GHOSTS OF CHRISTMAS PAST, PART 5

Late at night, or, more correctly, early in the morning we'd come home from church. We'd make sure our special Christmas stockings were properly hung in their place in the kitchen (we had chimneys but not fire places, and we didn't buy this modern, revisionist nonsense about Santa coming down the T.V. antenna). We'd tumble into bed and sleep ‘till we awoke. We knew better than to look for presents under the tree. Almost always they would be hauled out later in the morning. No, my sister and I made straight for the stockings. These we were allowed to open without an audience. We dumped out the contents to see what there was. Small things, of course, maybe toy soldiers or a windup toy. These we could play with until a decent hour when our parents got up. We would check out the window to see if it had snowed. Kids relished the thought of a White Christmas. It meant maybe getting to play with the sleds or something. Adults hated the thought of a White Christmas. It meant snow boots and galoshes and wet shoes. Most years it did not snow. The best of the snowy weather always waited until January when you were back in school.

At long last the presents appeared. As was the rule, they were to be passed out one at a time and opened the same way so everyone could see. Most of us would just rip open the packages. Mom would usually carefully remove the wrapping paper in case it could be used again some year. She had a drawer full of used wrapping paper, another one of our family's early gestures at recycling.

Christmas morning was the great toy giving occasion. I can remember getting a big red fire engine that you could actually sit in and ride around in. It had a bell in front and removable ladders on the sides–a fantastic present. I remember riding it in the house on Christmas day. This was also the year I realized the price of having a little sister. Everyone was fussing about her and taking pictures of her. I tried to ride my fire engine into the scene, but someone stopped me. It didn't make sense to me. Little sisters were O.K., but they didn't compare to red fire engines.

I don't know if memory plays tricks on me as I get older, but I don't remember ever being disappointed at what I got for Christmas. We sometimes made lists of the things we wanted, but didn't really expect to get everything. From an early age we had been taught that you can't get everything you want in this life. My parents had a pretty good idea what I would enjoy. I got lots of building toys–blocks, tinker toys, Lincoln logs, and a bunch of things to build skyscrapers. I really liked those. One year I got a crystal radio. I spent hours tuning in to far off places like Terre Haute, Indiana. There was an electrical kit one year with switches and wires and lights and buzzers and batteries. I learned all the essentials of electricity from that wonderful gift. There were games, of course. There always had to be a game for Christmas. Monopoly and Rich Uncle were favorites of mine. I loved any game with money in it. I'm not sure what my sister got except dolls, big dolls, little dolls, and of course the doll to end all dolls, the Barbie. As far as I can tell Barbie dolling was a way of life–sort of like Amway. There were clothes to buy for every occasion. There were accessories. There was Barbie's boy friend Ken and his wardrobe. There was Barbie's sister Skipper. On and on itwent;

I also got a lot of joy out of giving presents. People–particularly kids–who think life is all about getting are missing out on the pleasure of giving. It's funny how the simplest gift sometimes turned out to be the best. One year I bought Dad a shoe horn with a long handle. I think I bought it because it had a sailing ship on the top of the handle and I thought Dad, as an old Navy man, would get a kick out it. Dad used that shoe horn frequently, especially as his arthritis made it hard for him to reach down to put his shoes on with a regular shoe horn. One of the last presents I sent to him after I moved away was a little electronic game. I was visiting friends that Christmas, and when I returned home there was a message on my answering machine. It was from Dad complaining that my sister was playing with his game and wouldn't let him play with it. Shades of the electric train set.

Dad's brother's family came for Christmas dinner. They would walk over from their home late in the afternoon. Their arrival was something I looked forward to. There would be hearty cheers of "Merry Christmas" and much laughing and, if it had snowed, four people almost falling over themselves as they struggled with boots as well as hats, gloves, scarfs, coats, and packages. It was an atmosphere that Mr. Pickwick would have found agreeable. Boots were left in the kitchen, coats were sent off to lie on the bed. No one in our family ever had a closet to hang guests' coats in, and no one expected one. There would be a controlled, orderly exchange of gifts–more clothes and perhaps a religious item or two, a new apron for Grandma (which she stored in the cedar chest with the ones she had received the previous year), a bottle of Old Spice for Grandpa. These were more tokens than big time gift giving. The gifts were never the main focus of this gathering. It was the people that mattered.

Then it was time for dinner. When I was little, Grandma prepared dinner, the traditional turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes and homemade jellied cranberries. When we exchanged apartments, Mom inherited Christmas dinner with the larger space. After a few years, the dinner itself changed. Mom found out that every Christmas our relatives ate an entire turkey dinner at noon with my aunt's mother. It seemed silly to Mom that they should have to eat the same meal again in the evening. (It seemed silly that this had been going on for years without anyone saying anything, but that's the way things worked on Dad's side of the family. One never asked for any special favors, like having something different for dinner). Anyway, Mom changed the menu to roast beef. Vegetables were usually peas and onions. And for her contribution, Grandma Kofink continued to make cranberries. I know there are many families that make Yorkshire pudding with roast beef. I suspect we were the only family in the nation that ate cranberries with roast beef. Even after Grandma passed away, Mom would make cranberries for the occasion and serve them in the same dish that Grandma had.

When dinner was done, we went off to the living room to sing Christmas songs around the piano. We were a pretty musical bunch (Dad and Uncle Herb excepted), and the grandparents enjoyed listening and occasionally joining in on some old German carol. It started out with Christmas carols, but over the years expanded to included show tunes. Not many people have this sorts of musicales anymore. If people want music, they pop a CD in the player and that's it. They don't know what they are missing.

The singing didn't end until it was time to eat again. Once again the parade of dishes came from the kitchen to the dining room, cake plates, forks, cups, saucers, creamer and sugar bowl, glasses for milk. There always had to be cookies and coffee. A few times there was a fruit cake, probably received as the result a grab bag. (See how dangerous those grab bags are.) And there were pies. Aunt Martha and Uncle Herb always brought pies from Heck's Bakery–apple pies with hard apples and glorious pumpkin pies with a thick, thick layer of whipped cream on top. More eating to finish off the night. Some joke telling, maybe, and finally one of the guests would decide it had been a day and announce, "Well, we'd better get going." Everyone would agree. The coats would be brought in from the bed room. People would struggle to get their boots back on, and with several more "Merry Christmases" people would disappear into the night.We kids were sent off to bed. In the early years Mom and Dad tackled the dishes, but as they got older everything was left for the next day. Somewhere near midnight the marathon ended. Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night.

On this twelfth and last day of Christmas, may the Lord God bless you on your way and greet you on your arrival.

Wayne