My father, Paul, was tough on Santa Claus. Mom, my sisters, and I would sit on the
stairs in our nighties and robes in the morning on December 25 while Dad
lumbered down to the living room to “make sure the fat man was gone.” While surreptitiously turning on Christmas
tree lights and lighting the fire in the fireplace, Dad would bellow,
“Hey! What are you still doing
here? Off! Off you go now!” Even as young believers, somehow we knew this
was funny and not a rudeness that would send Santa off in a huff having
snatched back our gifts.
Dad’s performance in berating Santa and chasing him away
became ever more outrageous as we three girls grew older. And Dad was still shooing the fat man when
those gathered on the stairs included my own children and tiny nephews. Is it totally pathetic to grow misty over
such a memory? Perhaps, but for all the
lights, tinsel, jingle bells, and parties, Christmas is poignant, ripe with
promise and heavy with expectation. Like
a snowball gathering size and weight as it rolls, the holiday carries with it
the shadows and brilliance of years past.
Early this December, I drove to Pennsylvania to join my
sisters in a green room vigil as my mother had surgery. The procedure went
smoothly and, undaunted, Mom went to dinner and the theater with friends two
days later. So I headed home, free of
worry, serenaded by a Christmas CD Dave had compiled.
My current favorite is a Don Henley song and when it played
through the first time, I chimed in at the end of the chorus, then tapped the
replay button on the dashboard for another round. And then, a third. I listened a mite and repeated the lyrics,
striving to learn the words. At some
point, I keyed in to the message beyond simply singing along:
“Bells will be ringing the sad, sad news.
Oh what a Christmas, to have the blues.
My baby’s gone. I
have no friends
To wish me happy, happy Christmas, once again…”
No friends? Ouch. Not exactly jolly. Time to move on; no more replays. Johnny Mathis began to croon, “I’ll Be Home
for Christmas” and I cruised vocally on auto-pilot, joining in on every
word. But you can’t miss the melancholy
in that World War II lament as a lonely soldier longs to head home.
Next up, “White Christmas.” In my mind’s eye, Bing tapped his pipe, tamped
in some tobacco, and gazed with languid eyes into his pool of memories. From some musical archive in my soul, the
lyrics spooled forth as Bing and I sang together of tree tops glistening,
sleigh bells in the snow, and Christmas cards. Clearly Bing was wistful. His Christmas held not those things; he was yearning for them, “just like the ones I
used to know…”
When Dave toasts fresh breadcrumbs, chops black olives, and
mixes them with browned garlic, olive oil, and lemon juice, he senses his Aunty
Cam, deceased for seven years, watching over his shoulder and nodding her
satisfaction. As he reaches to the top of our tree to place an
angel, crafted in 1986 from a barely disguised toilet paper roll, we picture little Tucker, the artist, leaping about in anticipation
with his sister, Casey. On
Christmas Eve, as is our tradition, Dave and I lie in bed, reciting “The Night
Before Christmas,” and I remember my father with my kids in his lap, reading them the same story. So many snippets from the Christmases we used
to know.
When I was a kid growing up in the fifties, tree lights were
universally multi-colored, but ours glows now, magical as a snowy Christmas,
with tiny white lights. Its prickly
green fingers display shimmering glass icicles and decades-old ornaments. Many hands have crafted the satin peppers,
rustic calico creations, clothespin dolls, and salt-dough figures tucked among
shiny red and silver balls. The eighties
reaped a host of pieces personalized with Tucker and Casey’s names: crocheted snowmen, wooden teddy bears, tiny
sleds, and sweaters. Our grandniece, Ava, has provided our most recent
acquisitions: a clay Santa face made from her handprint, and a glittery pair of
Dorothy’s ruby slippers. That is the way
of family trees, whether balsam or genealogical, their branches fill with new
additions.
And so it is this December, because this has been a richly
blessed Christmas: Casey and her boyfriend, PJ, announced their engagement, and
Tucker and his wife Lisa brought a new
Paul into the family! With a full head
of hair and soft kissable cheeks, this little bug looks much like Tucker did
when he was my baby. And I miss my father on this fourth Christmas
without him, but I know he is beaming from his spot on the heavenly couch.
Paul, 2015
2015, PJ and Casey, engaged!
6 comments:
A lovely read Lea and heaps of love and blessings for your precious grand-baby and Casey's engagement!
It is a happy New Year!!! xo
Lea, what wonderful memories - you have such beautiful ways with words! Happy New Year to you al!
A perfect Christmas that you will remember forever! So much happiness. And I am sure your dad is beaming with pride for his great grandson and soon to be grand son-in-law.
Congratulations! He is beautiful! Before you know it, Dave will be reading The Night Before Christmas to Paul clad in his footed pjs! Traditions are so very special and really create such family bonds that can not be broken even when loved ones pass. Happy Happy New Year!
Thank you so much everyone! We are so excited to have this dear little boy join the family...and Casey and PJ's wedding ahead! Such blessings!
So sweet, Lea! Congratulations on your beautiful new Paul. I can't think of two more wonderful Christmas gifts than your grandson and Casey getting married soon. Much to celebrate. How wonderful.
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