Christmas Remembered

     When I was in elementary school, we lived in neighborhood with two other families who attended the same school. These mothers developed a complicated carpool system, that usually involved someone else picking my siblings and me up in the morning. However, sometimes, it would be the other way around. Miss Carrie would pile us into her green van, book bags and snack bags and all the other stuff that sticks to school children, making us feel as tightly jammed together as the pencils in our pencil boxes. When she pulled into our driveway, my little sister and I would gratefully roll out of the car into the blessed space of the front yard. Dragging book bags, snack bags, the day’s artwork and those giant poster-board “portfolios” we had to carry around, we’d run up the three steps to the front door—and then you could smell it—Christmas had arrived.

      I’d swing open the door and be overwhelmed by the cinnamon-fraser fir scent that always pervaded the house in December. We didn’t have a Christmas tree up yet, that would be a family outing later that night, but the house already smelled of Christmas tree. It wasn’t until years later I discovered a bottle of evergreen-scented air freshener in the Christmas card basket, solving one of the primary mysteries of my childhood. Amy Grant’s “Tender Tennessee Christmas” would be blaring from every speaker, and my mother would appear in the front entry, dish towel on her shoulder, a smile on her face, the warmth of the season in her voice. “Hey girls- how was school today? Make sure you put your book bags where they go and change out of your uniforms—I have a surprise in the kitchen when you’re done.” Mom’s surprises were almost always edible this time of year, so we scurried off to comply. 

      Our room would have the tiny white tree set out, with the pink ornaments our grandmother had given us on the dresser. The entire house would be spotless, the old hardwood floors gleaming in the afternoon sun. In the kitchen, bare feet on the graying linoleum, Mom would have set out miniature mugs of hot chocolate-they were dark green, about half the size of a “grown up” mug. Each place would have a paper towel with three snickerdoodle cookies on it. Jack and Wils would already be in high chairs, bibs under fat, drool-y chins, and Ellie in her booster seat. Annie and I would tell our mother about our days, while she moved around the kitchen, washing dishes, and completing the innumerable kitchen tasks that follow mothers of small children around. Yet, no matter how many tasks she was working on, she always managed to make us feel that we had her complete attention.

      After our snack, we were free to explore the living room, where the real magic lay. An empty tree stand would be sitting in front of the big front window, curtains pulled back to let in all the afternoon light. The hardwood would be cold under our feet, and we’d rush to the rug to take it all in. The TV cabinet would have an assortment of Santas on its top, snow globes would adorn other furniture, and the couches would be taken over by Christmas themed throw pillows. But best of all, tucked away in the corner, would be the book basket. Mom had a large white wicker basket the she kept all of our Christmas books in, and only pulled out once a year. Annie and I would sprawl on the rug, voraciously taking in “How the Grinch Stole Christmas,” “The Nutcracker,” “Carl the Christmas Dog,” and other favorites, feeling warm as the heater raged, desperately competing with the poor insulation of the beautiful old windows. We’d stay like that all afternoon, keeping the babies’ sticky fingers from tearing the beloved pages, practicing our halting reading skills trying to interest Ellie in “Frosty the Snowman,” until Daddy got home.

     We’d hear his key in the deadbolt, and drop everything to greet him at the door. 

“IT’S CHRISTMAS DADDY!”

“CAN WE GET A TREE?!”

“MOMMY MADE COOKIES!”

“CAN YOU READ THIS TO ME?!”

All of these requests were made while jumping around him in a circle, with Jack and Wils pulling up on his legs, keeping a constant stream of “Da da da da da da da da” as a background percussion to our higher pitched excitement. Gently disentangling himself from the mass of limbs surrounding him, Dad would lean down from his six feet and four inches to kiss my five foot zero inches mother. “SILENCE!” he would boom cheerfully, catching our attention in order to answer all of our questions once—it would work on everyone but the boys, who would still be crawling around his feet, steadily keeping their “da da da” refrain, until her reached down and scooped them both up. “Tonight, we will all be doing whatever your mother says we will be doing!” was his pronouncement, and we would happily return to our books to wait for dinner, because we all knew Mommy was as excited about Christmas as we were—and would undoubtedly take us to buy a tree that very night.