It seems as though I should be writing a holiday post. I feel this odd responsibility to comment on what for most is the biggest holiday of the year. To talk about the shopping and the cooking and the traveling and the family and, maybe most of all, the memories.
Yet I feel very still inside. Quiet.
And though during this past holiday week bits of blogs have floated through my head, equivalent to sugar plums of old I suppose, nothing has demanded to be committed to digital paper. Nothing has caused me to stop what I was doing and rush to the computer to get it down, to edit, find the right words, rethink the meaning, tell the story. Oh I’ve done plenty of reading; lots of other blogs and articles about the meaning of Christmas. I’ve gone down plenty of other people’s holiday lanes and connected with their memories which are so much like my own.
Christmas Eve I watched Andy Williams and his three brothers in a compilation of his Christmas shows on PBS and smiled a lot. OK. I’m old, but watching the 4 brothers sing in their outlandishly awful color coordinated outfits just made my evening. And cooking dinner with my Aunt on Christmas Day was pretty special too. But it was an uncharacteristically quiet holiday.
Which is not a bad thing.
I’ll leave you with one memory that might get you thinking. I saw this idea on a Christmas special that one of the local networks did. They were interviewing their cast and each was asked if they could go back to one specific Christmas – – which one would it be? Think about that. Can you pick just one?
Mine would be the Christmas of 1964. I was eight, my brothers and sister younger and we were all upstairs that Christmas Eve having our baths before bed. Of course we were anxiously waiting for Santa to arrive with presents, but some of us weren’t quite sure we believed. We had hung little metal bells all along the lower branches of the Christmas tree so that we’d hear him putting packages under the tree. If he was real. I’m quite sure Mom and Dad were upstairs with us as well when we heard the faint tinkle of a bell downstairs. Our eyes got big. We wanted to run down the stairs in our footed pajamas to catch Santa in the act. Then again, we knew if we did that he’d never visit us again. So we didn’t. We stayed upstairs and climbed into our warm beds and smiled from ear to ear. Because that year we knew that Santa was very real.
That’s my special Christmas memory. Special because we were all young and innocent, even Mom and Dad; we were warm and happy and excited and most importantly, we were all together. What’s your special Christmas memory? I’d like to hear about it. Sharing makes the memories permanent, and all good memories deserve to be shared.
I hope all of you had the perfect holiday, whatever that means to you and your family. And I wish for you an extraordinary 2015.
Happy New Year!