year. Oh, and don't get slapped.
Most of our family Christmases took place in our living room. Then, in January, we would close that room off to conserve heat/fuel. I seem to recall having Christmas in the dining room one year, but I may be wrong. And there was at least one year when we did Christmas up at Grandma's in Willow River.
Our trees at the Old House were all monstrous. They were free, so we could afford any size we wanted. For a few years we had this awful topper. It looked like the end of a spear or something, with a big ball near the base filled with "angel hair", which made you itch. That was replaced by a five-pointed star. Plain, but no scratching required. Our electric lights were the big bulbs. D-size, I suppose. And they did not blink. I always wanted blinking lights. The wonderful thing about our lights was that if one bulb burned out, none would shine. This involved a process of determininig the offending bulb. Gayanne usually took charge of that.
Each year our parents would pick one of their children to dote on for Christmas. I remember when it was Judayl's turn. She wanted only blue lights. The rest of us moaned and groaned, and I believe there was more than one fight about it, but in the end it was Judayl's decision and, like the rest of us, Judayl wasn't going to be bullied into changing her mind. We had blue lights that year. I don't recall what all Judayl got that year. Heck, I can hardly remember what I got in any given year. What I remember more than the presents was how happy I was at Christmas.
Christmas was a big deal at school back then. There would be official gift exchanges, and Christmas programs depicting the Nativity. That's against the law now. Pity. I didn't know what the programs were about (back then), but I liked them. I liked the songs and the plays. I wanted to be picked for a part in the plays, but I never was. It was always the same kids every year - the popular ones. The ones who couldn't remember their parts when they were reading them. Morons. I knew all the parts by heart. But I was never picked. (I was a bit of a hellion, and teachers just didn't pick hellions for anything - except slapping.) I suppose it's right about taking the Nativity out of school, but it's still a shame. Those programs added so much. And let's be real: most of us kids didn't have a clue about the message. I didn't. Not then. I knew all of the lines, but I didn't know what it meant. That came later.
An example of how difficult I could be would be Christmas in second grade. Like all kids my age I was excited about Christmas. What a wonderful time! It was the only time of the year when grown ups let themselves believe in magic. Sure, it was all pretend. But that's the biggest part of fun - pretending!
Well, we had a Christmas tree in our classroom, and everyone was required to bring a gift. Gifts stereotypical for boys and girls had to be marked, "boy" or "girl". This is how it worked:
All of the presents were placed under the tree. Presents were grouped according to "girl", "boy" or "either". Numbers would be drawn to determine the order that students went up to select a gift. Mrs. Fickling, our teacher, stood close at hand to make sure no boy got stuck with a "girl" gift, and vice versa. (This meant she would sometimes take away the right of choice and direct a student to a particular present.)
Well, I was having a blast. This was fun! Too much fun for Mrs. Fickling. I wound up getting slapped. Not only that, but I was automatically placed last in line. I had been in the first twelve. This pissed me off! As far as I was concerned I had done no wrong. So what if I was a little loud? It was Christmas, for Christ's sake. (pun intended) Well, it wasn't fun anymore. My attitude was, to hell with it. So when my turn finally came, and there was just the one present left, I wouldn't go get it. Mrs. Fickling ordered me to. I said no. She came to my desk and ordered me again. I said no. Slap. Go get it! No! Slap. She grabbed my shoulder. She dragged me to the tree and put the present in my hand. I threw it. Slap. She dragged me back to my desk and put the present in front of me. (If you have read my earlier posts, then you will notice a pattern which took place with most of my grade school teachers. I got slapped a lot.) Then she went to the front of the class and gave the release to open presents.
I did not open mine. It sat unattended while I cried in my hands. Mrs. Fickling told me to open it, but I was willing to be slapped to death before I was going to do that. Some of my classmates, understanding this at some unspoken level, hurried and opened it for me. It was a giant candy cane, except it didn't have the curve part. It was also broken into a million-zillion pieces. I let my classmates eat it. I ate none of it. That was the price of pride and stupidity.
It's odd, though. I was involved in present exchanges at school from kindergarten through at least grade five, and maybe six. But I only remember one gift: a candy cane which I never tasted. I wonder why that is?
Christmas at the Old House was never like that. Mother (who was not above slapping any more than the teachers were) did not slap at Christmas. She just threw us out of the house and didn't let us back in for at least an hour. There are a lot of things I miss about being at the Old House. I think Christmas may top the list.
May your Christmas be a wonderful one this year. Oh, and don't get slapped.
Sunday, December 21, 2008
A Holiday Season Sidetrack
We interrupt our regularly scheduled blog entries for a series of Christmas remembrances. (yeah)
Until the house burned down, every Christmas for me was a wonderful event. It began the day after Thanksgiving, when we would set up the tree and decorate it. Then it became a daily ritual to rise up in the morning, rush downstairs to the living room and see if anything new had arrived. The ritual would be repeated when returning from school in the afternoon. There was a little jealousy when someone else would have something new, but just watching the stack of beautifully wrapped boxes grow was mystifying. With two parents, seven children, four grand-parents, an aunt and sometimes others, it didn't take long for the pile to become magnificent.
Originally, mother, Mickey, Lynahr and Judayl would decorate the tree. Dad would put it in the stand and Mickey would wrap the electric lights. Those were incredibly hot. Why our trees didn't catch fire and burn I do not know. I even wondered about it at the time. The bulbs burned me.
Later, Gayanne took charge. This was even before Lynahr and Judayl left home. Helvie and I helped too. We strung the popcorn and cranberries on string. I still remember the pattern: three popcorn and one cranberry, over and over and over and over again. The average length of these homemade garlands was about six feet. We would make several to wrap around our twelve foot tree. (We had twelve foot ceilings. That made for fantastic trees.) Also, because we were small (comparably), Helvie and I got to go behind the tree to hang ornaments. The plastic ones, and those which Helvie and I made in school. I didn't much appreciate having to hang my handmade bulbs - made from real egg cartons and painted by me - in the back, but they were there.
No one was immune to the draw of the Christmas Tree and the goodies it guarded. Adults would pretend not to notice, but should a new present show up addressed to them, they were suddenly in a much better mood. Daddy wasn't bashful. He would blatantly search the pile, looking for anything with his name on it. That made Helvie and my laying in front of the tree on our bellies staring at the lights less embarassing.
The build up to Christmas was like a pressure cooker (I assume, having never been inside a pressure cooker). Helvie and I were nearly always the first to rise on Christmas morning, but not by much. I think our older siblings may acutally have been awake before us, but didn't dare risk being teased about 'rushing' downstairs. I think they lay in their beds awake listening for Helvie and me to make fools of ourselves first. Then they could do it without being noticed. I believe this because it never seemed like it took long for them to come down - fully dressed. At least Helvie and I were still in jammies. (I wore jammies back then. Haven't for a long time. I should get some. I wonder if bunny jammies come in my size?)
That all of the kids were up meant nothing. Christmas could not begin until Dad said so. And Dad would not say so until Mother told him everyone who was coming, had arrived. This often meant both Mother's parents and Dad's parents. No matter that they hated each other. It was Christmas. We can all hate each other later.
Dad doled out the presents. I was his helper. (Dad didn't care much for crawing under the tree.) He would take all of the easy to reach presents and hand them out one by one. Then he would call on me to crawl in and get the packages which had slid way to the back. Helvie could have helped, but Helvie didn't want to. I thought it was great. I got to hold my own presents, give them to Dad, and then have him give it right back to me as though it were a surprise.
Wrapping paper piled up like snow drifts. You needed waders to get through it. I always felt sorry for the adults, and my older siblings - when they got too old for toys. Mostly, adults and teenagers got crap presents like sweaters, and crud like that. Not like Helvie and me. We got stuff you could make some real noise with. Like the year Mother bought us twin Tommie Guns. I remember when we opened them. Everyone looked at Mother and said the same thing. "Are you out of your mind?" If she wasn't when she bought them, she certainly was by suppertime. Helvie and I were tossed outside and told not to come back unless we agree to put them away - forever.
The food was great, too.
Presents began some time after nine or ten and continued to noon. By then the turkey and roast were ready (food was cheaper back then). There was mashed potatoes, creamed corn, carrots, cranberry sauce (the thick kind with real berries, not the jelly stuff), olives (with the red stuff in the center that was fun to suck out), and a bunch of other stuff that no kid in their right mind would touch, but adults couldn't get enough of. Eggnog (I forget how to make it). And cider - unspiked. Dad took no alcohol during the Christmas Holiday Season. After about two or three hours of letting lunch settle there would be hot pumpkin pie with a mile of whipped cream on top. There was also this abominable tin of sh*t called mince pie, which sounded good but tasted like crap.
Usually, everyone spent the night. The Ghost would be quiet, respecting the family time. Such days. I wish I could hold them in my hands. I love the memories. I love the music.
Sometimes, I think a year is too long a time. You know?
Until the house burned down, every Christmas for me was a wonderful event. It began the day after Thanksgiving, when we would set up the tree and decorate it. Then it became a daily ritual to rise up in the morning, rush downstairs to the living room and see if anything new had arrived. The ritual would be repeated when returning from school in the afternoon. There was a little jealousy when someone else would have something new, but just watching the stack of beautifully wrapped boxes grow was mystifying. With two parents, seven children, four grand-parents, an aunt and sometimes others, it didn't take long for the pile to become magnificent.
Originally, mother, Mickey, Lynahr and Judayl would decorate the tree. Dad would put it in the stand and Mickey would wrap the electric lights. Those were incredibly hot. Why our trees didn't catch fire and burn I do not know. I even wondered about it at the time. The bulbs burned me.
Later, Gayanne took charge. This was even before Lynahr and Judayl left home. Helvie and I helped too. We strung the popcorn and cranberries on string. I still remember the pattern: three popcorn and one cranberry, over and over and over and over again. The average length of these homemade garlands was about six feet. We would make several to wrap around our twelve foot tree. (We had twelve foot ceilings. That made for fantastic trees.) Also, because we were small (comparably), Helvie and I got to go behind the tree to hang ornaments. The plastic ones, and those which Helvie and I made in school. I didn't much appreciate having to hang my handmade bulbs - made from real egg cartons and painted by me - in the back, but they were there.
No one was immune to the draw of the Christmas Tree and the goodies it guarded. Adults would pretend not to notice, but should a new present show up addressed to them, they were suddenly in a much better mood. Daddy wasn't bashful. He would blatantly search the pile, looking for anything with his name on it. That made Helvie and my laying in front of the tree on our bellies staring at the lights less embarassing.
The build up to Christmas was like a pressure cooker (I assume, having never been inside a pressure cooker). Helvie and I were nearly always the first to rise on Christmas morning, but not by much. I think our older siblings may acutally have been awake before us, but didn't dare risk being teased about 'rushing' downstairs. I think they lay in their beds awake listening for Helvie and me to make fools of ourselves first. Then they could do it without being noticed. I believe this because it never seemed like it took long for them to come down - fully dressed. At least Helvie and I were still in jammies. (I wore jammies back then. Haven't for a long time. I should get some. I wonder if bunny jammies come in my size?)
That all of the kids were up meant nothing. Christmas could not begin until Dad said so. And Dad would not say so until Mother told him everyone who was coming, had arrived. This often meant both Mother's parents and Dad's parents. No matter that they hated each other. It was Christmas. We can all hate each other later.
Dad doled out the presents. I was his helper. (Dad didn't care much for crawing under the tree.) He would take all of the easy to reach presents and hand them out one by one. Then he would call on me to crawl in and get the packages which had slid way to the back. Helvie could have helped, but Helvie didn't want to. I thought it was great. I got to hold my own presents, give them to Dad, and then have him give it right back to me as though it were a surprise.
Wrapping paper piled up like snow drifts. You needed waders to get through it. I always felt sorry for the adults, and my older siblings - when they got too old for toys. Mostly, adults and teenagers got crap presents like sweaters, and crud like that. Not like Helvie and me. We got stuff you could make some real noise with. Like the year Mother bought us twin Tommie Guns. I remember when we opened them. Everyone looked at Mother and said the same thing. "Are you out of your mind?" If she wasn't when she bought them, she certainly was by suppertime. Helvie and I were tossed outside and told not to come back unless we agree to put them away - forever.
The food was great, too.
Presents began some time after nine or ten and continued to noon. By then the turkey and roast were ready (food was cheaper back then). There was mashed potatoes, creamed corn, carrots, cranberry sauce (the thick kind with real berries, not the jelly stuff), olives (with the red stuff in the center that was fun to suck out), and a bunch of other stuff that no kid in their right mind would touch, but adults couldn't get enough of. Eggnog (I forget how to make it). And cider - unspiked. Dad took no alcohol during the Christmas Holiday Season. After about two or three hours of letting lunch settle there would be hot pumpkin pie with a mile of whipped cream on top. There was also this abominable tin of sh*t called mince pie, which sounded good but tasted like crap.
Usually, everyone spent the night. The Ghost would be quiet, respecting the family time. Such days. I wish I could hold them in my hands. I love the memories. I love the music.
Sometimes, I think a year is too long a time. You know?
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