Let me start by saying that if you’re reading this, then thankfully the Mayans were wrong. We’ve dodged yet another end of the world prediction. The bad news is that we still have to pay for all the Christmas gifts we purchased on credit.
When we left off last week, I was telling you about the fond holiday memories from my childhood, and the subtle things that still trigger those memories. It could be something as simple as a song, a tree ornament, or a smell. Sometimes, I’ll smell cookies baking and I am immediately transported back to my childhood and possibly my fondest holiday memory of all. It was the annual tradition of baking bushels of Christmas cookies with my mom. I’ve written about her numerous times so you all know how fond I am of her, and how terribly I miss her. When these smells remind me of her, I don’t cry because she’s gone, I smile because I knew her. If I close my eyes, I can visualize our baking ritual as if it happened only yesterday. The two of us working side by side in the kitchen of the house I grew up in, both clad in aprons and covered in flour. We were rolling out dough and using festive holiday shaped cookie cutters while we watched Rudolph, and Frosty on a 12-inch black and white TV, resting on a snack tray in the corner of our kitchen. I think it was these times that formed my fondness for cooking. I’ll soon be 43 years old, and our holiday baking sessions are still the greatest memories of my life. Thank you for that mom. I love you and I miss you. Merry Christmas.
OK, after a brief stroll away from my desk to regain my composure, I’m now ready to write some more. The decorating of the tree was another ritual that I recall with great fondness. Mom, my brother, my sister and I would all take part in this. My mother took such painstaking pride in the placement of each and every ornament, light, and strand of tinsel to the point of almost being surgical. I don’t recall ever once looking at one of our completed trees with disappointment.
Another annual tradition in my family was how we obtained the tree. We would all drive to a tree farm way out in the country and walk for miles until we found the perfect one. Once we had collectively agreed upon a tree, we would cut in down and carry it all the way back to our car for the long ride home. This could be my own mind subconsciously embellishing the memories, but it seemed like it always started to snow while we were searching for our tree.
On Christmas morning I, being just a tot, was usually the first one up. I would jump out of bed and run through the house as if I were wearing a white tee shirt and red neckerchief being chased through the streets of Pamplona by bulls. What I was actually wearing though were one-piece footie pajamas. They were made of either velour, or terry cloth. It was the 70’s, and fleece hadn’t come on the scene yet. I always had to hit the brakes about 8 feet shy of the turn at the kitchen. If not, I would find myself going face first into the corner end table because the vinyl soles to my footies behaved like ice skates on shag carpet. I remind you that it was the 70’s and child safety was not quite as paramount as it is today.
Once I had traversed the kitchen safely making the transition from carpet to linoleum, I would jet down the stairs. Once I got downstairs, made one last sharp turn and discovered that the Big Fella had visited my home while I slept, I was exuberant. More often than not, I probably should have been on the naughty list, so I could never be certain until I saw the evidence. Even though I was the first one downstairs, I would never start rifling through the mountains of beautifully wrapped gifts. Uncharacteristically for a child that age, I would sit and wait patiently for the rest of my family to join me. Looking back on it now, I think I actually relished the few moments I had alone with the tree, the gifts, and the overall feeling of Christmas morning. I would just sit in a beanbag chair staring and taking the whole scene in. Little did I know at the time, I was locking it in to my memory to be used as a happy thought many years later.
Soon thereafter, the rest of my family would join me downstairs. Within minutes, the five of us would be seated around that Christmas tree while Brenda Lee was imploring us to “rock around” it. She amongst many others (not excluding the chipmunks) was unwittingly providing us with the soundtrack to the happiest time of our lives. We’d laugh and take turns opening gifts for the rest of the morning. My sister and brother, though 9 and 11 years respectively my senior, never once said or did anything to dispel any of the mystique of Christmas. To this day I’m thankful to them for that. Though looking back on it now, I’d venture to say that their thoughtfulness may have been the direct result of threats made to them by my Saintly mother regarding what would happen to them if they shattered a little boy’s dreams.
I just pushed away from my desk, closed my eyes for a moment and had an epiphany. I realized something that prior to this moment I had never known. I was mentally reviewing the images in my head of my childhood Christmases and I can see them vividly. I see the dark green wood paneled walls of our basement. I can see my Mom sitting on the end of the sofa closest to the tree so she can dispense the gifts. She’s seated with her knees bent with legs under her and feet on the sofa to her left. I can describe her sweater and her coffee cup. She’s watching us open our newly acquired treasures with her consummate ethereal smile. Dad is in a chair off to my right with his legs outstretched and his slipper covered feet crossed. I can describe my sister’s robe, and the inquisitive look on my brother’s face as he carefully studies his gifts through his glasses. I can smell, and even taste the cinnamon `buns. I can describe the specific placement of certain ornaments on the tree. I hear the music playing in the background, and could probably tell you the order of songs on the Bing Crosby album. Of all the vivid memories I have, oddly enough, the one that I don’t really recall specifically are the gifts themselves. It’s not that I didn’t enjoy or appreciate them, and there are a handful that somewhat stand out in my mind. I guess that unbeknownst to me at that time, it wasn’t toys, or games, or clothes, or sports equipment that I was locking into my lifelong memory bank. As it turns out, I guess it wasn’t the presents that were important to me. And I didn’t even realize any of this until just now. It just became oddly apparent to me that it was the “presence”, not the “presents” that really mattered.
Christmas wasn’t always such a happy time for me, however. In fact, there was a spell in my life when it was anything but. I found myself in my mid 30’s, single and living alone. I had given up on finding my soul mate, and had resigned myself to the knowledge that I would be spending many of my remaining holidays by myself. My mom had passed on, I wasn’t seeing anyone, my family was over 100 miles away, and my son had reached the age where I morphed from a super hero to a nuisance practically overnight. It’s that temporary, inevitable point in every parent/child relationship. I felt like I was a failure in every aspect of my life and the holidays did nothing but depress me. Thankfully, that era was short lived.
Just when my life was at its darkest point, a shining beacon appeared in the form of a beautiful, blue-eyed blond with the warmest smile I’d ever seen. I fell head over heels in love with her almost instantly. Shortly thereafter, I met a miniature version of her and fell in love again. Another beautiful blue-eyed blond with a great smile, only this one was two-years-old. As the holidays approached that year, I had a renewed enthusiasm about Christmas. I was getting to enjoy it through the eyes of a child again and my vigor was restored.
Next thing I knew, I was seated on the floor of my own living room at about 7:00 AM, ebullient and holding a video camera aimed up towards the top of my spiral staircase. A bedroom door opened and a gorgeous little cherub appeared rubbing the sleepiness out of her ice blue eyes. She stopped briefly at the top of the stairs and peered down to the room below. She saw the smiling faces of her mom and dad looking up at her. She saw the roaring fire in the fireplace. She saw the lit up, decorated tree now surrounded by a mountain of gifts which weren’t there when she went to bed. She knew right away that Santa had come during her slumber. The only time I’d ever seen two eyes get that big; they were on a cartoon cat whose tail had just been smashed by an anvil. The only time I’d seen a mouth open that wide, it was on the front end of a great white shark. If I live to be 150 years old, I will never, ever, forget that look on her pretty little face, and I don’t need the video to recall it. I was reminded at that very moment what my son had reminded me many years earlier. I knew why I was put on this earth. It felt wonderful to be so excited about Christmas again.
As you know, my wife and I have since added two more beautiful little girls to the mix, another precious blue-eyed blond, and an angelic, miniature female me. The former just enjoyed her first Christmas. More than likely, (assuming my bride doesn’t get her way), this was our last “baby’s first Christmas” so it was extra special to us. So on Christmas morning, I was perched behind my camera with a grin from ear to ear watching three sweet little girls, and one wonderful young man awaken to the magic that is Christmas. And I was once again reminded of what truly matters in life. I didn’t think it possible, but Christmas day is even more beautiful viewing it through the eyes of my kids than it ever was through my own eyes. Wishing each and every one of you, a safe and wonderful holiday season from my family to yours.
Syd Nichols
