This is the season where memories return. Christmas in our family was always a sacred time. I remember growing up how my parents always tried to make it a special season. I also remember all the conflicts that went with it. After my Dad returned from the war and I was born, we lived in apartments in Chicago. Usually all were on the south side and fairly close to my grandparents. After my grandfather’s death we still lived only a block away from my grandmother. Even then there were all kinds of Christmas rituals. The whole process of buying a Christmas tree and setting it up was always an event. My parents would end up arguing on what was the best side of the tree and how it should be turned so it would seem the straightest. Sometimes this would be a minor discussion and sometimes not. One that always stands out was when we lived in Warrenville and they almost got into a physical conflict over Christmas, the tree and cleaning the house.
However usually my parents went all out for us at Christmas. My mother would shop and shop, so that we would all have something wonderful. All of this would happen when my parents really did not have that much money. When we were very young, we would all go see Santa. I still have old black and white pictures of me and my sisters sitting on Santa’s lap. Usually this would be at the nearest Sears store since that was where Santa lived when he wasn’t at the North Pole. Sometimes we would even go downtown to see Santa there and see the displays in the Marshal Fields windows. The movie “A Christmas Story” is very popular with my generation because it recreates a lot of those times. I still remember the magic. I never wanted to give up believing in it.
When Christmas Eve finally arrived we would all take our baths (hardly anyone had a shower then) and go to bed. We would have trouble falling asleep and I know I would always wake up very early. I would go and wake up one of my sisters and we would sneak into the living room where the tree and the presents were. We were afraid to turn on the lights so we would try and figure out what the toys were just by touching them. Then we would go back to bed and wait for our parents to wake up so we really could see what was under the tree.
I think back on the real sacrifices my parents made for us then and I think that is why I always wanted my sons to have special Christmases. They really had no one else. Their grandparents were dead and my wife’s father was involved in a new marriage. My sons didn’t look forward to any presents from he and his wife. They would always bring them hand-painted plaster ornaments. They had probably put a lot of time and effort into them, but they didn’t mean that much to an eight year old and a four year old. My sons still joke about that to this day. So I supposed at times we were too over the top. I still remember my wife and I staying up way too late on Christmas Eve wrapping presents or putting toys together. I remember the looks on our children’s faces as they came downstairs to open their presents. Sometimes it was still dark and my wife and I would stagger around and try and find a way to get a cup of coffee as all the chaos was going on.
I hope most families have at least some of those memories. I hope my sons pass it on to their children. Maybe part of the depression and loneliness at Christmas is because of missing those times or never really having any. One of the realities of life now is facing that time is not never ending. There is an end. My sister will be dead seven years this December. Christmas has not been the same since her death. She went into a coma on Christmas Eve and never recovered. She died two days later. So the memories now are somewhat bitter sweet. The way around this of course is to see the faces of children as they experience the magic of this time. Maybe that is where the magic always was—in the faces of children. Maybe just by being around them we can all still experience the joy and wonder of this time.