December is a special month for children. It is a time for secrets, wishing, and anxiously waiting for the holiday celebrated with lights, so appropriate during the darkest time of the year. For many parents, however, December is a time of stress with so much on the calendar, but as adults we can still get caught up in the spirit of giving, enjoy the excitement of the children and remember the wonderment we felt as a child. Most of the magic for me during my childhood was in the waiting and imagining and hoping for what was to be revealed on the day of days.
My two brothers, sister and myself grew up during the depression, but somehow my parents managed to make the celebration wondrous and eagerly awaited. Church services always came first, with the caroling and that yearly visit to the life size nativity set arrayed impressively in the corner next to the altar. I loved to stand in front of it, impressed with the story told by the silent figures of Joseph, Mary, the baby, the shepherds, the animals, and later, the three Kings who appeared mysteriously in the crèche after Christmas.
I remember the perfect Christmas tree and the aroma of the homemade foods filling the house in preparation for those meals reserved for the holidays. I can still see my mother placing the glass of milk and dish of cookies on a plate for Santa. Years later when we no longer believed in the folk lore, we asked our father, "Who ate the Christmas cookies?" He replied with a booming voice, "Well, who do you suppose? It was this Santa (pointing to himself) who always brought you Christmas."
My parents never charged a thing and always paid cash for all they purchased. Looking back, I realize that they must have deprived themselves to bring us one day of the year that was filled with wonder and many more days of anticipation during December. Soon after Thanksgiving I would wait for the mail, spending hours looking through those wonderful catalogs from Sears and "Monkey Wards". I would page through, dreaming and hoping. Now and then I would leave a hint with a turned down corner page of the catalog. In those days we never dared to ask for anything, but I do recall one year when my mother actually asked me what I wanted. The depression was winding down, my father was back to work, and times weren't so grim. I told her I only wanted books. My wish was granted and I received a tall stack of books under the tree. My mother knew her authors. That stack was filled with the classics I still remember... by authors such as Louisa May Alcott, Rudyard Kipling and Jack London. Those books were read and re-read during the vacation and long after. I never said the words "I'm bored" to my parents.
There were two other Christmas days that will always be etched in my memory. One was when I was three. It was in the height of the depression. As the four of us came down the staircase, (we had to wait until our father had stoked the furnace, warmed up the house and yelled up the stairs "Merry Christmas!"), we peeked around the corner and saw the tree that had been decorated by our parents the night before, and underneath its sweet smelling beauty were bicycles for my brothers, skates for my sister and a tricycle for me. There was such joy in the four of us who barely knew there was a depression. Three feet of snow covered the ground and it was bitterly cold that Christmas morning in northern Minnesota, but my brothers rode those bikes around the block on the plowed street. They could hardly wait for the first thaw that spring. My brother recalls that it was the best Christmas we ever had. It must have made an impression since I still have a photo in my mind of that magical moment when we first saw the gifts under the tree.
The other Christmas that is still vivid to me is the one when I was eleven. It was during World War II. My two brothers had left for the service and my sister for the Cadet nursing program with the military. It was Christmas Eve and I had been moping around the house all day. Christmas would not be Christmas without my siblings joining in the excitement. I went to bed early, feeling poorly and sorry for myself. My parents said that I could open one gift on Christmas Eve. I came downstairs while my father disappeared outside for a few minutes. He returned carrying a huge cardboard box with a large bow on top. I peeked into the box and saw a pair of dark eyes looking up at me. I reached down to pick up a bundle of wiggling fur, whining and licking my face. It was the most beautiful German Shepherd mix puppy I had ever seen then, or since. For that one memorable Christmas Eve I was allowed to keep the puppy in my bedroom while I slept fitfully, but happily, with a flu bug inside of me and that very special present next to my bed.
It seems that today many children have a surplus of gifts, quickly getting bored with everything and whining for their un-met expectations. I feel sorry for those children who receive everything they desire at all times and have little to anticipate. Dreaming is exchanged for possession. My brothers received their bikes when they were eleven and twelve and my sister her skates when she was nine. We learned during our formative years that we would not get everything we wanted, whenever we wanted. Toys and fun gifts were a once a year occasion. We learned the art of waiting, not instant gratification. We always received thoughtful gifts at Christmas, had a fragrant, fresh tree, and, of course, that festive meal. The holiday was special and we felt special, but we also did not get so many gifts that they would lie around unappreciated. Each and every present was enjoyed and used for many months. We knew that was all there was until the next December.
Those were truly the greatest gifts that our parents could have given to us. We learned to wait, wonder and hope. I wonder if I ever let them know that while they were still with us?
Thank you, big brother, Roy, for tweaking details about our childhood.
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