(Editor’s Note: When I posted Robin’s Welcome yesterday I goofed it up and left 3/4 of it off. Half a day went by before I was alerted to the problem, so I decided that after it was fixed the Welcome would stay up another day. Really, it deserved to anyways…Robin’s piece is truly lovely. RC)
For the first time in 62 years of living, Christmas makes something old, new again. It heals some heartache and adds to the smiles of remembrances—that no, cannot be lived over, but in truth, I don’t want that anyway.
I was born and raised in a home where my parents adored Christmas. My Mother—God Rest Her Soul—would always take a day from work, and I would take a day from school, and we would mischievously play hooky, likening ourselves to Saintful Elves, as we sang Christmas Carols and decorated the living room.
Our morning would start with giggles over hot-chocolate and toast: and though it wasn’t so, our cups brimming; looked more like a cup of marshmallows than a cup of chocolate. We would laugh with nervousness, because we knew she still had to call “Mr. Hall” and tell him some kind of cockamamie lie that she was sick. We always came to the same resolve. If she was sick and I was sick: we were sick with the magic of Christmas. And was that so bad??? Then we would laugh again, drunk with naughtiness. I can still see us sitting at our kitchen window, looking out across the pasture; the pear orchards; and gazing toward the foothills of the Cascades. As if it were yesterday, I still see that little white ruffle with eyelets sewn: embedded in the modest-sunshine-yellow kitchen curtain; with the usual holiday fog, lilting without rhythm through the valley, trying to escape before its return come sunset.
Tummies warmed, Christmas untruths behind us, we head for those 8 cardboard—tattered and dusty—boxes, calling out for us from the corner of our living room. Piece by piece, we unearth the annual magic: garlands, kissing ball, cotton, glittering snow, the small city which would eventually find it’s place ‘top our mantle; Santa with the big-red bag thrown over his shoulder, which was nothing more than a big red-bulb screwed into his hands and of course, the Crèche with all the trimmings. Waxed carolers, waning Wiseman—with gifts in hand: roll called, it was all there and then some.
The old paper garlands which came with Mama and Papa from their first Christmas together, found their corners of the living room with rolls of tape fastening them awkwardly above. A big kissing ball punctuating the center of the garlands–my sister made that kissing ball with communion cups dipped in glitter. I still smile as I write this—it does sound tacky, but my oh my, it was tradition—rich in a daughter’s love to make and give and a mother’s pride and joy to receive and hang up immediately for a proper holiday of kissing.
We always topped our tree with what you may call today a cheap five and dime paper angel with rolled angel hair taped to it—but for my family, she was the sign that Christmas had arrived. The mantle, complete with a Christmas village and of course, carolers with wicks sprouting from top their heads, seemed normal as pie.
Now, if you’ve managed to weather this, you might be glad to know I am getting to the part of this “old is new again” I mentioned at the top of this story. Let’s fast forward 50 years, and now, Mama lives with Gary and I—Dad’s looking down and it’s just us three.
Truthfully, the last two years, we didn’t think Mom would make it. And so, three Christmases ago, this Christmas, we chose to leave the tree up; the stockings up; the mantle up. Because every night, when we turned those lights on—she lit up with them: Shiny bright—brighter than any star I’ve ever witnessed. When I would bring her into the living room in the morning, she would greet it with a faithful, Good Morning Christmas tree. At night, when we would turn it off, she would say: I love a Christmas Tree and again, would wish it well before heading off to bed.
I can’t tell you how I dreaded having this Christmas without her. But as I look at this tree; I no longer dread anything. Yes, it’s been up, come three Christmases, but I see sweet-delicate hands reaching out to hang ornaments; I hear the harmonies of us singing and I feel the warmth of all the Christmases that have come before today. It’s no longer a tired tree; but a tree which brings new life to one that has ended and the reminder that we are in the season of giving, and she stands before me, lit, still giving: giving new remembrance; new dreams; new reasons for gratitude.
CHRISTMASTIME
Christmastime, a shine we know:
Glistening hearts;
Glistening snow;
Palms for some,
To swing and sway;
It’s how we wake
To Christmas day.
Christmastime:
We’re waiting for
Santa Claus to hit the floor;
Coming down our chimney, swept;
Recalling reindeers
And those who’ve leapt;
To cross the heavens
‘Round the globe,
For boys and girls
In morning’s robe.
Reindeer flying
High above;
With Santa trimmed
In Christmas love.
Elves, sacked out;
Their work is done.
It’s time to dream
Of Sugar Plums.
Jingle bells,
Wake old Jack Frost.
While parents weather
All the costs:
Ensuring that
Their little one
Wakes to the joys
Of Christmas fun.
Imaginations; wonder; dreams:
Hoping that we made the list
Where naughty’s frightening;
And nice ‘s kissed,
With loving dolls;
And winter’s sleds;
And stocking caps
Upon our heads.
Will we hear Rudolph’s hooves;
As they prance
Across our roofs?
Did Mama put the cookies where
Santa Claus is sure to share??
Now we’ve stockings hung with care
Hoping, praying,
He’ll find them there
Then fill them up:
Absent, coal.
It’s Christmastime:
For young at heart
And older souls.
And how can we
Ignore this day:
Marking peace;
And why we pray.
The celebration
Of His birth
Reminding, heaven’s
Here on earth.
Christmastime:
When stars ignite
The stories of
That special night;
When wise men came
To welcome Him:
And trees are dressed
In glory’s trim.
Oh Christmastime
We love you so:
We love the way
You make hearts grow:
We love it that
You’re such a part
Of every-single-human heart.
And on the eve,
Before we rise;
We’re singing praise
With seeing eyes:
Of Jesus
And his promise made.
To answer those
Who’ve faithf’ly prayed.
For whether it be Santa Claus,
Or Jesus in the manger,
Pause,
To celebrate this time of joy
With every little girl and boy.
Merry Christmas Everyone; Glory to the Winter’s Solstice; Happy New Year—whether you celebrate any of it or not, I wish you great peace and full hearts, knowing what was done and is done in love, will only grow bigger.