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| Category: General Experiences |
Date published: December 3, 2004 |
A grab bag of emotions, the memories of Christmas, like chunks of coal found amongst the candy. They were there...the tears mixed with Christmas joy.
Surprisingly enough, some of my fondest memories were in the years my parents were the poorest. If you've read my story COAL TURNED INTO DIAMOND, then you are acquainted with those years...the years I came to remember a tree that was never there.
My father's drinking and violent bouts were less frequent back then, or maybe I have shut them out. Oh, there was the time he threw the arm full of wood against the wall creating a huge hole. My mother stuffed the hole with rags to prevent me from snooping into the kitchen on the nights I slept in the junk room. The kitchen was the only place to sit back in those years.
There were three girls in one bed the night we heard the sleigh bells ring. I can still feel the excitement in the little girl that once was me. "Santa won't come if you're not asleep," our mother would say.
In the morning, we'd slip around the corner to where the Christmas tree stood...the one that was never there. As I think back now, the gifts must have been placed atop the cedar chest that stood along the short wall that separated our bedroom from our parents...the room that should have been the living room. Not allowed to touch the gifts until our parents were awake, we'd reach for our dad's long wool stocking that was now filled with assorted nuts and peanuts in the shell, as well as hard Christmas candy that would stick to the sides of the sock.
When it came to the gifts, most kids today would be very disappointed to find what Santa left us under their own Christmas trees. Underwear and socks and the all-important giant coloring book with a new box of crayons, plus one toy. One year, it was a Betsy-Wetsy doll. She came with a carrying case made from cardboard to hold the doll clothes the doll had come with.
My sister and I tore the case to pieces and threw it into the black pot-bellied stove that heated the house with wood and coal. The act was meant to punish our mother for leaving us behind while she ran an errand. Oh, how we giggled as we threw it into the stove to burn. Our mother would really be sorry, we thought.
That Betsy-Wetsy doll caused me to have to give a whole lot of back scratching. Most mothers nursed their babies back in those days and I wanted to do the same for my dolly. I placed her against my fully clothed, flat chest, and pretended to feed her.
"I'm telling Ma," my sister called out. "You're a pig...I'm telling Ma."
After weeks of back scratching to shut her up, I grew fed up one night and said.
"You go ahead... tell Ma."
I know for sure that we had a Christmas tree each year after we moved into the mansion next door, a small three-bedroom ranch with a toilet that flushed. You didn't buy a tree back then where I came from...you chopped it down yourself. One year it was my little brother Gary and I who went to fetch it. I'm not quite certain of our ages, but I believe I was around fifteen and my brother five. I carried the axe and did the chopping. My little brother helped to drag the thing the mile home. It was cold...very cold. If you're acquainted at all with winters in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, then you have a clue of what I'm speaking of.
From the age of ten and up, Christmas Eve brought tears. It was my father's habit to begin the holiday celebration early at the neighborhood taverns. He'd then come home and pick a fight with our mother and send us kids to bed. It was early...too early to go to bed. We had not yet attended Midnight Mass. It was Jesus' birthday and it wasn't Christmas if we didn't attend church. Our little eyes would fill with tears as we soulfully headed for our bedrooms.
When the fight was over, my father was off to the taverns again and we would climb back out of bed. Dressed in our dress from Easter, we'd head for Midnight Mass and when we returned, we'd eat the meat pies Mama made. The pies were a family tradition handed down from our Canadian French heritage. They were made with ground pork and had several spices added to them. My father would then return home and want to hug his children. I know it hurt him, but we didn't care back then. We pulled away.
As an adult, I have experienced many other sad events that occurred at Christmas time. Ones I don't wish to talk about in this article, but I wrote a poem about sad memories at Christmas that I will include on here.
WHEN CHRISTMAS LACKS' MERRY
Christmas means the blues for many,
Instead of snow, they see the rain,
From resurrected memories,
Which years ago brought inner pain.
Without free will, these thoughts occur,
And stimuli bring on the tears...
Like Christmas Carols' sung with joy...
For some returns the gone by years.
Somehow, I feel the heaven's cry
As even angels get the blues;
We see the newborn baby boy...
They see the cross and future bruise.
Rejoice amidst your earthly tears,
Allow your heart to feel His love,
A love so strong, He left His throne
nd chose to come down from above.
Resolve to plant new thoughts within...
Create the joy this season brings,
Amidst the saddened memories...
Let new ones find a chance for wings.
Thankfully, I have allowed new, happier memories, to replace the old. But sometimes, just sometimes, I remember shopping for my daddy's gift. A flannel shirt with buttoned down pockets, or cartons of Camel Cigarettes. He spends Christmas in heaven now, along with my two brothers, and I can't think of a merrier place to spend Christmas.
LET US REMEMBER THE REASON FOR THE SEASON.
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In My Own Words: Out-of-the-Ordinary Experiences
