We received a Christmas card from Germany last week, a greeting from a friend of our daughter’s, reminding us of the Christmas he spent at our house, far from his British family. As I read Simon’s note, I realized that it was also the last Christmas holiday that we—my daughters, husband and I—shared the season together in one place. It was only a year later one daughter called from Beirut to say “Merry Christmas,” and the other traveled east to Florida to meet the man who would become her husband.
Our annual holiday celebrations have been changing over the past few years. Sometimes we’ve traveled to spend the holiday with one or the other daughter; at other times, depending on who is living where in the world, one of them has come to us. Now, as they create their own holiday traditions with their spouses and children, we will, as we are doing this year, be joining the throngs crowding the gates at airports, hoping the weather cooperates enough to get us to our destination as planned.
It’s a bittersweet time for me. I don’t enjoy traveling during Christmas, but there’s nothing more joyous that celebrating the holidays with my grandchildren, reading Clement C. Moore’s The Night Before Christmas, baking cookies, stuffing the stockings with clever little surprises, and Christmas morning, sharing in the children’s excitement. Yet there’s nostalgia too—memories of Christmases past.
…Always on Christmas night there was music. An uncle played the fiddle, a cousin sang “Cherry Ripe,” and another uncle sang “Drake’s Drum.” It was very warm in the little house. Auntie Hannah, who had got on to the parsnip wine, sang a song about Bleeding Hearts and Death, and then another in which she said her heart was like a Bird’s Nest; and then everybody laughed again; and then I went to bed. Looking through my bedroom window, out into the moonlight and the unending smoke-colored snow, I could see the lights in the windows of all the other houses on our hill and hear the music rising from them up the long, steady falling night. I turned the gas down, I got into bed. I said some words to the close and holy darkness, and then I slept.
(From: “A Child’s Christmas in Wales,” By Dylan Thomas)
As I drove home at night this week, the neighborhood was alive with colored lights and decorations. I pulled into our driveway, awash with memories of long ago Christmas times. I remembered how, as a child, we’d climb into our old Ford station wagon every year, driving through all over our small town to admire the display of lights and decorations. I recalled my father’s annual trek into the snowy wilderness to cut the perfect tree, of the bubble lights and themed decorations, packages piled high beneath the branches, and Christmas day, dozens of cousins, aunts and uncles gathered together for the holiday meal, everyone singing carols.
There are other memories too—ones less romantic but every bit a part of our family’s Christmas traditions: I was assigned the task of painting a Christmas scene in our large picture window, my mother ever hopeful we would win a prize in the “best Christmas decorations” contest each year. My artwork was colorful but untrained, and I was mildly embarrassed to have my work on such public display. The honorable mention I earned one year only reinforced my belief that, despite my desire to be one, I wasn’t really an artist. Then there was the disappointment of my mother’s when we brought home the tree—never perfect enough to her liking, followed by the inevitable argument over placement of lights, and later, my father’s failed attempts to bring home the “right” present for his critical wife. These things became a part of my family’s holiday traditions just as the carols, hanging our stockings or opening gifts on Christmas mornings. Now they are part of the stories we tell—and re-tell—each December as we decorate our tree.
As children, we knew there was more to it -
Why some men got drunk on Christmas Eve
Wasn’t explained, nor why we were so often
Near tears nor why the stars came down so close,
Why so much was lost. Those men and women
Who had died in wars started by others,
Did they come that night? Is that why the Christmas
tree
Trembled just before we opened the presents?
There was something about angels. Angels we
Have heard on high Sweetly singing o’er
The plain. The angels were certain. But we could not
Be certain whether our family was worthy tonight.
(From: “A Christmas Poem,” by Robert Bly, in Morning Poems,1998)
Whatever your beliefs or religious practices, December is a month filled with celebration and family traditions. Think about the holidays you celebrated as a child or at a particularly significant time. What memories do you have? What’s most vivid or poignant? Write about holidays you’ve celebrated in the past—traditions you remember fondly or even the ones that you don’t. Tell the stories ignited by this holiday season.
And to those of you reading this post, my wishes that your holidays be merry and bright, filled with the warmth of family and friends.