Christmas Chronicles

Day 15

My first stop today was a few doors down from the house I grew up in, and the present owner is the daughter of the folks who owned the house back when.  Her name is Pam, and she is 10 years older than me, the same age as my next oldest sister, Mary, was when she was still with us.  They knew each other, and I remember Pam, too, because even though our houses are in a subdivision, Pam had a horse in her backyard most of the time.  You could do that then, and the neighborhood had only been in the city limits for a short time, anyway.

Pam’ maiden name is Dunahoo, which until today I thought was Donahue.  Her mother was the assistant librarian at Regency Elementary, where I was going when Mary and Pam were in high school. I remember Mrs. Dunahoo, too, she was really nice. 

Pam and I caught up for a good 20 minutes before I went on to the next delivery, swinging down into the cul-de-sac to check on my house, and my tree, on my way.  (Earlier this year I posted about my tree, some of you remember.)

This delivery being today is perfect timing; I got a fresh photo of the front of the house to accompany the tale of what December 15th was to Norma. 

Have you ever taken stock of all your memories and zeroed in on your very first, crystal clear, more-than-a-flash-or-a-snippet memory?

Mine is of lying on the carpet in the front room of Chapel Lane, staring at an enormous turquoise-colored ball, dangling from the end of a Christmas tree branch, watching the reflected images and not knowing what they were, but so aware of the color of it, and the wonder.

Then my Dad saying “Lisa baby,” which he called me forever, and looking toward his voice, to see he and Mom side by side, looking at me.  I remember them in shadow but probably only because of the camera in Dad’s hand, a fairly large one, and then the flash. 

I have a copy of that picture, somewhere around here.

It was Christmas 1967.

I was 9 months old.

Christmas came to the Gardner house on December 15th every year, and not a moment sooner.  As the years passed, the anticipation of that date was nearly equal to that of Christmas Day itself, considering how much I adore the lights, decorations, music, and spirit of the holiday.  

The whole family was allergic to real trees, so the same artificial one graced our living room(s) until I was somewhere in my early 30s.  

It was on the smaller side, maybe 6 feet tall once the angel was placed, and mostly adorned with inherited ornaments handed down and homemade ornaments collected year by year. The enormous turquoise ball in my memory was in reality a normal-sized ball that seemed enormous to a baby looking up at it.  

I made an angel in third grade at school, in Mrs. Rutherford’s class, out of poster board, styrofoam, glitter, and yarn, and Norma proudly displayed it on top of the tree until I was 30, and the angel actually fell apart.

Underneath the tree, a 1950s post-war Lionel O Scale Train set mounted to a sheet of plywood circled the ceramic nativity scene in cotton-sheeted snow sprinkled with multi-colored glitter.  The train’s whistle had two tones blended into a haunting call that faded away as if passing into the night.  With a switch you could make the train reverse.

There is no telling how many hours I whiled away playing with that train, and it was there before my birth - it was a gift to my brother for Christmas when he was a kid, and he was 15 years older than me. 

Before learning how to run the train, I had the Santa in his sleigh shown here to play with.  There wasn’t much in the way of childproofing in our house, other than plastic outlet plugs.  And the house wasn’t a giant playroom either, Norma displayed her trinkets and breakables and taught me very early what I could handle gently, and what not to touch.

Santa was one of the first toys I had, a special Christmas item all mine to play with how I chose in any space I liked. Over the years his sleigh carried all sorts of little things to Barbie dolls, the Nativity village, our dogs, our cats…. Santa has had a very full life, and now relaxes on a shelf, happily retired but still observing the season. 

Dad’s job on December 15th was to hang the lights on the house.  A single strand across the front, and the carport you see here wasn’t there back then.  They were those old, big, glass bulbs, opaque.  Once when I was about 10 a couple of them broke and he replaced them with bulbs the same size but transparent.  They looked so strange, and I remember thinking I really liked them because they were so “modern”.  Now, I’d love to have those old-fashioned ones.  I’m nostalgic.  

That strand couldn’t have taken him a whole hour if he talked to some neighbors and weeded the driveway, but he bitched about having to do it like it took up a Saturday and ruined his golf time.  

Between the two of them, and this sum total of what Christmas looked like at our house, it might have taken half a day to deck our halls.

Playing all season (December 15th through Christmas Day) was The Ray Conniff Singers’ “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” album, on vinyl, because of course that’s what there was, then.  I loved every bit of that album, still do - still know every word and have it on my Christmas playlist.  I’m not even sure how old I was when I realized there were other albums and other singers of Christmas songs. 

Though now I have many, many favorite carols and renditions, and even a Christmas CD I recorded in 2001, for me, the Ray Conniff Singers will always be the sound of the season.

Our Christmases weren’t fancy, they were actually sort of minimal in decorative scope and they never lasted long enough.  December 15th was Norma’s day, no wavering, and the reason was never actually given.  

My day is Thanksgiving.  Who needs turkey? Let’s hang the lights!

And I’m more Clark Griswald than Norma Gardner on the quantity of decorations.

And it will all come down some time in January.  Generally.

Many of the old ornaments from trees gone by now live on mine, including so many handmade ones Norma and I created together, and those I made with my kids, and that they made for me.  

I remember all these things with an abiding joy that lives deeper than the kind I’m chasing this year.  

The foundational joy.  The good parts of who-I-am-and-where-I-come-from.  The deliberately chosen best memories to reminisce.  

We have the power to decide which pieces to carry with us.  

Choosing well is the best gift of all.

Ten joy-seeking-and-sharing days until Christmas!

Spread some love!