It’s been a
long time since Christmas seemed like a magical day, wherein my fondest dreams
might, just might come true. To a very real extent the magic ended for me
with the passing of my dad when I was 7—a tragic event that occurred on January
3, 1962. I don’t remember much from that particular Christmas, our last one as a
whole family.
I don’t recall
the next one particularly well, either. I imagine it would have been very hard
for all of us but especially my mother, who’d lost her soul mate, a loss from
which she never fully recovered.
When I think
back to childhood Christmases, it’s to recall a montage, as if in fact there’d
only ever been one. I remember the breakfast on Christmas morning, because it
was one of the few times in the year we had bacon on our breakfast table, along
with both orange juice and grape juice. I could have a small glass of
each! The tradition of the Christmas morning feast is one we observed with our
own children and continued on with until just fairly recently. Our breakfast
tomorrow morning is likely to be a very simple one.
Looking back to
those very early years, I believe what made it all so special wasn’t only that
gastronomical bounty itself, but the unusual circumstance of our enjoying it
together, as a family. Oh, we always had supper as a family, even when my
mother, an RN, was on the three to eleven shift at the hospital. My dad worked
days, so he would be home when she was not. He cooked, and cleaned, and so we
had family around the supper table every night.
But we never
sat down as a family to have breakfast except on Christmas Day.
I also remember
Christmas as being a time for visiting with family. My parents observed the
tradition of dropping in on their nieces and nephews on the day after Christmas,
and always visiting extended family where there were children. They’d usually
have a gift of some sort for the kids—nothing extravagant, of course. But truly,
in those days a small gift—either a toy, or perhaps a small basket filled with
cookies and fruit or chocolate—could be had without spending a large sum. My
parents saved their coins all year, and used that money at Christmas for extras
such as our Boxing Day gifts.
Another
cherished memory for me is going to the midnight Eucharist at our church
(Anglican/Episcopalian). It was the church we attended all through my childhood,
the same one my husband and I were married in, and the one we brought our
children to as a young family before moving away to a different town. But at
Christmas, the service that began at 11 pm on Christmas Eve was pure pageantry–
complete with an old, rich sounding pipe organ, and all the trimmings of the
High Anglican service—candles, robes, and a processional. The interior of the
small building was old, the pews and hassocks a lustrous dark wood that the
caretaker would polish to a high gloss. Years after my parents were both gone
from this earth, sitting in that church brought them back to me, as I took in
the sounds and scents of the place, along with the familiar, comfortable words
of a liturgy which never changed.
It is also at
this time of year that I feel the loss of family and friends most keenly. It
seems to be unavoidable, that sense of something missing. There are always
moments when I think back to having my house full, with all my chicks in
attendance. The holiday season really is a double edged sword: for
those who have, be it material goods or loved ones, it can be joyous indeed. For
those in want, it can pinch and sting like nothing else on this
earth.
Memories are
made, one day at a time, and they are all made the same way, be they happy
memories or sad ones.
My beloved and
I wish you all the happiest of memories to be made tonight, tomorrow, and
throughout the whole New Year.
Love,
Morgan
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