What Christmas Means for Me
I am often asked why I like to write about Christmas, and the answer is simple. It takes me back to the uncomplicated, happy days of my childhood. Growing up, Christmas meant a special week of fun activities at school so we could ‘make’ special Christmas presents for our parents. These ran the gamut from popsicle stick Santas to a paper mache ornament with our individual handprint on it. Then we had two weeks of unfettered freedom at home.
SLEDDING
Being a kid in Southwest Michigan meant we almost always had a thick coating of snow on the ground by Christmas vacation, so we pulled out the sleds and toboggans and headed for the hills. We didn’t have nearly the high-quality outerwear that’s available today, so after a few hours of rolling around in the snow, we were soaked and half-frozen, but we were oh so happy! Our cheeks were red with happiness, cold, and exertion. We’d drag ourselves home, barely able to put away our sleds, but we would never have thought of leaving them out. We dropped our wet clothes at the door, and my mother would have warm, dry clothes waiting for us to change into. She’d throw everything in the dryer so it would be ready for tomorrow, and we’d head to the kitchen to make a nice batch of hot cocoa on the stove. There were no microwaves or instant cocoa powder in those days. She put regular milk in a saucepan on the stove and stirred in Hershey’s Chocolate Syrup. What a treat! And, yes, we always had marshmallows!
CHRISTMAS MUSIC
My older sister would usually disappear with a book, and I would head to the hi-fi for some Christmas music. I can remember sitting for hours in front of that old record player listening to Alvin and the Chipmunks and my parents’ old Bing Crosby albums. I was elated the year the Partridge Family came out with their Christmas album and played it until the grooves were nearly worn away. David Cassidy was my favorite in those days, closely followed by the immortal Donny Osmond.
We were raised in the Christian church, so I also loved all the old hymns, and Christmas music was a special treat. To this day, I can forget what I walked into a room for, but I can remember every one of the words to those old songs. They transport me back to a simpler, kinder time, and Christmas isn’t Christmas without hearing all of the old stalwarts.
CHRISTMAS TREE
With all the snow on the ground, the cutting of the family tree could really be a challenge. My Dad always knew right where to go, and we’d pull on our coats, boots, and mittens and head out to help him find the perfect tree. He brought both an axe and a saw, and we’d head out into the tree farm with snow up over the tops of our boots. I have vague memories of my mother sitting in the car with my baby sister to stay warm while my older sister, my father, and I trudged out to secure the perfect tree, but my mother and father are both gone, so I have no way to verify that that is the way it happened.
I do clearly remember selecting a tree and having my father explain why that tree wasn’t a good choice. There were limbs missing on one side, or it had grown lopsided and would be unbalanced in the tree holder. I learned a lot in those days about what made the perfect tree. Finally, we would find one that we could all (mostly) agree on, and my Dad would cut it down. We’d tie a rope to the trunk of the tree and drag it through the snow back to the car where it would immediately be tied to the roof.
Now, I would be super excited! We had a tree! We needed to decorate! Nope. The tree was full of snow and soaking wet. My father would bring the tree into the garage and hang it by the trunk so that it was upside down and able to dry off. Dreams of sugarplums and Christmas trees would make it nearly impossible to sleep that night, and the next day, we would wake up and decorate the tree.
Tree decorating always started with the lights, and my father would go through the strand and check each bulb. He would then attach the light strand to the tree, and we moved on to the garland. Again, this was mainly a parent-only project, so we sat there, all quivering anticipation, waiting for our turn to help. When it finally came, we grabbed our favorite box of ornaments and started hanging them up. Of course, my sister was a bit taller than me, so she could reach higher, and her ornaments were easier to see. However, I liked that my favorites were right where I could find them at eye level. Once everything was done, my mother would break out the icicles, and we would carefully drape a few strands on each bough. While I was a big proponent of covering the whole tree in masses of icicles, my parents were much more conservative. One could say that in the end, cooler heads prevailed.
The tree would be the centerpiece of Christmas for about 2 weeks, and then, as it dried out and the new year began, we would sadly remove the ornaments and lights and watch as the tree was unceremoniously dragged out to the street to be removed by the garbage man.
FAMILY CHRISTMAS
Of course, there were presents. But it wasn’t really about the gifts – just a general feeling that we were the luckiest people in all the world. And yes, there was a feast. We almost always went to my grandparents’ home in Grand Rapids. My Grandpa and Grandma Ditmar had a beautiful cherry wood dining room set, and we almost never sat there except at Christmas. I remember spiced pears and pickled crab apples and winter squash. I couldn’t stand stuffing then, but I love it now. The smell of turkey roasting always makes me smile. Again, there was plenty of pumpkin pie, and back then, I detested the stuff. Now I love it, but as I get older, I am no longer able to eat dairy or anything that has dairy in it, so I look wistfully at the pie I once hated.
Perhaps that is part of the charm of Christmas, and why I love to write about it. Life was simpler, but we never knew just how good we had it, and memories of Christmas seem to take us back to that happy time in our lives like no other time of the year. With the world in so much turmoil and there being so much anger and hate for our fellow man, if writing about Christmas can bring happiness to even one person and maybe encourage someone to help another rather than to hurt, then I feel like I’ve done something positive in the world, and that too, makes me happy. And for selfish reasons, I love going back; treading on those familiar old paths that always lead to Mom and Dad, Grandpa and Grandma, our small house, and a happy snowy time. There truly is no place like home!
