Bits And Pieces

Kid's Stuff

     How many times have I heard friends declare, "Christmas is really just for kids; when you get older the thrill is sure gone."

     Now that I'm older (a comparative word---old,older,oldest) some of the excitement of this, the first Christian religious holiday, is dulled a bit.

     Now Christmas takes on it's true meaning of love your neighbor and praise the Lord for the gift of His Son; and looses the worldly rush over spending and over-extending.  But we all have that great bonus of many Christmases to remember.

     I recall as a youngster being restrained on the second floor of our home until various aunts, uncles, and grandmother gathered to view my first look at the Christmas tree.  At that time my parents trimmed the tree after I'd gone to bed on Christmas Eve.

     Strange though, it wasn't until Santa as the deliverer of presents disappeared from my belief that I really heard those footsteps of my parents tiptoeing carefully past my bedroom door as they brought packages down from the cedar chest in the attic.

     A cousin of mine blew the whole Santa story to me and deflated a little of that holiday bubble, but never the glow of viewing the tall tree lighted for the first time.  Later when I could help trim the tree and was always given the task of putting on the tinfoil icicles--one at a time, please!---that the splendor of the moment when the fresh pine suddenly burst into a fairyland of lights still had me catching my breath in wonder.

     Mine was not a big family.  I was the only child.  Aunts and uncles helped but I longed for the big family Christmases I read about in the many books I received each year under the tree.  I remember one Christmas there were five copies of Heidi and three of Elsie Dinsmore.

     There was another Christmas when there was little under the tree but Dad made a mysterious trip to the neighbor and returned with my all time favorite present--a red Cocker Spaniel puppy.

     There was the first time I went Christmas shopping alone with my very own dollar to buy presents for my parents, only to find the thing I had clutched in my fist was not the money but strings from the hole in my mitten.

     Pop remembers Christmas a bit differently than I do.  His was a Christmas Eve of crunching through the snow to midnight Mass and then home to find Santa had been to his house in his absence.  Of course he is much older than I so his tree had festoons of popcorn and cranberry strings and there were real candles clamped to the branches.

     I lived in the city and Pop grew up on a farm.  He was one of three children; I was an only child.  He received one present at Christmas, but I received many.

     But I slowly learned that getting lots of presents wasn't half as much fun as giving lots of presents and that when money was tight, items created at home were made with much more thought and love than a store-bought gift.

     Our four children came over a span of nearly twenty years so there was generally a Santa believer around to make the holidays more fun for the whole family.  I'm a great one for traditions and our family established a few of our own.

     Carols on Christmas eve.  Pop and our three boys and one girl gathered around the piano while I struggled in the general direction of Jingle Bells and Silent Night.  We made popcorn balls and pulled taffy on the Sunday preceding Christmas---a tradition Pop carried from his boyhood.  Me, I baked cookies and scattered pounds of colored sugar over lopsided animals that the children helped to make.

     The tree selection involved the whole family and often it was one we purchased from the same corner lot, rented by a bewhiskered old man who sorta looked like St. Nick himself.  It would be the coldest day of the year and with frosted face and stiff mitten clad fingers we'd push frozen branches apart to find just the perfect shaped tree to fit our home while Pop grumbled about the size, figured it would never fit the holder, or the trunk was bent.

     The kids blowing on cold fingers and stomping their feet to keep them warm swarmed over the lot each finding a tree too big for our living room.

     Our perfect tree once home always had to be cut and pruned to fit into the holder and tied to the nearest curtain or drapery rod to hold it safe from a running dog or jumping children.

     There were school plays and parts to be learned--church gatherings and bazaars--long distance calls to family in other states--presents to be wrapped and delivered to friends--cards addressed complete with messages--and afternoons of taking the children shopping for the gifts for each other which ended by their buying the things they liked themselves--tree trimming parties--four stockings to be hung by the fireplace and the traditional pre-Christmas trip by commuter train into Chicago to meet Pop for lunch, if possible under the big tree at Marshall Fields and to view the marvels and wonders of an enchanted fairyland of store windows along State Street.

     As the children came home from college or later with wives or husband, the house suddenly became alive again bursting with laughter and people.

     There are grandchildren now whose stockings hang from the hooks at the fireplace.  It's an artificial tree that gets trimmed with old ornaments and tiny lights.  We've moved into a smaller place up North since Pop retired, but somehow last Christmas we all got home.  Sons and their wives--daughter, son-in-law and grandchildren and our unmarried youngest.

     It was the same excitement as each group arrived and our dog welcomed the boys again.  Two tables were spread over into two rooms to hold the crowd.  Flash bulbs popped--carols were sung--the tree sparkled and shown and presents and paper littered the house.

     I watched the whole group with a heart full of gladness.  Oh thank you, Lord, you have answered my childhood prayer.  You've given me my best present --a really big and great family!

Written November/December 1985 at Port Charlotte Village for their newsletter.