Mailboxes and Old Barns: Christmas Memories

Dad included this Christmas thought in a letter to Mom dated December 15, 1925 as they were anticipating their marriage in April of 1926:

“Now we are nearing the beautiful Christmas time when we shall pause and see our Christ as the little child who came to save us. May we be as children and accept Him in our hearts, to dwell there through the years that may come for us. Christmas always means more to children than to grownups, so I guess we should all be children again for a day or two in order to receive the true Christmas gift.”
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Sixty-five years after he mailed that, I mailed the following to Mom, now 85 years old in 1990:

Dear Mom,
My Christmas Memories are made of many things.
Snowy roads that raise the question, “Can we still get to church tomorrow? with the usual answer being, “Yes, I think so. We may have to go the long way ’round, though.”
Turkey and all the trimmings making the house smell so good on the afternoon of Christmas Eve. Waiting for Dad to finish chores early, since we knew nothing special could happen until the chores were finished and he got cleaned up.
If there was to be company for Christmas Eve dinner, waiting for the arrival of the first relatives’ cars. Then waiting impatiently for the arrival of the last relative’s car, so we could get down to business!
Candles lit on the dining room table. The endless meal with all of the visiting and chatter~~hoping that dessert would be left “until after the presents.” (it usually wasn’t)
Singing the carols, listening to Dad read the Christmas story from Luke 2 and waiting anxiously for that last line, “and the shepherds went on their way, glorifying and praising God for all they had seen and heard.”
Singing the last carol, “Silent Night,” and opening the wonderful presents. “Wonderful” never meant expensive or huge~~they were wonderful because they represented family, tradition, provision, love, predictability (and how many families are there where nothing is predictable–there’s security in that predictability) and very often, the packages included a new pair of flannel pajamas. In a way, the pajamas were my favorite present, because I could literally wrap myself in a Christmas present when I went to bed that night.
Even when we didn’t have company, Christmas Eve was like this–always very special whether there were four of us or 16 of us.
Christmas also meant that Dad got the corner tree (by the transformer pole) strung with electric lights and ran the thick extension cord in through the coal window.
Christmas Day afternoon, wherever we were, often included sliding and tobogganing until we were about frozen stiff and in desperate need of that wonderful made-from-scratch real cocoa (the kind nobody knows how to make any more) full of melting marshmellows, best enjoyed with a slice of homemade bread with home-churned butter on it, to dip in the cocoa.
I praise God for the fact of Christmas–the gift of a Redeemer–and I thank Him for the fact that you and Dad took time to give us the memories of Christmas. I hope we do half as well for our families.
With gratitude, Sharon
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Sometimes it’s difficult to know what to give an elderly parent for Christmas.
I wanted her to know that her efforts over the years made an impact.
I wanted her to know that I remembered.
…and I still remember.
….the year that a favorite gift was a blue collapsible plastic cup. I loved it.
…the year I received the long-dreamed-of baton. By the afternoon of Christmas Day I had blisters on two of my fingers from twirling it in my parents’ bedroom where I could see myself performing in the big mirror of their dresser. When it thumped and bumped and bounced a few too many times at one point, Dad came and cracked the door open – leaving their guests for a moment – and asked with a smile in his voice, “Is everything ok in there?”
…the year we drove our little dirt roads about five miles to the little tiny village that still had a one room school house, and we watched their Christmas program presented ala Little House on the Prairie.
There were two sheets hanging from a strong wire than ran from one side of the room to the other, and the twelve or fourteen students stood on a 5′ X 12′ platform normally occupied only by Teacher’s Desk. They sang songs and did a skit or two and recited Christmas poems. The evening closed with everyone singing carols and all of the children present receiving candy. Hot cocoa, coffee and baked goods were served and good visiting that went on, probably at least until 10:30.
Throughout the event, I was distracted by pain in my hand because on the drive to the school house that evening my brother and I had gotten into a scrap in the back seat with a pencil as our primary weapon of destruction.
Do you remember that invisible line drawn down the middle of the seat? Apparently one or the other of us persisted in violating the sanctity of that line and before the battle was over, the tip of the pencil lead had been broken off and lodged under the skin in the palm of my hand. That quarter-inch bit of slate gray memory was visible there for decades, finally fading away.