Christmas. It doesn’t feel possible that it’s December and soon Christmas will be here. As a child, Christmas took so long to arrive. The anticipation would begin when the Christmas Edition of the Sears and Roebuck catalogs arrived. Ma had first dibs on thumbing through the pages. We knew she wasn’t looking through the toy section. We did receive toys but just one or two. What we did receive was new underwear and socks, PJs, and shoes or boots – stuff we needed but didn’t really appreciate at the time. Today, practical gifts are desired. Not that I want anyone to buy me underwear (they would probably think I wear granny panties. I’m not telling). But nice comfy fleece PJs from LL Bean might be nice. Hint, hint.
Although we had lots of cousins, an aunt or two, and a couple of uncles, we were pretty isolated as a family. The grown-ups didn’t visit each other, taking their tribe of children along to spread holiday cheer. Ma’s older sister lived within walking distance of less than a mile, yet she sent one of her older children to our house with gifts and left with the ones designated for their family. “Bye! Thanks for stopping by.” The cousins were friendly enough, but I wouldn’t say “jolly.” None of us, after a certain age, were jolly. Call it generational moodiness.
Anyways, we could open one gift, a small one, on Christmas Eve. We were grateful for everything we received so if the gift we selected for this opening tradition was just a coloring book and new box of crayons or the aforementioned underwear, we were pleased. The main event the next day would make up for it.
When my mind wanders through memories, sepia toned like old photographs, most just blend into a warm montage of homemade eggnog, not the mutinous mess in the local dairy case, bread pudding with raisins, sparkling metallic tinsel, and the smell of a real Christmas tree. Nothing smells better than pine-scented winter air trapped in the house for a few precious weeks. I remember that smell all these decades later.
Yet there was that one Christmas when I was in the first grade that stands out over all the others. It was a Christmas of plenty. Apparently, my father’s little TV repair business had done well, because as she was one to do, Ma had with great care squirreled away crisp dollar bills to be used exclusively for Christmas gifts; and what a Christmas it was.
I’ve always been a light sleeper and with the excitement of Christmas at hand, sleeping that night, that specific Christmas Eve, was impossible. I can see myself slowly, and with maximum stealth, descending down the stairs and into the dining room where the tree was set up. If I had a plan beyond poking around the tags on the wrapped gifts, it wasn’t much of a plan. I was only five after all. But as my vision cleared in the darkened house what came into view was spectacular – a toy kitchen!
I had studied the catalog pages featuring toy refrigerators, sinks, cabinets, stoves, and washing machines. I was a domestic goddess even then! Ma must have taken notice. I could barely contain myself from making some loud yipping sounds. I carefully moved my head from side to side so I could more fully take it all in. Miniature pots and pans, tiny utensils, a serving set, and a dinner set. I knew then and there Santa was a myth. I’d thank my parents directly for this surprise.
I don’t know how long I simply drooled over that tiny kitchen wishing the sun would come up like magic and chase night away. I had work to do, meals to prepare and dishes to wash.
I did eventually go back up those stairs, back to bed, and back to sleep. But my dreams were not of sugar plums, they were of lining up my dolls and feeding them breakfast.
If I could talk to Ma, I would tell her this story and say “thank you” again. Thank you, Ma and Dad, for the sacrifices you made. For never letting a holiday slide by without a celebration no matter how humble it was. Thank you for seven decades of feeling like a surprised and delighted little child finding what she wanted for Christmas at the bottom of the stairs every time I recall this memory. Merry Christmas to all and best wishes on creating happy holiday memories for your families to unwrap in coming years.
This Mattapoisett Life
By Marilou Newell