Christmas evokes so many memories. Mostly good memories. For me, that is.
But there is an awareness these days that the emotion-laden holiday season brings much sadder memories for those who've suffered loss and heartache attached to the season. And for them, the saddest memories may cling to a date that lives with them, year-to-year. A grim reminder of the cruelest of life's realities. Those "realities" could be the death of a loved one, the loss of health, the loss of property due to any of a variety of catastrophes, an incidence of violence or assault or any number of other things. When does one begin to rebuild faith in something? Anything?
The pleasant childhood memories of Christmas--for me--are largely untouched although I've had a few holidays that could be considered less than joyful throughout my adult years. The longer one lives, it seems, the chances to experience such holiday seasons increases by means of simple arithmetic. But there are those Christmas memories that speak to both the pleasant and the painful. I'd like to tell you about one such Christmas a few years ago.
December, 2013
I got my girl Eva into the Jeep after my thoughtful sister Amy (with whom I was then living) helped me pack a real Christmas tree that she purchased into the back. The ride to Pennsylvania from Virginia wasn't short nor was it without multiple stops. But the anticipation of spending Christmas with my mother warmed the drive and as I listened to Christmas favorites along the way, I thought of how exciting it would be for her to have a real tree. She and my father hadn't put up a real tree in years.
When I pulled into the driveway of the home I shared with my family in youth, a light snow was falling. The old sentinal of a house had changed very little in the intervening time period. A few paint touch-ups. The removal of some decorative "fencing" on the roof of the garage--gone due to wood rot. A new porch and sidewalk added at some point. A new, indescribable feeling of smallness--maybe not the right word--hit me. It just always seemed so big to me as a child. The one undeniable feeling was warmth and the idea that one could always come home. This was no house. This was my home.
Mom would turn 90 the following year. She was still grieving my father but she was not depressed. She had dealt with depression on and off throughout my childhood having suffered numerous losses when I was barely through with toilet training. Those losses didn't hit on holidays. It didn't make them any less significant. She lost her father the day after her birthday--April 9--1967. She lost her twin sister on September 21, 1968 and her mother the following February, in 1969--on the 5th--all due to cancer. I was born in 1964 (my mother was then 42) so I remember very little about these relatives. But I do remember my mother displaying deep sadness from time to time. It strikes as sadness when one is a child but as I look back through the lens of adulthood--keeping in mind my own struggles with depression--I clearly see what I would now call clinical depression. It came and went through the years but, despite that, she created a home filled with love for all of us. If I hadn't sought peace--and found it--in recent years, I would feel a great sense of shame for how I dismissed that love as I grew into adulthood. Now I see a larger picture. And I sense that picture will continue to expand outside the narrow frame I had once imposed on it.
She was waiting on me with her signature baked goods and a hot lunch, as I had been calling her at each stop along the way giving her updates on our arrival time. Eva was terribly excited to see that light dusting of snow--and I ate and visited with mom a bit before hauling the tree and my luggage into the house, which was already warm with the smells and sounds of the holiday. We both shared a love for the Christmas classics, with a particular fondness for Bing Crosby's "White Christmas." The anticipation of making my way into the third floor attic to retrieve Christmas decorations that hadn't been used for years truly excited me. This would be a solo operation at first since mom could no longer physically contort her body into the shape to fit the cubby hole closet. I could barely do so myself. As mom waited downstairs, I opened each box of ornaments and sparkling goodies with a great deal of nostalgia.
One of the items that caught my eye was a flat shirt box that appeared to have been chewed on by some little (or perhaps big) critter. I was hoping that the contents weren't damaged. Upon opening it I saw something quite familiar but that I'd written off as lost for years. It was my childhood stocking--which the unknown critter apparently chewed on as well. Tears filled my eyes as I recalled a visit several years before, where we found my four older sibling's stockings and returned them to their owners with hopes that they would find the nostalgic items meaningful. However, my stocking was no where to be found. I was disappointed but thought that perhaps I'd retrieved it on a previous visit and simply lost it in the intervening years. Now, here it was! There was a hole in it at the bottom but otherwise, it was intact. I rushed downstairs and mom seemed to delight in my simple joyfulness. When she saw me happy, she was happy. She set the task to "darn" the stocking...and the hole was quickly closed up.
A Christmas whose year was most likely set in the late 1960s came to mind when all of us excitedly tore through the packages under the tree while basking in the afterglow of typical Christmas morning. We were all so involved in looking through our many gifts, it was a good hour before my sister Mary made the announcement: "We haven't even checked our stockings yet!" It was a contest to see who could get to their stocking first as the second wave of surprises hit. A juicy orange, popcorn balls sweetened and colorful, small "stocking-stuffers" from AVON, tiny toys and chocolates were all stuffed inside as each stocking initially looked as if it were ready to burst. It was like Christmas morning, part II.
I took a photo of the stocking with my phone, eager to share the discovery on social media. As I decorated mom's house for the holiday, feelings and emotions I hadn't experienced for years came to greet me in ways filled with grace and gratitude. I knew that I could never actually re-live any of those long ago Christmases. But, as we experienced what would be the last Christmas at 205 Elk Avenue, I knew that the spirit of the holidays would be alive in my heart for all time.
Merry Christmas.
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