* * * * * * *
I don't remember how old I was, but I was little, probably about six. We were going to Aunt Lindy's and great-grandmother Hansen's for Christmas Eve dinner. I was so excited I waited all day for it to be dark enough to leave. Twice Mama had to re-curl my hair because I kept going out in the wet snow to see if it was time yet. My brother, Arvel, was so new and small and I had to sit and hold him while Grandma and Mama got Mark ready and Grandpa did the chores. I'm sure Mama had me hold him just to keep me sitting awhile. I was a child who seldom sat still.
But finally, it was time and we trudged through the white wonderland of soft, falling snow toward Aunt Lindy's lights that glimmered about a block away. I say we trudged, but really I danced my way there. Supper at the big table seemed to take forever. Though ever so good was the food. I never saw it for my eyes were fastened on the closed double doors that led into the parlor. At last! We children were lined up, my brothers, my cousins, and I. The doors swung open and I stood in transfixed awe as I gazed at the huge tree on which glimmered dozens of lighted candles. It was the most glorious, breathtaking sight in the world. Forever it would shine in my memory. Not age, nor time, will ever extinguish one candle on that tree. The gifts we were given would go, but not the utter happiness of that moment.
* * * * * * *
Another year, the air was so crisp and cold. The trees snapped and cracked and the snow crunched loudly under my feet and the runners of my sled. The sunshine was so bright and the sky so blue. My breath came in clouds of vapor as I "short-cut'd" through the freight yards and down the tracks to Grandmother's house. The sled was piled high with Christmas wrapped packages. I don't know why I was alone that morning. My brother, Mark, usually tagged my footsteps, but I likely took off while everyone else was tumbling through the wrappings of Christmas morning. I could have waited, for Mama and Daddy could have been driving over to Grandma's soon. But I couldn't quiet my inner singing enough to wait. I paused there on the tracks and decided to paint the day and to record the sounds in my mind so I wouldn't forget how wonderful it was to be fifteen and one half and so alive and free. I haven't forgotten.
* * * * * * *
After that, I often tried consciously to record moments into my memory. So another Christmas comes to mind. But this was not bright and cold. Rather, it was blue and gray as only a winter's day in Florida can be. The sky was overcast as befitted a wartime Christmas, when so much sorrow was about. I left the barracks and wandered down to the old abandoned fishing pier. One had to watch their step on the broken planks because there wasn't time, nor money, to repair an old fishing wharf when all the fishing boats were tied up and waiting while their crews were in the uniforms of war. I felt my way out to the very end of the wharf. Somewhere out in the Atlantic a storm waged, for the whitecaps washed up through the cracks and soaked my sensible Coast Guard oxfords. The water was so beautiful as I looked down at it and I wanted to remember forever the complete peace of that moment. A lone sea bird circled me curiously. Far out on the horizon, a plume of smoke told me a tanker was likely making its way to the New Jersey refineries. And I said a silent prayer for the crew's safety as they made their way past the German submarine barricade that lay in sight of this very shore. I wondered if our Coast Guard station would be called out that day to rescue such a crew. But even such a gloomy thought could not take from me the beauty of the moment. Alone out there, with the sky and sea, I knew about the Christ child and His realness and that peace would come.
* * * * * * *
Then, once before Dad came to us, and Patty and Mike were so small, I prepared for Christmas alone in the small apartment. I placed a little tree on the small table and decorated it gaily with bubble lights and shining ornaments. But alas! The tree was so dry and by the morning of Christmas Eve, almost not a needle remained on the barren branches. Four-year old Michael cried as he sifted the fallen needles through his small hands. I felt very discouraged and alone. Even the tree mocked me.
But that night, after I tucked the two into bed, I asked the two old brothers who lived next door to watch for me and I ran down the three blocks to a tree lot I remembered seeing earlier. The proprietor was just closing up but told me to take whatever tree I wanted and he waited while I found a small, sweet tree, then waived aside my offer of payment.
I half-dragged, half-carried the small tree up to my third floor apartment. Then I took all the lights and ornaments off the dead skeleton of a tree, and breaking it into bits, I dropped it down the garbage chute. After setting up the new tree, I decorated it and again knew the loveliness of Christmas. In the morning, Michael caroled with happiness because "Santa put the needles back on the tree". And three-year old Patty buried her face in the fragrant green branches and the fallen ornaments mattered not at all as she balanced herself on a chair and reached to hug the green branches of Christmas.
* * * * * * * *
The gifts of the Magi came unexpectedly. How was I to know that one of my very best Christmases was being born on that July day when a picnic opened the door to a shared companionship. So, when Christmas was come again, we were a complete family. It was "Dad" who set up the tree with Michael's help and lifted redheaded Patty up to place the star in its slightly crooked but rightful place.
On the morning of Christmas, surrounded by paper and boxes and silver tracks, Michael sang over and over, "I got me a dad and a train."
* * * * * * * *
When we bought the new home, it would have been nice to have spent the next Christmas there, but Indiana is a long way away and Christmas is for love and Grandma Kline had never seen this new group of grandchildren that now included baby Evan. Nevertheless, I was apprehensive as I loaded the car with goodies and gifts and children and a playpen. The day, as we started out, was so bright and warm for December. We sang Christmas carols as we crossed America, across Utah, Colorado, Kansas, Missouri, Illinois, and finally, Indiana. Now my throat was too dry to sing. I wondered how this new family of Owen's would be welcomed. As we came into Linton, a soft snow started to fall. By the time we came to the old home, dusk had fallen and the lighted door opened as we pulled up. Arms eagerly reached out to draw us in and hold us close. Later, as Uncle Lloyd caressed Patty's redhead and Michael sat entranced in front of the big coal- burning parlor stove and Grandma rocked baby Evan, crooning a prayer of thankfulness for these new grandchildren, I thought, "Maybe this is the best Christmas of all."
* * * * * * * *
Okinawa: Christmas is strange in a land without snow and where the poinsettias grow taller than you on the hillside. The Christmas carols played on the base sounded familiar, but out in the villages they were a different, tinkly, oriental sound. A Christmas tree that was brought half-way round the world in the hold of a ship, stood in the living room. The maids "Oh'ed" and "Aw'ed" and brought their sisters' children to "Oh" and "Aw"! The local teenagers that I taught English to in the Koza Junior High were quizzing me about our ways of celebrating. They were dear to me and I wanted to share, but how? In my two classes there were over a hundred students, and though, by their standards, we were rich, our pay didn't stretch that far. But an idea came to mind and I called the Chaplain's Office. Public Relations! Good! A bus and a driver for a day? Fine! A picture of Santa Claus; a sew girl; and a friend with a pillow. Dozens of cookies; gallons of hot chocolate; pens tied with red ribbon; and sacks of candy. A foggy gray day, but bright with laughter and singing. Somehow the 104 students had swelled to 120 and a half dozen teachers. Divided into three groups, the busses rolled up to our front door. The house reverberated to the sound of singing and Santa Claus' "HO! HO! HO!" and toilets flushing (most of the students had never seen such a "benjo" before and they stood in line to take turns flushing, watching the cascading water with glee). Surely, this was the best Christmas of all, and our own family never regretted our short rations that season.
* * * * * * * *
Seasons of Christmas may come and go. Some to remain forever with me, others to become a part of the fabric of my life. But year after year, for a time that now seems so long ago, there was a pattern. On Christmas Eve, "The Littlest Angel" made his appearance and "the bells", one for each, were hung on the branches of a tree that always looked the same, though the "artwork" was added upon each year. Sleep came hard and ended early. But rules are rules and it was understood that each would be dressed and the line-up on the stairs would be from youngest to oldest child. Robyn (younger than Jon by one moment); Jon David; Evan; Patricia; and last, but not least, was Michael.
"Hurry, Daddy! Light the tree!" Then the parade up the stairs, into the living room, and laughter, free and happy. The handing out of gifts; the scrambling over which chair or corner was to be whose to store the loot. (One Christmas, Michael startled the whole neighborhood by putting the new record player out-of-doors on the front porch playing Christmas Carols at full volume). Breakfast was always "ebleskieve" and hot apricot nectar.
But years pass so quickly and the Christmas line-up diminishes: Mike on a mission, Pat gone, Evan in the Navy, Jon on a mission and Robyn giving Christmas instead of receiving it. The old pattern breaks, but new ones form and the joy of Christmas comes from the sound of granddaughters' voices on the phone and knowing that new memories are being formed wherever in the world this family gathers.
As Tiny Tim said, "God bless us all".
