A child at Christmas time

A child lives in his own wondrous little world, a world most of us grownups have long ago forgotten. But it’s something about the holidays and Christmas, the sights, the sounds, and the smells which pull at even the hardest of hearts and helps us recall distant, long-forgotten memories. Memories which help us to go back — back to that time long ago when Christmas had a whole different meaning for most of us. It was a time when we saw Christmas through the eyes of a child.

As children we believed in flying reindeer, especially one special one with a shiny red nose. We sang Christmas carols and walked down Flamingo Street looking at all the neighbors’ lights. We drank hot cocoa, had one or two snowball fights with our friends, and helped them make snowmen in their front yards before we made it back home, half-frozen and happy, ready for Santa. But before Santa could come we had to get a Christmas tree. Lucky for us Dad always knew where to find the perfect one: The Haunted Forest.

I remember every Christmas we’d go with Dad to the Haunted Forest and cut down a tree, drag it home where we’d fight about who would help decorate it. I learned early on that the lights go on first, and then the ornaments. Then Mom and Dad hung the really old breakable angels and snowmen. One year we even strung popcorn on the tree instead of lights, but by Christmas someone had eaten all of it. Nothing was left but the thread. It’s still a family mystery who ate all that popcorn.

Today, you can still have the tradition of having the kids cut their own Christmas trees; there are several lots left in our county. But you can also buy artificial trees, which some say are more convenient. They even come with ornaments and lights already on them. But they don’t come with really old breakable angels and snowmen. And I haven’t yet seen any with popcorn strung on threads hanging from the branches. Pity. I really like popcorn at Christmas time.

Going to church on Christmas was a special time. A couple of days before Christmas services, The Sister and Mom would go shopping for new dresses. And even though Mom made alterations to our suits, us four boys had to squeeze into suit coats which were a size too small, dress pants which were two inches too short and, worst of all, ties. Mom said our clothes were too small ‘cause we just wouldn’t stop growing. Funny how we never outgrew those dang-burn ties.

Early in the morning, before we left for church, Dad would pay us a quarter for each pair of Sunday shoes we shined. I’m proud to say that my Dad always had the shiniest shoes in church. Even shiner than preacher Jim!

Once at Christmas services we listened to the sermon of the birth of Jesus and we dared not move or wiggle. If we did Dad would pop us on the head with his college ring. We listened to the children’s choir, the adult choir, and the ringing of the bells. Twenty-four polished gold bells, which were carefully rung by ladies wearing white gloves.

This year The Wife got a new dress for the Christmas services and I’ll try to squeeze into a suit which is now at least one size too small. My pants are still two inches too short, a result of me washing them in hot water rather than taking them to the dry cleaners as The Wife suggested. But I did find a quarter on the floor when I finished shining my own Sunday shoes. Thankfully styles have changed so I don’t think I have to wear a tie.

Christmas falls on Sunday this year. The Wife, The Boy and I will go to services and listen to a sermon about the birth of Jesus. Polished gold bells will be rung by ladies wearing white gloves. And throughout the service, The Boy and I will dare not move or wiggle. Dad’s college ring is still out there somewhere.

When we were children we could hardly sleep the night before Christmas. Lying in our beds – listening for every creek and crack — sure it was Santa and his reindeer on our roof and not just the cold winter wind and rain. We lay there in bed as the warmth of darkness wrapped around us and we slowly drifted off to sleep. Wondering just what Santa would bring.

Now that I’m a parent, the night before this Christmas I can hardly go to sleep. Lying in bed, I listen for every creek and crack – sure that it’s something else going wrong with our new house, and not just the cold winter wind and rain pounding the roof. I lay there in bed as the warmth of darkness wraps around me – but there’s no way can I go to sleep. Too worried about how Santa’s going to pay for all of the gifts now stacked under the tree.

But gifts are an important part of Christmas. When I was six, Santa brought me a special gift, a Tinker Toy set. That Christmas Dad spent what seemed like hours helping me build stuff with it. And to this day I’ve never forgotten the other gift he showed me. It was the true meaning of Christmas. A father’s love.

Merry Christmas from The Wife, The Boy and me.