Memories of Christmases past

Last week, I passed a tree lot already closed before Christmas, and the nostalgia that started with hearing old holiday music hit me full force. What would have happened to the Christmas of my childhood had the lots chosen to close down so soon? Off I went on a trip down memory’s twisted road ...

In my childhood home, it all started about two weeks before Christmas and built from there. Cleaning came first, and from top to bottom, we all began in earnest to turn our home into a place deserving of the holiday decorations and the visitors to come. Rugs were rolled up and taken out, furniture was pushed back to the walls, and, on hands and knees, the floor polishing was begun.

First, we put down the wax in a circular motion with rags. I liked to put the rags under both hands and make inward circles as I moved backwards from corner to center of the room. Then came the part we each waited for with much eager anticipation: My father would get out an old pair of flannel pajama bottoms and, in turn, youngest first, each of us would sit on the wide hip part of the pants as my father took hold of the legs and pulled us around the floor. There was absolutely no pattern to this polishing of the floor, for it was truly all about fun. Being last was excruciating, as I saw my father tire, but I always got a turn.

As the oldest child and the one most interested in the decorating part, it was left to me to enlist my siblings in creating magic in our house. As the baking smells began to emanate from the kitchen, I would gather up whatever I could around the house and yard to create small shrines to the holiday from my own dream of what should be.

A round mirror came off the wall to become a skating pond in the center of the large oak sideboard. Cut juniper and toyon berries became the bushes and trees around the edges of the pond. My ceramic ballerina collection became the skaters that whirled and twirled on the “ice.” Toy dogs, cats and even the occasional cowboy or zebra were added to the mix. A pasty glass cleaner became the “snow” needed to complete the scene.

This was only the beginning. We would go on to hang branches and berries throughout the house. Found pinecones and other bits were serendipitously added to the mix. Humming Christmas carols and teasing each other with “you’d better watch out” warnings and tasting the many cookies and candies being prepared added to the festive feeling of something coming. There was no tree yet, presents were wrapped and stashed in the back of closets and cupboards, but we were oh so ready.

At last, Christmas Eve came. We were admonished to calm down when we became just a little too wired (probably all that sugar to which we were so unaccustomed). Most years we would listen to a reading of Clement Moore’s “Christmas Story” before hanging our father’s long black socks on the mantle and setting out cookies and milk for Santa.

Then, with giggles and poking at each other, we would all head upstairs to snuggle down with those “visions of sugarplums” dancing in our heads. Once, I remember, we were just too restless and excited to settle down. That year found the three eldest of us huddled at the top of the stairs trying to interpret the many sounds downstairs until, groggy at last, we crawled off to bed.

On Christmas morning, gathering in the upstairs hallway, the four of us would knock and enter our parents’ room to jump on their bed with shouts of, “Now! Now! C’mon!” Finally, they would acquiesce and rise. We waited at the top of the stairs until one or both of them said, “OK, you can come down now.” Oh, the tension!

Turning the corner at the bottom of the stairs, crowding together as one, we would peer into the living room, breath held.

Aaaaahhhhh! Santa had not failed us. He had brought the Christmas tree, and there it stood all aglow with lights and dripping with silver tinsel. The year’s presents had come out of the closets and there was some wonderful surprise from Santa himself for each of us.

As I lay down with my young grandson for his nap on this Sunday before Christmas, I hope for him the same delicious kind of memories -- simple and pleasure-filled -- for some distant day. I am thankful for mine. After all the “goods” are long gone, these memories are what last. I only wonder what would have happened if the lots had all closed early then, before we could get our free tree.

Here’s to your own joyous holiday memories, however you celebrate and wherever you may be. Be blessed.

* Cherril Doty is a creative life coach and artist, exploring the mysteries of life as they come. You can reach her by e-mail at cherril@cherrildoty.com or by calling (949) 251-3883.

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