Add this entry to Your Favorites [2] Comments

Please wait...

Few things kindle the fires of memory like Christmas. For me it’s easy to pull up a comfy chair by the memory fire and sit all day. It’s a warm place to find refuge from the cold world outside. Sometimes I can stir in the glowing coals of the past and watch a hundred bright sparks burst upward – each one a treasured little scene from my life. I watch them flicker until they fade and disappear into the here and now, and then I stir again. I guess that’s what I’m doing now, stirring in the fires of memory, as I look back on the Christmases of my life.

I can see us all bundled up at the local Christmas tree lot, circa 1959-1960, mom and dad and us kids. There was a fire burning in a steel drum where a man took turns blowing into his hands and then stretching them out to the fire. There were strings of colored lights outlining the perimeter of the lot and they swayed in the cold December air. Dad was looking for the perfect Christmas tree – perfect meaning about $1.98. Bless his heart. You could always see straight through to the other side with few branches to obstruct your view. When he found his “prize”, he would pay the man, complain about the outrageous price, and then lay the tree in the trunk of our old ’54 Olds. He tied the trunk lid down and we were off. Of course, when we got home we discovered that the tree was crooked and the bottom had to be sawed off to fit into the Christmas tree stand that had somehow managed to disappear over the previous twelve months. It was nearly always found in one of those “how on earth did it get here” locations and then we could proceed. Mom and dad would wrestle the tree into the old metal stand and tighten up the bolts. I can still remember the scent of the prickly pine needles as I climbed under the tree to pour water into the little bowl-shaped reservoir. Now we were ready to decorate.

Mom hauled out the old red vinyl and chrome stepstool and climbed high in the closet to retrieve dusty boxes of ornaments. Only now do I realize how old some of those things were. They were probably mom and dad’s first and only ornaments since they got married in 1936. They were old glass orbs with the paint and snow-like frost chipping off. It was hard to tell what color some of them had been in their better days. The tangled strings of old 40’s-style lights were always a trial for dad’s patience, and there were always a couple burned out. The tinsel was kinked and matted from who knows how many years of re-use and there were slightly flattened paper chains of red and green construction paper which had been cut and glued by a certain third grader; but it looked beautiful to us.

As we decorated, dad would crank up the big Philco and put on a stack of Christmas records. They were heavy, old 78’s. I would watch as the first record dropped onto the turntable and hold my breath as that huge triangular arm that held the needle would lift, turn, and then sit down on the big chunky record. The needle bumped and scratched along as Gene Autry sang about “Rudolph”, and then again as the Andrews Sisters beckoned us to “Christmas Island”. There was Arthur Godfrey extolling the virtues of snow in “It’s a Marshmallow World”, then finally Bing Crosby singing “Silent Night” as only he could.

Then mom brought up the “fireplace”. It was red cardboard “brick” and once she discovered which tabs fit into which slots, we were in business. Behind the cardboard “logs” was a little orange light that flickered and a mechanism that simulated a crackling sound. There was a clock painted on the chimney and two red wooden hands that pointed to five minutes to midnight. On Christmas Eve, out came the stockings, the longest we had. There was one particular pair that I’m sure now were given to us as a joke. They were red and black houndstooth and stretched to nearly three feet long. (In later years my brother, Bill, had a way of filling those stockings with fruit and nuts to where the oranges always landed where a kneecap would be. Then somehow he could arrange pecans and Brazil nuts to resemble toes, then turn the “toes” way out to the side, creating quite a bow-legged fellow.) I have a picture somewhere – and it still makes me laugh.

Outside the tree and the “fireplace”, we had few other Christmas decorations - a fact that crossed my mind the other day as I drug out fourteen boxes of extraneous Christmas decorations for my home. We did have a little gumdrop tree that bloomed red and green spicy morsels, and there was a tiny little church house. Its steeple was dotted with glittery snow and it was surrounded by miniature “snow-covered” evergreens. You could peer through the dimly lit windows at tiny Christmas worshippers. I always felt a bit left out that I couldn’t squeeze through the little doors and join them.

As we decorated turkey giblets simmered in broth and the aroma of oven-toasted bread, onions, celery and sage destined for mom’s stuffing filled the house.

Shopping meant a trip to the next “big” town down by the river. Alton sat high on the bluffs above the Mississippi and I can still hear the sound our tires made on those steep brick streets that were decorated for the season. Strangely enough, I can still see an old harbor tug decked out with Christmas lights and a wreath. I can hear the creak of the rickety wooden stairs of the old department store, and I’ll never forget the aroma as we reached the top of the flight. There was a glass candy counter right at a child’s eye level that displayed all sorts of chocolate delights, and I’m convinced that my addiction to cashews began right then and there as they turned and glistened under a bright light. I can remember holding my mom’s hand as we would weave our way through the store, past the washing machines where she would pause and dream for a moment and then move on into what I realize now was a very simple toy section. There were baby dolls and little dishes, trucks, cowboy hats and cap guns, coloring books and crayons. We looked and hoped, looked and hoped.

Yes, mom let us pretend, but she never, ever let a Christmas go by that she didn’t make sure we knew the story, the real story, of Christmas. I can still see the deer-in-the-headlights look on Mrs. Hepler’s face as I announced to her kindergarten class and my fellow five-year-olds that Christmas was Jesus’ birthday, and that Santa was only a nice man dressed up. It’s funny, but I can remember even as a five-year-old realizing that I had just become very unpopular, and I wasn’t sure why. After all, Mrs. Hepler was a teacher. She should know the truth, shouldn’t she?

On Christmas Eve, dad would step off the bus he rode everyday to the foundry with something tucked under his arm, and as soon as I spotted him I ran back inside to tell my siblings, “He’s got it!. He’s got it!” The “it” he had was a box of chocolates, the only chocolate we would have. Dad didn’t know what a Christmas bonus was, but he and his fellow blue-collars were thankful for any token of appreciation from the company, even if it was only a one-pound box of assorted chocolates.

It’s odd how those simple things are what we recall about Christmas. I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone say, “Yeah, the Christmas I got the (big screen TV, diamond ring, trip to Hawaii) was the best ever.”

It’s equally odd to think that for the Christmas holiday, even in the secular world, all things seem possible. We greet our fellow man with warm wishes for the season. We eat of life’s best and even show concern for those less fortunate. Life seems good and we’re filled with joy and hope.

But what happens on December 26? It seems we pack away the Savior with the nativity scene. We turn off the lights and mourn the darkness as though there will be no light until next December when Baby Jesus is born -- again. We silence the music and as the happiness fades we are brought back to face life with the question, “Now what?”

People, why do you think He was called Emmanuel?

GOD WITH US. That’s what it means. GOD WITH US.

There is still light – because He is the light. There are still songs of joy to sing! We can still taste of the goodness of the Lord and be filled. Yes, I’m preaching to myself, for I have needed Christmas more this year than any other; but I pray that God would help me face the coming year with the same hope and joy that the Angels proclaimed on that first Christmas night so long ago. I pray that He would help me express to those I meet this year who need love, who need forgiveness, who need grace, who need joy that it is available in Christ. Lord, help me run to my brothers and sisters with the enthusiasm of a child and proclaim, “He’s got it!”.

Merry Christmas!

Janice

Reader Comments

Add Comments

If you are seeing this form you are not a Member or have not logged in. Why not consider becoming a Member?

Membership allows you to have a prepared signature of your choice applied to every comment you make, as well as the ability to choose an avatar to display next to your name to help identify your posts. Members are also given opportunity to vote weekly in our Weekly Chart as well as special Members Only contests, polls and giveaways during the year. If you are already a member, login here, otherwise please register here.

**Note: Forums membership is a seperate membership.

By posting you agree to our Comments Policy

Name:
Email:
Location:
URL:
Comment:
	Remember my personal information
	Notify me of follow-up comments?
Please enter the word you see in the image below: