Christmas

A child in the late 1950s, I was accustomed to Christmas presents that were fewer and less expensive than those received by children of the generation after mine. One of the best presents that Santa left for me was a collection of hand puppets. For years, I told stories with them. Those cuddly toys helped me become a writer later in life.

My Family Visiting Santa at Sears in the 1950s

But I am ahead of myself, for this blog is about the days leading up to Christmases when I was a kid. Each year, the music teacher at the school planned a program of celebration, and, as a piano student, I was expected to perform. Each year, in the week before the event, I fell ill with flu and stayed home. Throughout grade school, I was never well enough to attend the Christmas program. I was not shirking my responsibilities; I was just a flu target.

I always recovered a few days before Christmas. Every year, my parents zipped my brother and me into our parkas, bundled us into the back seat of the 1957 two-door Chevrolet Bel Air, and took us to see the Christmas lights in Pine Village and Oxford, Indiana. As I could get car sick in the back seat, I had to take precautions, secretly rolling down the window a little so as to obtain fresh air, but I always enjoyed seeing the lights. In those years in such small towns, the light displays were modest. Outdoor strings featured large bulbs in primary colors. Wrapped around a living pine tree, such lights filled my heart with delight. Often, we could see the family Christmas tree with smaller lights and lots of crinkly metallic tinsel just inside a bay window or a picture window. I still remember the year when the Oxford doctor outlined the roof and windows of his ranch-style house in blue lights. We marveled at the color, as we had previously seen only multiple-colored strands. Also, we had rarely run across a house with its architectural features outlined in that way.

A day or two closer to Christmas, my parents took my brother and me to the Masonic lodge rooms on the second story of an old building on State Route 55 in town. The stairs were in the back and were dimly illuminated. I found them scary, creaking at every step. When we entered the main hall, we found the huge pot-bellied stove radiating tropical heat, melting the frost on the tall windows. The chairs were pushed back around the walls, and we kids sat quietly, waiting for Santa. Soon, we heard him ho-ho-hoing. He burst upon the gathering to the applause of the adults. Quickly, he handed small toys and candy to the assembled children. I looked upon him with awe.

On Christmas Eve, my family visited the Methodist Church. I recall the flickering light of candles in the stained glass. The scent of evergreen wafted into the sanctuary. In the candlelight, everyone’s eyes appeared large and mysterious. The adults wore smiles but were quieter than they were at a typical service. In the hush, the minister invited the congregation to sing carols to the tune of the organ. Tears well up in my eyes when I recall my mother’s soprano voice singing good old Christmas songs while she stood beside me and held my hand in that church so long ago.

At home in bed that night and barely able to shut my eyes from anticipation, I was always surprised to discover that I had fallen asleep and that the sunshine of Christmas morning was streaming through the windows. Tossing the covers aside, I dashed into the living room to find that Santa had indeed visited our house and had left presents for my brother and me!

My father in his overalls had already done his chores on the farm and had shaken the snow from his boots. He sat in a chair beside the Christmas tree with his coffee cup in his hand. My mother had already served breakfast and helped us kids to open our gifts. My grandfather, who lived in Indianapolis, was on hand. His eyes sparkled with the joy and hope of the holiday. I wish I could help you see them all as I see them in my vivid memory, for they were wonderful people. Later that morning, my grandmother and my great aunt joined us for “dinner,” as the noon meal was called. And what a magnificent dinner it was, with yeast rolls, fresh butter from our dairy, ham, peas, carrots, corn, and every good thing that my mother had canned from her garden.

If only I could return to that close family circle again! The promise of the Christmas story is that, one day, I can, and I hope I will.