When I was a kid the family tradition was for Santa Claus to bring the tree and presents on Christmas Eve as was done in the popular “'Twas The Night Before Christmas” poem. Of course it was my parents who were Santa's helpers in this enterprise.
It was the early '50s and people were still recovering from WWII both financially and spiritually. Christmas was a time to celebrate the men and women who had returned and remember those who hadn't. There were Christmas tree lots scattered all over the city and lights aglow in every shop. The Montgomery-Ward Christmas catalog was the favorite literature of the season.
Some of my friends families put up trees early but we had to wait for Santa to bring ours because we were special. My father would go out night after night, trying to find that special tree. It was always a Silver Tip fir and he'd stash it in a garage up the street. He and my mother would go out on secret shopping missions while we were watched over by Marilyn our 16 year old baby sitter from the neighborhood.
Presents were wrapped in secret after we went to bed and then stashed in the attic, a place we were forbidden to enter. My mom also went into overtime on her sewing machine, making pieces that were fitted and then disappeared. All very hush hush with a wink and a nod.
On Christmas Eve we would watch some movie like It's A Wonderful Life on our little 12” black and white TV while drinking hot chocolate with marshmallows. Finally we would go to bed and lay awake waiting to hear the sound of reindeer hooves on our roof. Despite the excitement, and not a little because of a threat from my father, we soon fell asleep.
When they were sure we were dead to the world they would spring into action. Dad would go up the street to retrieve the tree while Mom went into the attic to fetch the presents. They would both string lights on the tree, my dad occasionally using a few choice words when one of the lights burned out and the whole string went dead.
Tinsel, ornaments, a sheet of white felt to resemble snow, and, of course, a lighted angel to top it all. A furious round of last minute present wrapping and they could finally fall asleep themselves. Although for only a precious few hours before the little demons awoke and wanted to rip all their hard work apart.
My father seemed to feel that he was a budding Cecil B. DeMille so we waited impatiently while he set up his 16mm movie camera. Then we were directed to spontaneously run in and select a present to hold up for the camera. One by one we acted out our surprise as we carefully unwrapped our treasure and presented it to be preserved for posterity.
Finally, after a few panoramic shots, a couple of still shots with his 35mm Contax, and a group shot with the timer, we were allowed to rip and shred through the rest of the booty. My father, remembering the lean years of his youth during the Great Depression, was always generous at Christmas. There were toys galore, all the things he wished he could have had when he was a kid.
In turn we each offered the presents we had bought or made to Mom and Dad. They Oohed and Awed as they undid the careful but childish wrappings. Each lopsided ceramic dish and hamburger press was a prize fit for a king and queen in their benevolent judgment. We were thrilled that they were so generous with their praise.
After all the mayhem and excitement we sat down for breakfast with thoughts of new toys to play with and new clothes to wear. Wasn't it amazing that Mrs. Clause always knew our exact size!
In later years, as I got older and wiser, I was recruited as one of Santa's Helpers. I kept the secret of the Santa story and went to sleep with my sister and brothers. Later my mother would wake me and I would help put up the tree and the ornaments. It was fun in a new sort of way but never as great as the miracle of Christmas Eve. I was in a hurry to grow up but reluctant to leave my childhood behind.
One thing that has always haunted me is my lack of appreciation for my mom's work. I wanted store bought clothes and thought little of the shirts and sweaters she made. She made them by hand with her Singer sewing machine and each stitch carried her love. I came to realize just how profoundly valuable they were too late. I only have one left and it's my greatest treasure. When I put it on it's as if she were with me giving me a hug.
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