Making memories

The run-up to Christmas can be daunting. You and I are celebrating Christmas Eve when you read this. In “real” time, I’m writing last Thursday night in a Wal-Mart parking lot in Gastonia, NC.

We had a nice dinner out of stuff brought from the fridge at home, things I didn’t want to let go bad: some apples cut and cooked with cinnamon, a delicious salmon filet, and a couple of potatoes fried in a bit of olive oil. Cookies for dessert.

With our curtains drawn and the lights low, it’s not a bad place to spend the night. Right now the voices around us are of women on last-minute Christmas runs – they call out to children, warn them to stay close and get in the car, then the doors slam, the engine cranks, and off they head for home.

By now the children have about had it with this Christmas business, and a business it is. But, assuming these families take their tired children to church, especially on Christmas Eve, what difference does it make that someone is making money off the memories we are trying to instill in the kids? Their memories are of gleeful surprises under the tree, their parents’ are of speaking low about a neighbor suddenly laid off from work.

I can’t think what would be better than for children to understand that not everyone this year will relive the Christmas of Charles Dickens and Clement Moore. Be sure, if it’s not too late, to have the children give as well as get. The first Christmas was more about giving than getting, and it’s not too late to take some token of concern – a fresh loaf of bread, a toy car, or just a card with a simple message. “We’re thinking of you, and we care.”

I know people who live for the Christmas season and challenge all records for electric yard decorations, and the indoor displays that take weeks to complete.

The beautiful lady who cuts my hair decorates every square inch of the interior of her house, mostly with her Father Christmas figures. It is a staggering piece of work, but she wouldn’t cut back for anything. Best of all, she shares. The neighbors in the cul de sac have their Christmas get-together in her house, probably looking for where they left off last year so as not to miss anything.

Awed as I am by such diligence, it’s just not for me. I favor quiet evenings with a Christmas tree in the corner and some Bach and Mozart on the CD player, the aroma of fresh-baked cookies wafting in from the kitchen. Talk about fantasizing! (Maybe better call it Santasizing.)

But why, you ask, are we ready to climb into the bunk in our little RV in a Wal-Mart parking lot? Because they let us. We don’t need anything but we usually think of something we can run in to buy as a token of appreciation. It’s getting quieter now, and even the kids who “hang out” here are either elsewhere or at home with family. (Now I’m fantasizing.)

We’re on our way to Jean’s place in northern Virginia, maybe only the second time, I believe, for Christmas. And I’m replacing an old “tradition” with a new.

Never very dexterous, I find there are some things I just cannot do these days. Maybe the tremor that has taken over my right hand has won this round. I was wrapping a simple box for Dave, trying to get the ribbon to come out even enough to tie, when it slipped for the hundredth time and I just lost it. I checked the time and it had been at least a half hour since I started and I was struggling with the first darn little box. In the corner was a stack of still unwrapped packages, and me the designated gift-wrapper.

I’ve always sniffed at gifts simply dropped into colorful gift bags with a wad of tissue covering the top. They seem so lazy, so impersonal. Gift-giving should entail a little effort. The only time I employed gift bags was for oddly shaped articles that defy anyone’s attempt to wrap prettily.

Please note that this solution was not without effort. It took another trip to CardSmart to buy a dozen cute bags in an assortment of designs and sizes. With a little luck, I’ll snatch the empties out from under the tree before the boys destroy them.

Finishing the “wrapping” was so easy, I’ll be embarrassed to admit to the family that I did it. Remember me? I’m the parent who grabbed sheets of gift wrap and ironed it smooth to save from year to year. My daughters won’t believe this.

So here it is, on the Eve of Christmas, and everything is done or is left undone. Those who understand the “meaning” of Christmas will recognize that how gifts are decorated means little in the long run, while those whose Christmas is entirely commercial won’t care.

Besides, the first Christmas gift came wrapped in swaddling bands and straw.