remembering Christmas past

I don't hate Christmas just because I don't 'do' Christmas, at least not now. There was a big chunk of years where the days between Thanksgiving and Christmas were my least favorite of the year. I never hated the actual days of Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, days that, these days, I consider 'free' days, days when the whole world is quiet and there is no need to go out, days when I don't have expectations of what I might or might not accomplish, days when I might just sit on the couch and read or nap or wander in the yard though the only things blooming out there now are the roses.

I used to do Christmas. I was raised Christian and Christmas was a big deal at our house growing up.

Our father would put all his change every night all year in a jar when we were very young, before they became better-to-do, to save towards Christmas presents and every December he would dump it out on their bed and we would get to help count it, separating out the coins by denomination.

Along with the big colored outdoor lights on the house, the front door would always be covered with christmas wrapping paper with ribbon and a bow as if it were a giant christmas present.

Going to get the christmas tree was always a big deal and it seems like we always went at night. We had a tall peaked ceiling and would get the biggest tree that would fit, making the attendant shake out a dozen before deciding on the one.

About two weeks before Christmas we'd put up the tree and all the other decorations, Dad stringing the lights and Mother handing out the ornaments for us kids to hang, all kinds of cookies being made, popping the corn for the snowman, me creeping into the family room in the dark after everyone was asleep and plugging in the tree.

Our Christmas dinner was on Christmas Eve and it was a formal affair, our father in a tux with his red bow tie, vest, and socks, mother in an evening gown, brother in a suit, and my sister and I in our best fancy dresses, dinner table set formally and being served by the help and then heading to late services at the church.

One year I decided to stay awake and see if this Santa thing was real. Some amount of time after we were sent to bed, my father quietly called my name. He was checking all our rooms. When I responded he went back to the family room and after another period of time he repeated it. Though I was still awake I didn't respond, having had my answer and I went to sleep having woken to the myth.

Christmas morning we kids were allowed to go immediately to our beautiful handmade felt, sequined, and beaded stockings and the unwrapped gifts left by Santa but only our father could take packages out from under the tree. He would pick them up one at a time, call out the recipient's name and then hand us our present. Mother, of course, always got the lion's share.

And then there was the year our father bought my sister and I plaid wool pantsuits that we were expected to actually wear! I don't remember what color my sister's was but mine was orange and pink. Plaid.

After the tree had been ravaged we had steak, eggs, and sweet rolls for breakfast and then we kids spent the rest of the day playing inside or out with our new stuff.

And that was how it went, growing up pre-pubescent. Christmas was fun and exciting and happy and then somewhere around the time I hit puberty, things changed. Our parents had been part of a large social group that went out ballroom dancing and gave parties and then one year my best friend's father got caught cheating and he named my mother, though she denied it, as the other woman and my parents were ostracized. Everything changed after that. We continued to go through the motions but there was always tension in the house and by the time I was an older teen Christmas Eve was an evening to be got through instead of enjoyed and Christmas morning always ended with my mother heaving big sighs and going to bed with a headache.