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| (c) Howard Hudson (2006) |
Christmas
is a season of memories and emotions.
Our first recollections of Christmas are generally as a child. I can remember a blue tricycle with a white
seat, scrawny trees with big bulb lights, bayberry candles, and a shiny
metallic silver tree skirt, and company, lots and lots of company. One year I recall an aluminum Christmas tree
with a spot light shining on it, a four part plastic wheel casting colored
shadows on the wall. I can remember as a
child driving a visiting Aunt absolutely crazy asking “is it Christmas yet?”
over and over and over again, every five minutes as the story was told.
I can
remember the first time I was old enough to go to a midnight service. It
was cold, wet, drizzly and in the forties as we walked the blocks to church,
meeting my Aunt outside on the granite steps.
I remember the church; it seemed like a grand cathedral at the time, all
black, white, and pink marble and row upon row of pews, narrow stained glass
windows, flowers and gilding everywhere.
It was filled with people, standing room only, as well as the scent of
candle wax and the pungent aroma of incense.
In the back, on a balcony in front of a great stained glass window, the
choir sang. It was a much smaller church
some thirty years later when we had my mother’s funeral there.
I was young when my father died two days after Christmas,
young enough that the small parish church still struck a young boy as a grand
cathedral. After that Christmas was
always a season of mixed emotions, joyous yes, but there was always something
dark lurking in the background. I can
recall my first Christmas as young man spent away from home. Spent with a young girl who cooked the turkey
upside down so it collapsed upon itself, tasted just the same I assured her,
comforting her. There was a period of
time I traveled home for Christmas, driving hundreds of miles through all kinds
of weather.
Later, older and married, I moved away… it was actually over
Christmas that we moved. Stopping off to
visit family for Christmas on the way, we celebrated with our two small boys in
a hotel room, with a poinsettia and foot tall tree from Wal-Mart. Then it was Christmas at our home, our tree,
and our guests. We had become our
parents, buying, wrapping, and hiding presents.
Sneaking them out after midnight
when the kids were asleep. As the
children slept we celebrated Christmas ourselves, exchanging gifts next to the
tree, a fire crackling on the hearth, maybe a glass of wine or two… things we
never dreamed of as children at Christmas.
