As a child, Santa did not just bring gifts, he brought everything! When I was coerced into going to bed on Christmas Eve, there was a bare tree that had been brought from the tree lot and into the house to thaw. When I woke in the morning, the tree was trimmed and lit, there was a mountain of gifts underneath, and the Christmas turkey was already being basted by Mom in the kitchen! The North Pole had come to our house in a matter of hours.
We were poor. I don’t mean destitute nor merely hard up. There was always food on the table and clothes to wear to school, but there were very few extras except at Christmas. Some examples of making things last and serve us well are the coats we had. For a couple winters, Mom, Dot, and Betty shared a coat. Dot was working so she was the wearer of the coat during the day. Mom used old jackets of Dad’s to go to the store, hang clothes, or clear walks. Betty was just coming into the age of young lady so she wore the coat for special occasions when she was invited somewhere. I had a snow suit made from an old winter coat of my father’s. Mom sewed that snowsuit and it was well made, insulated well, and warm. It was also too heavy for a four or five year old child. She would bundle me in long pants, warm sweater, and heavy socks. Then she would put on the snowsuit, add cap, mittens, and boots. The last thing to go on was a scarf that wound round my neck and covered mouth and nose. There I stood. If I began a rocking motion, I could perambulate upright to and through the door. Once outside, I would stand in the cold looking cross-eyed at the frost crystals forming on the scarf. Mom would open the door and order me to play so I wouldn’t get cold. She never knew I couldn’t play if I couldn’t move. If I fell over, I had to lie in the snow waiting for someone to stand me upright again. Once I grew strong enough to manage the snowsuit, it was becoming too small for me. Being stuck in a too-small snowsuit with a too-large sweater inside would cause such a strong sensation of claustrophobia I would erupt into a tantrum to end all tantrums. To this day, I am careful about the size of the sweater I try to put into a jacket or coat as that sensation once again trips triggers in my brain that are not pleasant to witness.
Being poor and seeing the mountain of gifts, kept me positive there was a Santa for more years than most of my friends. There were seven of us and my Auntie Evalyn at Christmas. So seven people were giving gifts to ME! I was the youngest with Pat next at eight years my senior. Most of the Christmas money was directed our way. Also, a lot of the gifts were hand-made. Mom, Dot, and Evalyn knit, crocheted, and sewed. Bargains were looked for at the stores. I suspect in some cases things were purchased during the year and saved for Christmas. Every Christmas I received three predictable things: a new nightgown made by mom in colorful flannel, a book, and slippers carefully knit or sewn. I continued that tradition with our kids and with our grandkids. As I grew, and learned the gifts were not so easy to come by, there were those Christmases where special gifts were asked for and received: my bride doll, skates, special books: The Wind in the Willows. I remember most that we all were pleased with our gifts and we all said thank you. I remember, too, that the gifts were cherished as “special” long after the gift opening was over.
Preparation for Christmas began right after Thanksgiving. Mom started by making fruitcake (not my favorite treat and I hated having to help make it as the fruit was sticky!) Soon after that, we had a party with Auntie Evalyn included to make candy. Chocolate fudge, peanut butter fudge with marshmallow center, Mexican fondant (which never set up correctly), gum drops of anise, mint, cinnamon, and lemon in jewel colors, divinity that set before you could finish dropping it and caused much laughter and panic, peanut brittle, popcorn balls, and some I cannot remember were packed in tins and put away for Christmas. Then the cookie baking began. Mom also made bread at least three times a week all year, but at Christmas there were different kinds of bread and always there were cinnamon rolls for Christmas morning.
When I was born, Everett helped Mom who didn’t recover well post natal. He was my hero and my comfort. When he went into the Coast Guard to serve in the Pacific during WWII, I missed him terribly. I was given a picture of him in his uniform to have for my own. It was under my pillow every night and carried with me for much of the day. I must have been three or four when he received leave to come home for Christmas. He and I were sitting on my new sled in the middle of the living room. I kept looking at him (and I do remember this clearly not just as a memory because I was told). I ordered him to put on his uniform. He did. I continued to study him and by this time I had his picture in hand. I finally sighed and said, “I think I like your picture better than you!” Such a sweet child was I. I think some of the pain Ev was personally experiencing as well as the things he was seeing in service were starting to make him the sad man he was for most of his life. I think it was that I sensed more than real physical difference.
When Dave and I married, it was awhile before we could settle into what Christmas was for us. In 1965, we married on December 23. We spent Christmas Eve with Dave’s family which was a blended family consisting of Dad; his second wife, Shirley; Kathy and Billy, Dave’s siblings; Linda, Anne, Carole and Scott, Shirley’s children. It was an enormous group around a table. Then we spent Christmas Day with my family which by that time included Dad, Mom, Pat and her son Larry. 1966 saw Dave in Viet Nam. Helen and I spent Christmas Eve with Dave’s family, and Christmas Day with mine. Dad was no longer with us as he died four days after Helen’s birth. 1967 Dave was back in the States, but stationed in Missouri until the end of December. He received leave for Christmas, but on December 13, my mother died. Dave came home on December 23, we bought a tree that was one of the last on the lot and about as tall as it was round so it looked more like a bush than a tree. It still stands out as one of the loveliest trees we have had. 1968 was the first year we developed Christmas for us.
In 1968 Dave and I were able to take two-year old Helen to see Santa Claus. She walked up to him wide-eyed and nervous. Once on his lap, she commenced screaming in real terror. We felt sorry for her, were embarrassed by the spectacle we were creating, and felt like laughing at the look on poor Santa’s face! As we walked down the street to our car with Helen between us, she kept sobbing and pleading. “Please don’t make me go see Santa again. I will be good. I promise I’ll be good. Please don’t make me go see Santa again!” After that, we would take her to a store where Santa sat enthroned in red velvet and let her make the choice. Did she want to go see him? The answer was no. She stood by the Christmas tree and pronounced she did not want Santa to come into her house! We asked her how she would get her presents. She dictated that we leave him a note to leave them in the hallway (apartment living at the time). We asked her what if someone took the presents. She capitulated that he could then enter the apartment but he was not to come anywhere near her bedroom. We posted a sign that said, “Santa Keep Out!!!”.
When Marc was born, we wondered what he would be like when he was old enough to go see Santa. When he was two, we visited the store, gave them the choice, and wonder of wonders, Helen took Marc by the hand and they went to see Santa. There were my cherubs marching up the ramp to see Santa, hand in hand. Once on Santa’s lap, Helen articulated her desires, and Marc sat silent and scowling. When the elf wanted to take their picture, she asked them to smile. Helen gave her wavery, shy little smile and Marc continued to scowl. Santa tried tickling him and jiggling him and asked him to smile. From somewhere deep in Marc’s feelings came a grumpy little voice, “I’se a Grinch. Griches don’t smile!” True to Grinch form, the next three Santa visits show non-smiling Marc on Santa’s lap.
By this time, Helen had become thoroughly enmeshed in Easter as the best of days. She liked the softer colors, the hidden eggs, and found it a gentler celebration. She put up with Christmas, but she loved Easter. Marc was not thrilled with Christmas, but he liked the gifts. He preferred taking each time of year in his stride and not looking too far ahead in the future. One Christmas night, Dave had left for work, the dinner had been put away and the kitchen tidied. I was sitting in a chair watching Marc play with one of his new toys (a truck or a tractor, I believe) and Helen had been looking at her new book. Helen suggested they play a game about the Easter Bunny. Marc vetoed the plan. She said, “You be the Easter Bunny and I’ll be a girl coming along the path . . .” and Marc again vetoed it stronger than before. She was silent a bit and then tried once again. “OK, Marc, it’s still Christmas but you are the Easter Bunny and I’ll come along singing a carol and then be surprised that the Easter . . . “ Whereupon Marc had enough, “Ain’t goin’ to be no son-a-bitchin’ Easter Bunny!” he exclaimed and took his toy to the other end of the living room. While I wasn’t pleased with his language, I had to stifle the laughter. Then I saw that Helen was actually holding a basket with plastic Easter Eggs she had dug out of the toy box to hide and find. I could hardly wait to tell Dave.
Obtaining the correct tree is an art. I don’t have the correct skills for the project. We used to cut our own. I think it was our third or fouth year of marriage that we had the tree that kept toppling over. We were using the stand that I had owned as a single for small trees. This was a large tree and the stand kept bending, spilling a couple gallons of water and breaking an ornament or two with each topple. We solved the problem by making a special trip out to buy a new stand. That tree was always a little askew, but there are no ugly Christmas trees.
After we moved to our first mobile home in February of 1970, trees were acknowledged to be something that would take up most of the small space that consisted of our living room. We went out on a near blizzard Saturday to cut down our tree. None of them were tall enough, full enough, dense enough to suit me. Dave would dutifully stand next to each tree I found and I would decide against it. The tree finally chosen was cut down, paid for and tied to the car with Dave protesting it was too big. I kept reassuring him with my best “Mother-knows-best” smile that I would trim it and make a wreath and we would have two decorations for the price of one. In truth, I did do a lot of decorating with hand-made, inexpensive decorations designed from Christmas wrap or twigs and berries I found on walks.
My first clue that I had overdone the happy-holidays spirit was when we could not get the tree through our front door without lopping off several branches. Once inside, Dave again suggested the tree was too big. As the tree thawed, the branches relaxed and Marc’s playpen disappeared from sight with Marc in it. When Dave was sitting in his chair, the branches of the tree touched his knees and the television had gotten lost in the forest! I assured him that I would have it all taken care of before he returned home from work at 2:00 AM. I had to prune that tree from top to bottom to keep the shape and eventually make it fit in our room. Sanity would have dictated that we throw it out and get another, but sanity has never been one of my strengths. I believe it was about midnight, when my mess was cleared out of the living room, a gorgeous wreath in best Victorian style had been created and I stepped into the shower to try to remove all the pine pitch from almost every inch of me. You cannot bend full branches into curved shapes without struggle, determination, and pure strength! I didn’t know you should trim them to twigs.
In the morning to surprise Dave, I struggled to lift my creation to a nail on the door. It shimmied slightly and then the wreath and the nail fell to the ground. I tried a screw in the door which tore out leaving a large hole. When Dave got up, he saw the wreath for the first time and was totally and wonderfully speechless. It was fully as tall as myself, was lush and green, and weighed almost as much as a Sequoia. I asked if he would please put a nail or screw in the side of the mobile home so we could hang it on the wall of the trailer (rather than the door which I had already mutilated). He tried to explain that the metal siding on the mobile home would not withstand the weight of my wreath. By this time I was in tears. He lifted it and asked how I could have managed to put it together and lift it myself. I said I had been determined we would have a lovely wreathe to go with the tree he already was angry at. He swallowed whatever it was he would have liked to say and dragged my creation to the light that stood in the middle of our yard. He propped the wreathe against the light pole and adjusted it until it no longer shut out so much light the sensor kept the light glowing in daytime. I told him I was sure the wreath would blow over so he better wire it. He laughed and said if we had winds that would blow it over our house would be gone as well. Then I had to say it. I could have kept it to myself, but I had to say it. “What if someone steals it?” That was the straw that broke the camel’s back. Dave couldn’t answer because he was laughing so hard.
I, not too many years ago, did the same thing with an artificial tree. Trees in the woods and trees in the winter wonderland of Menards do not look very big. I never listen to Dave (well hardly ever). For most things I have wonderful space concept – just not Christmas trees. We have a lovely artificial tree now and it is largely due to the fact Dave let me pick the style and he picked the size!
Once Helen outgrew Santa, Christmas was an OK holiday with much of her time spent on the true meaning of Christmas and looking for the best and most unique gifts she could give on an income that would never be large – that of a pre-school teacher. She takes after Dave in ability to think of things that are imaginative, creative, and warm-hearted gifts. Marc’s personality has made Christmas always difficult for him. Some things that occurred near the Christmas season also added to his discomfort and depression. When he was sixteen, he became so enmeshed in silently rehashing his fears for the future, he threatened suicide. We are blessed that he is with us, but that was the first time I realized how difficult is the Christmas season for him. My dad always seemed grumpy at Christmas and decried the amount of money spent on wrap and ribbon as being one or two more gifts that could have been purchased. I think he knew there was too much frivolity and not enough meaning in our Christmas. Dave as well, struggles with Christmas coming at the coldest time of year and is often depressed because of the cold. His mother suffered a brain tumor and died between Christmas and his January birthday when he was eighteen. I still go “all out” for Christmas with decorations that I save from year to year, that have been given to me as gifts, and that I make. I try to temper my ebullience with quieter celebrations. Having Christ be the true center of the celebration helps me to see that not all people share my enthusiasm. Still there are those times when I feel the way I did when I was little and Christmas was a wonderland.
Dave has always tried to help share the magic of lights with me. He has helped put up lights when being on a ladder is not his happiest place. He has mumbled and muttered his way through popped circuit breakers and shorted light strings. Mostly he does these things in a charitable mood. He also has tried to surprise me with varying decorations added to the outside of our home. One year he bought dancing flame lights. These were lights that looked like little tongues of flame dancing on the branches. Our pine was too large to do justice to the single strand of lights. We had a mountain ash that was young and small so we decorated it with the lights. Every evening I would come home, plug in the lights and then be able to watch them from my rocking chair in the living room. One evening, we came home and I held the extension cord in my hands and asked Dave where he put the plug from the lights as I couldn’t find it. It was a little darker than twilight so with the slightly foggy air, I could not find the plug hanging down. I had made several circles around the tree. Dave had finished plugging in the car to protect the engine from the cold and with a disgusted snort came over to help me find the plug that “was right there”! He took the extension cord from my hand and looked at the tree. “The reason you can’t find the plug is because someone stole the lights!” he hissed. It is still a bitter memory when I think of how much I liked those lights. Added to that is the fit of giggles I get as I remember wandering around with the extension cord in my hand and no clue that the lights were missing! I had to learn to forgive the thief and to hope the lights meant even more to him/her than to me.
Dave also knew the winter I was struggling with the fact that my bus ride to and from work was long, the job I currently held was frustrating on a good day and abusive on a bad day. He bought two toy soldiers with lights in their backs. He put them on our front steps on either side to welcome me home. I was trudging up our street feeling really sorry for myself after the day I had put in. I glanced up and saw those two soldiers at attention, just for me. “Nutcracker men at my house!” I shouted. Then I burst into spontaneous rendition of the march of the toy soldiers from Nutcracker Suite. To answer your question, “No, the neighbors do not ever completely get used to me!”
Dave and I open gifts on Christmas Eve – well that was what we chose to do when our marriage was still young. He was not of the constitution to want children crying out Merry Christmas at the hour of four or five in the morning. It has served us well. Helen, like me, likes to not have the fun be finished when the last gift is open so we always save a few small gifts to be opened in the morning. When Marc married his Jenny (also a Christmas Elf), we celebrated Christmas Eve; and then they could visit Jenny’s family Christmas Day. Now that Helen has her Kevin, we often get together with Marc and his family Christmas Eve and then with Helen and Kevin Christmas Day.
The first year Marc and Jenny were together, we opened gifts after a nice dinner. Jenny introduced the custom of each person opening a gift in turn so all could see it opened. I came from the custom of rip into that stash and see what’s there. Jenny and Helen are shutterbugs so this also gives them time to blind everyone with multiple flashes as they record the event. I am sure that now that both girls have cameras, the flashes could equal a red carpet event. I digress. I had wrapped and bowed and stacked our gifts around the tree. Marc had played Santa and distributed them. It was Jenny’s turn to open a gift. She looked puzzled and then removed from a box a golf shirt, size XXL. “Oh! Oh, my!” I squeaked. “Wait until Marc opens his gift!” Sure enough, a few rounds later, Marc pulled for the sexy red teddy I had gotten Jenny.
Kevin and Dave went shopping for Helen one year. This was their first year of marriage (Helen’s and Kevin’s not Dave’s and Kevin’s). Helen had given a list of things she needed or wanted and I had tried to help with suggestions. They came home with things for me to wrap. There were two beautiful sweaters. They looked to be just about right and I marveled that the two of them had done so well – especially since Dave avoids trying to buy clothing whenever possible. I asked how they had decided on the sizes. With red faces and much laughter, they described how Kevin had tried on both sweaters to model for Dave. A whole family of shutterbugs and not one was present to record that event!
Then there was the year, Kevin’s second year with our family, where he received a pair of knitted socks from me. He always has cold feet and the job he held then was mostly outdoor work. He was pleased with the socks but didn’t say much. He put them away for a bit in spite of cold, drafty floors in their apartment. One morning he took them out and put them on to discover how really warm 100% wool can be. That was also the morning he realized they were the socks he had watched me knit when they were visiting during the fall.
There were mostly until lately homemade gifts. Nightgowns were made and given in the tradition of my mother. Our granddaughters especially liked theirs and learned to put in requests for color, short sleeves over long sleeves, etc. There have often been knitted gifts such as scarves, caps, mittens, headbands, socks, and afghans (crocheted if they were from Helen). One year, Bett and Belle received mittens. One pair was red, the other green. They were from Mrs. Santa. I opened a box with a pair of mittens from Mrs. Santa which were one red mitten and one green mitten trimmed in white. That way, I had a hand that would match each girl’s mitten when we walked in the snow. Just this past summer, the girls and I found my mittens and laughed about them. I had knit mine out of scraps of yarn left from theirs.
This year, it took me nearly an entire week to decorate the house. I would do a little and sit a little and keep up with the other duties of being a homemaker. I didn’t feel pressured to hurry. I was enjoying each thing I put out. To replace the tinsel Dave has never liked on a tree and I could never get enough of, we are using plastic or glass realistic icicles. They add movement and reflection to the tree even when the lights are turned off. Sun coming through them in the afternoon is lovely. I should qualify Dave didn’t mind the tinsel on the tree but he hated the process of getting it there. I am a “one strand at a time” draper and he would nearly go insane watching me let alone helping me.
We used to try to help our kids get a grip on their very mixed heritage by celebrating a Christmas for each country making their pedigree. St. Andrews Day on November 30, St. Nicholas Eve December 5, Santa Lucia Day December 13, and Epiphany on January 6. Each day would be celebrated with a meal from that country and a small gift. Tea, scones, shortbread, and trifle would make up parts of the St. Andrews Day. Oranges, candy canes, would be tucked into shoes on St. Nicholas Day and the meal might be sauerbraten or metwurst with gingerbread dessert. Sweet rolls in the morning and a meal of potato sausage, mashed potatoes and brown beans followed by lefse with lingonberries (Dave refused to have lutefisk be a part of it all). Epiphany (or boxing day) was usually a roast, with vegetables and potatoes around it and bread pudding when I could sneak it into the menu. To a lesser degree we have carried that on with the granddaughters. One year, I thought Marc and Jenny were going to put something in the girls shoes and they had relied on me. At the last minute, Dave and I dashed to their house with clementines and candy canes. When I met the school buss the next day, I was informed by Bett that St. Nicholas had left a moldy clementine in her shoes. That year, St. Nicholas came two nights in a row and the second night was better.
Over the years I have come to appreciate people are the gifts that are there all year. Giving to charity should not just be through the month of December. The entire time we have with those we love is more important that one evening or afternoon in festivity. Giving spontaneously from the heart with time, energy, or possessions is better than planning for a gift that may be returned December 26th.
I have also learned that Jesus was born to a young woman and her husband because God willed it so. In that manger in the helplessness of an infant the great creator God lay dependent on the care and nurturing of a couple who only partly understood what was happening. Shepherds mastered their fear and went to see, then told others of what they found. Wise men found there is more than wisdom when the Spirit of God moves among men. A wicked king could not destroy. I know that the holiday that bears the name of our Savior is not always centered around Him as it should be. Still, whether those who don’t believe realize it or not, it is a yearly reminder that what happened so long ago is still being talked about and sung about. I am reminded that the Jesus who was born at Christmas time in helplessness, is the same Jesus who willingly became the way for me to escape my sinfulness. The same Jesus will one day return as a mighty God on a horse, and carrying the sword that will once and for all judge those who will not believe He is Who He says He Is. In the mentality of one who goes “sproing” at Christmas, still I can sing, “Jesus mild, holy child, sleep, now sleep.”
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