Christmastime is a special time in our household. My Mother and Father taught us well. They taught us about giving and receiving—what that means and the reasons we celebrate it and the importance of receiving. And those reasons, surprise, is not what this write is about. It’s more about love; what we do to make our Christmas in our homes and why those moments are worth it, when all madness blooms, just to get it “wrapped up”.
Growing up, my Father worked for “Medco” a corporation which produced lumber and plywood in plants around the world. Dad was the “payroll master” in this family run operation. He would bring home six trees, every Christmas from the mill, Mama would pick out her favorite and we would give the other 5 to family and friends who were looking for one. Mama was and is a maniac about the tree. I found myself adding more lights for her this Christmas, after already having the tree decorated. It was my path of least resistance and brought such a joy to her face, the extra work was more than worth it, in my heart.
I have watched my Father drill holes in the Yules of trees to get them just picture perfect for my Mother’s beautiful decoration. I would hear some snarling, much like the annual light fights so many of us have shared now and in our past. But in the end, come Christmas Eve, it was a warm and loving Joy to the World in the celebration of a family’s Silent Night. Our home was full with family and friends, and ohhhhhhhhhh yes, my Father’s Christmas Punch, ruby red and filled to the brim in my Mother’s Great Grandmother’s crystal punchbowl.
If there was a flat table top, there was snow on it; if there was a light in the ceiling, there was a garland reaching to it with a big kissing ball hanging from the middle of it. If there was a Christmas Carol to be sung, there were at least 8 more to follow.
We were a modest family; not at all about the monies, did we not possess 5 golden rings—but there was always plenty of pear trees and a turkey on the table, which would always feed more than enough. No, we didn’t have seven swans a swimming… but we had a bounty of geese a laying; no, no lords a leaping…. But we did have a dairy next door and up at my Grandpas, where there were always maids a milking. We could see Christmas finding its way to us all year long.
I’m not from a real religious family, but there was always a baby Jesus somewhere in my Mother’s Manger, which sat on top of her Mother’s mantle, in her home when she was a child. I personally, marveled at the light that was poked through a back opening, to light up the North Star. It was what made me love the night sky, as a kid, looking for that star.
My Mother LOVED plastic snow. You could always find it sprinkled atop fluffy clouds of cotton, with lights buried in it. It really did look as beautiful as lights under real snow. Anyway, from a kid’s perspective—a perspective I annually welcome, by the way. She had a small Christmas village on the mantle. Made of a flimsy cardboard and it glistened mightily with the fine glitter top the rooftops. She had a Church with a steeple in that village and wax carolers set about, along with a mirror skillfully created to look like a frozen pond, with lovers holding hands, taking in the Christmas wintry night, while skating.
The girl should have been a set designer for Christmas Display… she could take a cheap little five and dime decoration and turn it into something suitable for the Windsor Castle. She always had a little glue and glitter hanging around, at Christmas and when all else failed—she’d light it up. She would work for weeks in preparation; while raising three kids; work a full time job and make sure Daddy was happy: Our own, Mother Miracle.
But the madness? Craziness: when a string of lights would go out on the tree? Or the tinsel would melt from the fireplace from getting the fire too hot? Or the time my Grandmother got tipsy and fell in the tree and knocked it over while cutting the rug with my Uncle Bobby (a little too much of Dad’s punch, perhaps?) For one split second, if you were paying attention, you would see an expression cross my Mother’s face of what, I don’t know, but it was AN EXPRESSION…. Make no mistake about it. Yet, with a wink and a nod and a little scotch tape, she’d have it back to beautiful in jiff, while Grandma kept dancing to Jingle Bell Rock.
I can remember seeing Mam wrapping in the early morning hours, when I would get up to steal a peek at Santa’s Cookies. Were they there??? Had he been here yet??? They were always there. And in my onesie jammies, I would quietly tip-toe back to bed, before I got “the” look from her. I can remember countless times going back to bed and feeling the wonder of Christmas. I knew Santa would find his way, because Mama was helping him—to shorten his time needed to wrap our presents. I knew he was going to love those cookies that my sister always baked and I knew he was going to enjoy a bit my Father’s punch. Yep, all was right in the world of a Clark Christmas.
Every Christmas morning was magic: Stockings full; tree trimmed to perfection; presents lovingly wrapped by Mama and Aunties, and even a few Uncles and Grandpa. You could always count on a lifesaver book in our stockings and a Candyland game under the tree—somewhere—in the abyss of sparkle and shine.
Everyone smiling; everyone loving and everyone had their beds made so we could lay our presents on them, once opened. My Mother always believed in thanks, and so we would parade our family in, when they would arrive through the day, and show them all of our gifts and we would make lists as we opened our presents of who they were from, so we could be certain to thank them appropriately. I can’t tell you how I hated that as a kid. But now, 61, I tend to get a little ruffled when I give a gift and there is no thank you in return.
The stir from Thanksgiving to New Year’s was undying. It seemed to never end, and yet, in its ebb, we would all settle with big smiles; great thanks and that feeling of celebration. I hate to say it, but as a kid, I was celebrating presents and candies. I was celebrating the magic of plastic snow and the twinkling lights which lit up my heart. All the while, understanding the unending vacuuming that would occur for weeks to come, getting up the plastic snow taking refuge under the couch; in the corners, and the worst, in the laundry.
Today, I see myself reliving the madness. No, I don’t do the plastic snow and all of the flat surfaces, but the tree, my tannenbaum, is essential—it speaks of my past from the decades of ornaments which have become life’s journal of love; remembrance; all that is genuine. The dream that we all ingest the twinkling season in our hearts and shine it back out on the world: The desire for peace on earth and the prayer for the will to make it so.
And so here we are in 2017. Another holiday upon us; Mama living with us and she and I sing the Christmas Carols; she helps me place the ornaments; the remember whens; and it all distills itself down to the very craziness that is essential for that Christmas Magic.
I haven’t a Grandmother to “feel the spirits” and knock my tree over; I won’t hear that shrill sound from Mama again, with any luck. But I still have my own madness—and I have Gary to hold my hand, remind me of all of the love, and how we’ll laugh for years to come when the turkey falls from the pan, before it makes it to the countertop and we burn the gift certificates from family, in the paper maze….
Yes, it’s all there waiting, for us, for you, and for the world. I have to ask, when will there be a snow globe that shows THAT Christmas. And I have to wonder, how you would even see the scene with all of the plastic snow.
Merry Christmas to all of you… May your own madness cast its magic and bring you peace, joy and rich stories to pass down through the generations. It can be the most wonderful time of the year—in fact, it can be like that year around: Especially with a little bit of Dad’s Christmas Punch. Hah!!
Here’s a sweet little poem I wrote a couple of years ago: seemed perfect for this write—I hope you enjoy it.
With Christmastime so near,
I decorate my tree;
With ornaments, I hold so dear
They sing their history:
One hangs of shiny-mercury blue;
It’s heartstrings wrap my soul.
For it once was held by Grandma;
A love I will extol.
Another of a reindeer,
With horns of velveteen:
A present from my Mother
When I was just sixteen.
A rose of red, from my first beau,
Blown from glass so sweet;
As he whispered Merry Christmas
And kissed me on that street.
A pinecone from my Father,
Makes me think of forests fair;
And our days of conversation
And the dreams we came to share.
This one’s full of ashes,
From a best friend lost in life:
And I remember tears of laughter
And the tears we’d share in strife.
I’ve one from my only sister:
A slipper made of gold.
And I hang it with such gratitude,
As I watch us both grow old.
I have some from my travels,
When I used to tame the world–
‘Twas a time when I was fearless,
With both my arms unfurled–
So I could soak up every raindrop,
Knowing rainbows were to come;
And I’d stand in fire just to prove,
Love’s for all, not some.
The pickle, though well hidden
Hides near the scented Yule
And when all that’s left and written:
You’ll hold its magic jewel.
My sweetest little baby cake,
The one who turned my head;
Gave me garlands made of kisses,
Showing love of ruby red.
The glisten of the rocking horse,
Reminds me of my son.
And though I lost him in the war
He still outshines the sun.
I have no favorite ornaments,
That dress my lovely tree…
For each one has some specialness
Which owns a part of me.
Christmas time is memories
Of love you’ve been a part;
And though ornaments might hang on trees,
They live inside your heart.
So when it’s time for sugar-plumbs
To dance inside your head;
And Santa’s reindeer tap the roof
While being tucked in bed;
As the Nutcracker holds special guard
On ornaments ‘til morn:
The star which shines atop your tree?
Reminds, a King’s been born.
Christmas Memories
Words by Robin Clark