Christmas Memories

(This is the piece I read at the Christmas Readings this year-- a little dated (written ~ 2006), I'm afraid, but pretty accurate still…)

I truly love Christmas…the decorations, the presents, the baking, even the shopping. I love Christmas carols while I putter in the kitchen, and I actually sing along when there’s no one around whose ears I could offend. I like the idea that people are often more forgiving and friendly when they are decked from top to toe with packages. I like the fact that people dress their dogs up as elves, or Santa, or Christmas packages, and dress their houses up as Las Vegas. The ten-foot tall snowman reeling across a neighbor’s yard, the lighted sleigh on the verge of tumbling from a tree, the lights that chase each other round and round the porch are all incredibly garish and tacky, but they sure as hell signify that somebody is celebrating something. This is a good thing. I even enjoy the emails featuring Leroy, the Redneck Reindeer, and the schmaltzy ones that purport to make me grateful for my blessings. Celebrating loudly and visibly is an important part of the wild ride from Thanksgiving to New Years.

I like going to work and seeing a Christmas tree in the lobby, and having a children’s choir from our adopted elementary school singing their hearts out at lunch. I even like the parties we give for preschoolers, where I am up to my elbows in glue and grubby 4-year-olds, and am serving pizza and peeling oranges and opening juice boxes. I like listening to the all-Christmas stations on the radio, waiting to hear my favorite Christmas song (Bing Crosby and David Bowie doing a medley of Little Drummer Boy and Peace on Earth, for those of you who don’t know: one Christmas I got two CDs that featured the song because my kids got tired of me complaining that no one ever played it). Making people happy is part of it, too.

I like filling stockings with stupid little gifts that I know will amuse my family—or at least me. I like watching Fitzwilly—one of our favorite Christmas movies. It’s even nice seeing It’s a Wonderful Life twenty times each Christmas, and it’s still a kick to see the Grinch straining up the side of Mt. Crumpit. My favorite part is his dog Max--perhaps because I, too, often get swept up in events and end up hanging by a thread. I re-read all the Christmas kids’ books from The Church Mice at Christmas to The Polar Express, and I look at our old Christmas photo album and see my daughters grow up before my eyes, Santa by Santa.  

I like unpacking the Christmas stuff and revisiting other times and places, and reminding everyone of where we got this or that ornament: the reindeer fur elf from Russia, the Pinocchio from Italy, the cuckoo clock from Bavaria, the aluminum tinsel from Chadd’s Ford and the box of plastic chandelier prisms from that consignment shop in Springfield where the proprietor couldn’t understand what in the world I was planning to do with them. Remembering plays a big part in my Christmas.

And then there’s the cookies and the seafood soup and the barbecue and all the stories that make up the Christmas party we gave each year, for nearly twenty-five years—with one year off for good behavior. There are the friends who ask us over for gluhwein each year, and the ones who send Christmas letters and cards, whether we get around to sending ours or not. There is the solemn chant of O Come, O Come, Emmanuel  that brings back Christmas ceremonies at college, where we sang and lit candles in the darkened gym, filing out in total silence to embark on our Christmas holidays..Let’s hear it for tradition.

There are the crowds at the airport, and there’s that moment when I catch sight of my daughter coming toward me from the gate-- when I almost start to cry because I realize suddenly how much I’ve missed her. And always, there’s Christmas Eve with my family, and my mom with all our favorite cookies, and her impossible artificial tree..and Christmas morning with my husband lighting the tree, waiting impatiently for us all to assemble--and all of us in a blizzard of paper and ribbon, discovering things we didn’t know we wanted, and realizing that the most important gift is each other. Coming home and finding home are what it’s about, too.

There is a snowstorm of words about Christmas, and each word is a flurry of moments and memories. They sparkle in the holiday lights, and twinkle a moment in the eyes of believers. They wrap the day, the week, the month in a galaxy of stars and make us forget for a while that there is an everyday that owns us, and that we have a dutiful new year of resolutions and reformation ahead. Each year, we unleash the happy avalanche of celebration and joy, memory and tradition, family and home, if only for a little while. For the moment, though, it’s enough. Merry Christmas.

Tree Series: #4

There's a Pinocchio, an elf made of reindeer fur, two wooden birds, a cuckoo clock, aluminum icicles, and …a partridge in a pear tree? It sounds like the song.. but almost every ornament on our tree has a story associated with it; certainly, they each have a location that they are tied to. These are the souvenir ornaments acquired in our travels--easy to find, easy to carry home, and guaranteed to bring back memories, at least once each year.

Pinocchio came from our first trip to Italy, when Kay slipped and fell at the Fountain of Trevi, and I carried her, screaming, at least a city block with visions of fractured skulls dancing in my head. That trip was also the one where we forgot to pick up our passports from the hotel desk in Rome and didn't realize our mistake till we arrived in Florence. We were forced to rely on the somewhat dubious Italian postal service to reunite us with our passports, and American Express earned our gratitude for dealing with the police and getting them to allow us to check into our Venice hotel sans papers. We've dined out on that story for years.

The birds were from our first trip abroad (mine, at least) --to London, and I found them at Harrods, a place I had only read about. JC was less than thrilled about browsing through that amazing place, and I remember sulking along as he dragged me to Piccadilly Circus late on the night we arrived, me having had no sleep since we left home, and not being in the best of spirits. That is the sanitized version.

The elf  was from the visit to Russia, where we had accompanied JC after a dioxin conference in Tampere, Finland (the Pittsburgh of Finland, we were told…) That trip was memorable for more than just the ornament. We initially landed in Helsinki, and had been told to take a taxi to the central train station and catch a train to Tampere. Except that the train station burned down the day we arrived, and trains were simply not running. We ended up taking a bus (try this sometime at an airport where everyone is speaking Finnish and you. don't. understand. a. word. The bus sped through the night and all the signs we saw were full of 'i's and 'j's and 'k's and made no sense. Then the bus pulled up to a cinderblock structure in the middle of nowhere and everybody on the bus got out and retrieved their luggage from the storage location under the vehicle. The bus driver basically kicked us off, too, then drove away. After a while ( a long and scary 'while') another bus came along and everybody got on, so we did too. Amazingly, we ended up at a bus station in Tampere only a few blocks from our hotel, but not without a few anxious moments on our part. The Russian side-trip (to St. Petersburg) was somewhat less eventful, but still produced a number of stories..to be saved for another year.

But…you get the idea. There are chandelier prisms that I rescued from a consignment shop in Springfield to serve as 'icicles' on our tree; there are aluminum spirals that I found at the museum in Chadd's Ford, the cuckoo clock that we bought when we were tearing around Germany with the Townsleys, who were stationed in Nuremberg, the very Southern-style miniature door (decked with greens) that we found in Charleston…the collection a veritable travelogue for anyone who knows how to read the ornaments; in short, for our family.

Advent is a lot like our tree; it recaps the history, the genealogy of Jesus. It tells us the story of the people of God, Jesus' family: where they came from, the things they had been through together--and like our tree, Advent brings it all together and ties it in a bright Christmas package, filled with love. It lets us know that, no matter what happens along the way, one way or another, we will always get to Bethlehem, we will always find our way home.

Third in the Series: Being Significant

I see Santa Claus, at his desk in his striped shirtsleeves, writing carefully in his book the name of our eldest daughter, Kay--and placing a string of tiny gold stars behind it. I'm hanging yet another decoration on the tree, and one that I treasure. There is another like it, identical but for the name being inscribed: that of Sarah, replete with an equal number of stars.

That was the year that I painted. I had never had a good Nativity set, and that year, I saw one--a huge one with shepherds and kings and camels and sheep--amidst the greenware of a local ceramics shop. I splurged and bought the whole thing, along with the paint to decorate it in proper colors. As if that weren't enough, I bought ornaments: the aforementioned Santas and a couple of angels. More to paint.

Unless you've been a stay-at-home mom or dad, it's hard to understand why anyone would take on a big project in the weeks leading up to Christmas. Life is complicated enough with the baking and the cleaning and the decorating and the mailing--and always, the perpetuation of the Santa Claus myth for the little ones. I even added on a Christmas party for 50 or so people early in December. Why bother with painting a Nativity set? 18+ detailed pieces, crammed in among all the other tasks.

I like to say that projects like these were good for me because they were the only things I did that stayed DONE. Laundry? Nope. Meals? Nope. Cleaning. Baking. Repairs. Errands. Nope to the 4th power. Like every other parent of small children, everything I accomplished was temporary and essentially invisible. I ran and ran and stayed in place. But if I did something concrete--counted cross stitch, a painted Nativity scene, a journal entry--I could claim an accomplishment. And that was important for me as 'only a housewife', who was barely worthy of notice.

Whether or not I believed in my job, not many others thought it important. I played with my kids, I read them books, I took them on walks and pointed things out. We visited the library and petting zoos and playgrounds, did experiments, made finger jello, bought groceries and baked cookies, and through all this they learned stuff: that reading is important, that math is everywhere, that science can explain things, and that their parents loved them to distraction.

So here I am, hanging ornaments that I painted for them years ago: two angels, each cuddling a puppy or kitten; two Santas, each proclaiming that a little girl had earned special gold stars for being good all year. I painted them for me, too--for the mom I was, evidence that what I was doing was worth doing, even if it didn't earn me a big salary or prestigious title. I made angels. I was Santa.

Advent is a bit like that. Sometimes it's hard to see the value in our everyday. Sometimes no one sees or appreciates our efforts, and we struggle just to hold our own, running in place and getting nowhere. Sometimes, though--and Advent is a good time for this--we need to do something concrete that demonstrates (if only to ourselves) that we have significance: donate to a cause, help out at a soup kitchen, assemble a stocking for a faraway soldier, write a letter, or maybe, just think about where you are in your own journey, and what course corrections you might need to make along the way.

Paint your own Nativity set. Create a few angels.

Unexpected Grace

In the air

the red-and-green glitter

of certainty:

we crank out

all the jack-in-the-box tunes

courting the expected surprise

of Christmas

leaping full-blown

from its pretty box.

Not for me.

I’d rather Christmas

catch me unawares

with unexpected joy,

with hope dancing round

each corner, with promises

of heart’s desires found,

with children’s off-key

songs  that strike all

the right notes in my heart.

I’d rather Christmas bring me

flowers in the rain,  

hot cocoa and cookies,

friends to share them,

and finally

peace,

joy,

and love, always love

(the only certainty I need.)

Merry Christmas.

Second in the series: Where Did They Come From?

If you were looking at our tree for the first time, one of the things that you would notice--without fail-- is that we have a LOT of brass ornaments. This was not by design. In fact, it is attributable to a group of ladies at the Presbyterian church in Rogersville, Tennessee.

 You see, the ladies buy and personalize brass ornaments for all the children of the church each year--a nice little custom--to be distributed at the yearly Christmas program. My mother-in-law made sure that each year, our daughters were included on the list. And so, for every year from the day they were born to the year when they were no longer considered young enough to get a present, those personalized brass ornaments arrived like clockwork.

I always thought, too, that those ornaments would provide a 'starter set' for our daughters when they finally had their own households, and their own trees for the holiday. In addition, I always made sure that I bought them a special ornament of their own each year--sometimes of their choice, sometimes of mine--to take with them when they left home.

 Well, a lot of those ornaments are still on our tree, waiting to spread their wings and fly to other locations. Whether it's inertia or my own failure to pack and ship, I do not know. But I prefer to think they remain here where their stories are told each year. I doubt Sarah remembers the silver spiral that she coveted at a shop on Main Street in Fairfax one year. The Pierrots I bought when both Kay and she were part of the drama scene in high school, the pewter ornaments featuring cats (Kay) and horses (Sarah) that we bought in Germany, the snowmen, the Snoopys, the Pooh bears, the homemade clothespin soldiers from their preschool classes…I may not say it out loud, but I remember almost all of them and where they came from and what prompted their selection.

 Our Christmas tree is a catalog of who we are and where we've been. Whether it's the determination of their grandmother's relentless brass ornaments, or the souvenir ornaments from vacation travels, or the ones that indicate passing interests or permanent ones (I don't think we have any anthropological ones, and most of the legal ones were JC-related), each item on the tree has something to say. I try to give them voice each year, which is why I will never have the Martha-Stewart, color-coordinated tree of the decorating magazines. Instead, I will have the styrofoam snowmen with felt features and lipsticked lettering, the aqua-colored (with glitter) spinner from my childhood, the felt mouse, asleep in his matchbox bed--imperfectly perfect in every way.

 There's a moral in here somewhere. Our Christmas tree gives us the opportunity to acknowledge all of our experiences and the people who made them, to remember and smile, to think about where we've been and what we are becoming. What better thoughts could we have when we are preparing for the coming of the baby at Christmas?

First in a Series: Tuna Can Santa

A long time ago, in a country far away (California), JC and I were celebrating our first Christmas as a married couple in a house of our own. We had a fifteen foot cathedral ceiling in our living room,  lovely gray-green shag carpeting throughout, and a cat. No traditions, no experience.

We went off to the base exchange and bought a gigantic tree--so big that it stuck out the passenger side window of JC's Ford Torino (and that was a big car) when jammed in the back seat. I was forced to share the back seat with more tree than I'd ever seen, much less had as a seat partner. We got it home and set it up in its new stand. We had virtually no decorations.

In a spontaneous burst of craft-iness, I decided to make ornaments. Cookie-dough ornaments that represented Christmas, and also our lives. Hand-painted by me, and in some cases, hand-cut by me when cookie-cutters didn't have the proper shapes. I made Santas, camels, a lemon tree, a cat--anything I could think of--and dutifully punched holes and threaded them with ribbon. We bought a few ornaments at the exchange: a partridge with three artificial pears, I remember; JC found some tin ornaments on a foray into Tijuana (one shepherd--or king-- looked like he was wielding a hockey stick); I found some plastic 'Shrinky-Dink' ornaments at a local church bazaar--and my mom had mailed me a small box of ornaments from my godmother's tree. It was nowhere near enough for the monstrous tree we had, but lights and love cover a multitude of decorating sins. It was a beautiful tree.

The most labor-intensive of my homemade ornaments was a felt-covered tuna can with two small figures glued inside: Mrs. Santa planting a kiss on Santa's cheek. Cute, tho not very professional-looking. Our first ornament.

That tuna can has lasted for 40 Christmases. Longer than most of the cookie ornaments, though the cat and the lemon tree and maybe a camel are still hanging on. I like to think that the tuna-fish Santa is there to remind us of something that is truly important in this season: showing our love and appreciation for our families. No matter if the tree is big or small, no matter if family is far or near, no matter where we are or how lavish or sparse the gifts under the tree, the best part of our Christmas tree is those we love and remember as we gather round it. And, of course, the tuna can Santa.

Getting Ready

I’m ready. No, wait a minute...where are my keys? And my phone. Did you feed the cat?   Oh, crap! Where’s my purse? Hold on--I need to run upstairs and check if the light’s on. Has the dryer stopped? Do I have my umbrella? (my sweater, the dry cleaning, the key to the UPS box, the claim check for whatever, change for the parking meter..) Yes. I’m ready to go. Maybe.

This is the commonplace, the usual flurry of getting out the door on an average day. Nine times out of ten, I’ll forget something--or, by the time I reach the car, will have forgotten at least one of my destinations on the everyday merry-go-round we call living. Some days it’s more like a rollercoaster, but I’m still buying my ticket and hopping on the ride. Ever hopeful, that’s me.

But this week, Advent has begun. We are getting ready for Christmas, for the arrival of our favorite guest..and no matter what the kids tell you, it’s not Santa or elves or reindeer. I am about as ready as I am on my everyday trips, which is ‘not very’. I’m ready to light the candles (they are in the top drawer of the china cabinet--way in the back: three purple, one pink, right by that circular glass candle-holder..) and I know where to find the prayers for each day, I think. 

But those are not the important parts. They are things. Anyone can gather up things and put them in their places and follow the procedure. Light the candle, Say these words. Unimportant. The real readiness is within--the place where all those butterflies live, the ones that flutter around, muttering about cards and presents and mailing deadlines and parties and dinners and cookies and decorating. Clearing out the butterflies makes room for a baby and his story, makes room for the small kindnesses we need to show each other, makes room for looking at the world with the love and mercy that we sorely need to show all year long. 

Forget the damned keys, the phone, the cat, the purse. Leave behind the to-do lists. Focus on the day, the sun, the clouds, the sheer opportunity of today and the hope that comes tomorrow and every day that follows. Look around and see all we have to be thankful for, and all we have to give. Look ahead for the coming of the baby this Christmas and welcome him--and all his creation-- with kindness and love and mercy. Get really ready, inside, outside, all around.

O come, O come, Emmanuel.