My first Christmas memory is when I was four and asked Santa for a Chatty Cathy doll. My sister even took me to Toy Town where I sat on Santa's knee and told him exactly what I wanted. She cast some doubt on Santa's ability to deliver because he laughed with a 'HA-HA-HA' instead of a 'HO-HO-HO'. So imagine my delight and surprise when I awoke on Christmas morning and ran into the living room to see the Christmas tree shining its warm light on the glossy brown hair and freckled nose of my unwrapped heart's desire. "Oh boy! A Chatty Cathy!", was the alarm clock of exclamation that jarred the rest of the house awake. Over and over I pulled her string to hear her crackle, "I'm hungry" or, "I'm sleepy" or, "I love you". Santa had delivered and I believed in the magic.
My friends recall the magic too. They remember the ceiling skimming Christmas tree that Dad would bring home. He would trim the bark and set it standing straight and tall in the tree stand Grandpa had made years before. After it was sufficiently thawed, we adorned it with colorful lights, glossy balls, tinsel and these amazing glow-in-the-dark icicles that entertained us for hours on end. My friends and I would each grab an icicle, hold it up to a light bulb to charge it, then race into the bedroom and dive under the covers to giggle and watch them glow. The house was brimming with fun and there was an abundance of food, lots of visitors and that magic in the air.
Somewhere along the way I lost the magic. Maybe it started when my Dad spent three days in bed over Christmas with a self-inflicted flu. Or maybe I was simply ill-prepared as a young wife and working mother. All I know is, when the magic of the season became my responsibility I lost my way. My own emotional bankruptcy caused me to get caught up in filling the gaps beneath the tree without the means to do so. Christmas became an effort, another chore, an expense we simply couldn't afford. The season became a drudgery and I became a Grinch.
I remained this way until last year, the last Christmas I spent with my Mom. Last year I stopped fighting the season and just let it come. The impetus was not as simple as a change in mindset. It started with the promise of spending Christmas with someone very dear to me. But it wasn't the thought of spending it together that prompted the change. It was when the promise was broken and my hopes dashed that I realized the importance I placed on the season. If the magic wasn't still there, why did I care? It was time to stop ingesting my usual fare of three decker sauerkraut and toadstool sandwiches with arsenic sauce and feast on the season instead.
So I listened to the music, even hummed and whistled along. I let the greetings of the season cross my lips. I decorated. I baked a little. I let it fill the air I breathed. I even read the passages in the bible that tell of the birth of Christ - the very reason we celebrate in the first place. I let the season in and the magic find me. It was the best Christmas I'd had in years. In hindsight, I'm so glad Mom and I shared the sweetness of the season one last time.
This year is my first Christmas without Mom. The memories of Christmas' past have come flooding back. How wondrous that my mind allows me to reconstruct the old house where I grew up and fill it full of happy memories; my parents busy making Christmas, my Grandpa keeping a watchful eye from the comfort of his chair, my siblings and I safe and warm under the same roof, the soft glow of the tree, Grandma's oak dining room table set - full of its leaves to gather us in. The sights, the sounds, the smells. It makes me want to curl up to watch "It's a Wonderful Life" and fall in love with Jimmy Stewart all over again. I'm home for Christmas.The rest is pixie dust...
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