Each December as Christmas comes and goes, I marvel at how quickly the year passes. How different it was when I was a child and I waited with great anticipation for the upcoming Christmas celebrations and the oh-so-wonderful visit from Santa Clause. In those days, the span between one Christmas and the next stretched on and on until the waiting was almost unbearable.
Today, as I remember those childhood Christmases, recollections of special people and traditions are evoked from long ago memories. I recall my parents sending my brother and me off to bed early on Christmas Eve, because to stay up late might risk Santa’s visit. And my brother and I both were quite certain that we had only one chance, and if Santa passed our house because we were still awake, he wouldn’t be back – at least not until the following year. Not to wake up on Christmas morning and find presents from Santa under the tree would be unthinkable!
And that tree! Each year my family chopped down our own Christmas tree we found after trudging through acres and acres of Florida scrub pines in search of that perfect tree. Buying a Christmas tree was virtually unheard of back then, at least where we lived. Buying a tree was for “city folks” who didn’t have trees growing outside their front doors — or for people who were rich and Florida’s humble scrub pine wasn’t quite suitable for their homes.
But those tall slender trees, with sparsely placed branches and clumps of loose leaf needles, were plenty good enough to hang shiny stars and galloping reindeer covered with sparkling strands of silver tinsel — and to offer a welcoming spot for gifts beneath the boughs of green.
My brother always insisted on finding the tallest tree possible, even though on occasion, the selected tree was much too tall to fit inside our modest living room, and would require much chopping and whittling to clear the ceiling and for the trunk to fit snugly inside the old metal red and green tree stand.
My grandparents’ tree on the other hand was somewhat different. Living just down the clay-topped country road from us, my grandmother and grandfather also subscribed to the “seek and ye shall find” method of Christmas tree selection. But that is where the similarity ended.
Their tree was much smaller, never being more than two feet in height, and always graced their coffee table. My grandmother was devoutly religious and I always wondered if that was the reason she was partial to angel hair rather than tinsel. Each year my grandfather topped their tree with the plain tin star he had hand fashioned himself. Having been an engineer by profession, his star was precisely correct in all its angles, and I am certain he took great pride in that fact.
My grandparents always opened their gifts on Christmas Eve, a tradition my family did not subscribe to, as we waited until Christmas morning to open ours. But how we enjoyed visiting our grandparents on Christmas Eve! Besides seeing the joy in our grandparents’ eyes in response to the gifts we brought them, we were always allowed to open one of our gifts as well.
And before the evening was over, we were treated to my grandmother’s homemade Japanese fruitcake and mouth-watering sweet ambrosia. Unlike a traditional fruitcake, her Japanese fruitcake only contained raisins and walnuts, and even then they were only folded in alternating layers of that sinfully delicious cake. Between the layers (and there must have been at least six or eight thinly sliced ones) was the best tasting icing in the world. It must have been her private recipe because I have never since tasted such a wonderful mingling of vanilla, almond and butter.
Her homemade ambrosia contained only two ingredients - navel oranges and coconut. I once suggested to her that surely she had added sugar in order to create such a sweet concoction. She assured me in no uncertain terms that sweet navel oranges and their juices, along with the coconut were the sole ingredients. I believe her.
But Christmas traditions didn’t only revolve around Santa, the tree, the gifts, or even food. Christmas was above all, a religious celebration. And all the other activities were only precursors to the big event. Christmas services at our little country church were always special and there was an air of anticipation, joy and solemnity all at once.
Each year the children re-enacted the nativity, with the boys solemnly making their way down the church aisle in their long robes, carrying exotic looking bottles as they approached the manger scene complete with Mary, Joseph and baby Jesus. Each year, my brother was always one of the three wise men since our church congregation was small, and there were only a handful of boys of the proper age.
The girls, on the other hand, viewed the event in a different light. Who would represent Mary and wear the beautiful white robe, golden sash and shimmering blue scarf? One year I had my turn and I felt so special for weeks before and after the service. After all, I was Mary, the mother of baby Jesus. It just doesn’t get any better than that. Imagine my disappointment the following year, when I was replaced by another little girl.
Looking back at how we celebrated Christmas in years past, today’s celebrations not only diminish the meaning of Christmas, but the passion as well. The current emphasis on celebrating for celebration’s sake offers a full dose of instant gratification that is short-lived and essentially meaningless. How fortunate are those who recognize Christmas as more than simply a seasonal celebration, but as a time to experience renewed faith and rededication and genuinely celebrate family, tradition and above all, the birth of Christ.
Merry Christmas to all, and God bless us every one.
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