My family’s insular little world had grown a little larger during previous couple of years. My parents, Marcia and I moved to Colorado the fall of 1964 so that my father could attend graduate school. My Aunt Jo, Uncle Bill, Jill and Rusty moved to Missoula earlier in 1965. This was the first Christmas both our families returned as visitors to our home town of Anaconda to celebrate Christmas. Crammed all together into my grandparent’s tiny home on Ogden Street, Christmas seemed the same as it always did except we were going to sleep at my grandparent’s house instead of going back to our own homes at the end of the night.
My Grandparent’s grocery store closed early on Christmas Eve Day so the whole family was gathered by sunset. The outdoor lights strung along the rain gutters on the eve of the roof on the west end of the house were lit and the porch light burned brightly. A presto log fire burned welcomingly in the Franklin stove in the back family room and the Christmas tree lights were on. A miniature village was spread out on the top my grandmother’s piano depicting a perfect little town with cottage style homes and a church with a New England style steeple. My sister and younger cousins were between 5 and 8 years younger than me so they played at little kid games and I tried to hang with the adults. I was 10 years of age and considered myself one of them.
Ice clinked in highball glasses as my grandfather mixed drinks with Walker’s Bourbon for adults. There were a couple of bottles of Mogen David Wine on the back counter waiting to be opened. It seemed odd to be me that we drank kosher wine. There were two Jewish families in town, the Goodman’s and the Rosenberg’s and I doubt they drank Mogen David. I hope someday I remember to ask one of the older members of the family why we drank kosher wine on holidays. We were Methodists not Jewish.
I can’t truly remember if it snowed that Christmas Eve but to make my memory of a perfect Christmas come to life, it had to have snowed and the snow had to have fallen softly with huge Currier and Ives flakes that floated down like they only can in dreams.
A Christmas ham, studded with cloves and rubbed with brown sugar, baked in the oven and the clean smell of the cloves drifted through the house. Potatoes and green beans simmered on the stove. My aunt carefully sliced the French bread in neat, even slices so we could spread garlic butter on them and warm them in the oven. Platters of spritz cookies sparkling with crispy speckles of coarse sugar and ornately decorated sugar cookies cut out in shapes like Santa, Christmas trees and Christmas bells were scattered around the house. The Santa cookies were intricately decorated with frosting so that Santa wore a red suit with snowy socks peeking out over the top of black boots and brightly colored presents burst out of the green bag slung over his shoulder. He wore a red hat trimmed with a tasty ribbon of white frosting. The Christmas trees were frosted green, with ribbons of garland lined back and forth across the cookies, and the trunks were frosted the color of tree bark. The bells were white with festive stripes of Christmas colors. Somewhere in the pantry there was separate stash of Spritz cookies baked especially by my grandmother for my father because he loved spritz cookies above all others.
The traditional Christmas Eve started with my family gathering together to visit before dinner. Even my Uncle Bob, the most socially active person I knew, came home to spend time with the rest of the family. He had left the previous year to start college in Missoula and he returned to visit for the winter break.
Remembering brings the warmth of family close to me again. The adult women, my mother, aunt and grandmother, wore dresses they had coordinated in advance. My father, uncle, grandfather and I wore white shirts and ties. It was time when we dressed up for dinner as if we believed that the best of times required the best of dress.
So the evening continued. We gathered around my grandparent’s dining room table and a couple of card tables set up in the living room so we could all sit down to eat. My grandfather led us in a grace blessing the night, the food and our being gathered together. We passed huge plates of food around and around again until flowery patterns painted on the platter showed through food piled on them. I remember laughter and lots of joyful conversation. When I hear stories about how Christmas played out in other people’s houses that involved anger, bitterness and fighting I am saddened for storyteller. The immense and abiding love my grandparents had for our whole family left only room for more love to be shared back with them. Their love simply overwhelmed any division that might have separated us. Ours was not a perfect family but perfection showed through us and the perfection originated with Grandma and Grandpa.
Dinner ended and the men and children drifted off to the back room where my uncle Bob had started a jig saw puzzle and the rest of us played board games like marbles. More laughter and the sound of plates, pots and pans clanking together echoed out of the kitchen. A new smell drifted throughout the house, the dizzyingly sweet smell of the sugary syrup for the suet pudding. Close behind the aroma came the inviting smell of warm milk that would serve as the first step of making of another tradition, oyster stew. Christmas Eve was in full swing. Outside, huge snowflakes flurried around, gently reflecting white, green, red and blue as they floated by the outdoor Christmas lights.
The time came for us to go to church for the Christmas Eve Candlelight service. We dressed up, the men wearing suit jackets and overcoats and the women put on dress coats and fancy hats. Marcia and Jill wore matching coats over the matching dresses specially sewed for them for this night. Even Rusty had on bowtie and he was not yet two. We went out into night and made the short drive to the Methodist Church downtown. I looked out the car window as we drove through the town, some houses were dark and others brightly lit. Traffic was light and what cars there were all seem to be headed toward downtown rather coming back toward us.
The painted red brick of the church reflected the brightness of the outdoor light over the foyer leading inside the church. Inside evergreen garlands lined the walls and windows of the church and a tall tree stood off to the side near the front of the church beside the minister’s lectern. We stamped our feet on the mats to knock the snow off our shoes after we entered through doors of the church. Ushers’ passed out small finger long candles for us to use later in the service. We sat together as a family in the congregation while my grandparents went back behind altar to sing in the choir.
The service began. My grandfather wearing his choir robe stood at smaller lectern on the right side of the altar and read the Christmas story from the Gospel of Luke. The choir sang “Joy to the World” with enthusiasm. Ruth Gustafson’s back was to us while she waved her arms up and down furiously directing the little choir to sing their epic best. Reverend Huff, in a flowing black robe and Roman collar, preached a fine sermon that focused the importance of families, of giving and the saving Grace that would come to us in the fullness of time, salvation that would be brought to us in the form of the tiny baby whose birth we celebrated that night.
It was then I heard the voice of an Angel. A dear friend of my Uncle Bob’s, Kay Jean Huber, a Catholic girl who, in the spirit of ecumenism that flowed out of second Vatican Council, was allowed to come to church to sing for us. She began to sing “O Holy Night” while my grandmother accompanied her on the piano. Her voice filled up our little church so completely and fully that the sound of her voice still echoes in the sweetness of memories that can only come from the best of Christmases. 40 years later I not only can still hear it when she reaches the climax of the chorus but I can feel it as if it were real. At times I wonder whatever happened to Kay Jean and if she knows that for one special night she sang a song so perfectly it is still a part of Christmas for every one of us today with a memory of the event.
Finally it was time for my favorite part of the service. Ushers went up and down the aisle with candle lighters and lit the candle of those who were sitting at the ends of the pews. Once the first candle was lighted, each person, in turn, lit the candle of the person sitting next to them until all candles were burning. The ceiling lights were turned down so the church was illuminated only by candlelight. We started to sing Silent Night. By the time we reached the last verse, every candle was being raised and lowered in unison. The faces of the people around me slowly brightened and then faded into shadows as the candles were raised and lowered. I did not want the song to end. The church lights came on and the magic of the moment erupted into small talk and Merry Christmas wishes shared amongst all in the sanctuary. After a time we left the church and went back out into dark and snowy night.
Back at the house I have always called home there was more to come. Each of the children, me included was allowed to open one gift. Mysteriously, we opened packages that contained new pajamas intended to be worn that Christmas Eve night. There were no more little boy pajamas for me with cartoon characters on the front or feet on the bottom. They were simply blue plaid and made from flannel like the ones I wear today. We laughed and talked more, sharing bowls of oyster stew. We passed plates of cookies and the younger people drank hot chocolate with little marsh mellows floating in the cup. It was finally time for Suet pudding, a Christmas tradition handed down through generations of my family until my grandmother was no longer around to make the pudding and the rest of us lost our taste for things so overwhelming sweet.
At the ripe old age of ten, I had reached a point of near disbelief in the tradition of Santa Claus. I was pretty sure Santa was imaginary and the gifts actually came from our parents. I was not completely convinced. While I desperately wanted to be an adult I was equally concerned I might miss out on the glory of Christmas morning by breaking faith from a belief in Santa.
I sucked up my strength and announced to the adults around me that I knew who Santa REALLY was and then pointed to my grandfather, uncle and father. That started a rousing discussion between us and I gained courage, challenging the “evidence” they presented that there really was a Santa. Finally the plate of cookies and a glass of milk was put out by the tree and I went to bed. I lay in my sleeping bag for what seemed to be an eternity imaging what the morning would bring. I knew I was right about the Santa thing but I hoped beyond hope that I was wrong. Finally after about 873 years I went to sleep.
When I finally woke up most everyone else was up and moving around. When there are 11 people sleeping under one roof in two bedroom house, everyone is committed to getting up and going to sleep at the same time. It was still early dawn and snow had stopped falling. Sunlight was just starting to filter through the windows. We gathered in the family room. The smell of coffee was strong and I heard the pot perking with fury as I passed by the kitchen on my way through the dining room headed to the back room.
The entire room seemed to have been filled with presents. They were stacked around the Christmas tree past my waist high. Ribbons, bows and shiny paper glittered as if they were animated by an unseen energy within them. My sister and cousin Jill chattered with excitement as they looked at all tags, looking for presents with their names on them. Rusty just jumped and down and pointed at the gifts.
At first I was stunned by the sight but then I started to feel all grown up and cockily thanked my parents for all the gifts.
“Santa brought them,” my father assured me.
“You are Santa,” I responded.
“No I am not,” he answered back. “Look,” he said, “The cookies and milk are gone.”
I was not impressed by that. “You ate them,” I said.
With a big smile he pointed outside door to the patio. “If you don’t believe me, look out there.”
I went over the door and looked out the window. I did not see anything unusual. “I don’t see anything out there,” I said.
“Look at the tracks in the snow,” he said back. I looked down at the floor of the patio. There were dozens of hoof prints in the snow with one set of boot prints leading up the door set in amongst all of the hoof prints.
My uncle’s voice came from behind. “Those are reindeer tracks. Santa’s reindeer.”
I flung open the door and there were hoof prints all up and down the sidewalk and driveway beside and in front of the little house. The unmistakable proof that Santa existed lay stamped in the snow beside my Grandparent’s house. There was one last Christmas where magic happened and I could hang in the narrow space painted in memory where reality gives way to belief in things that should be real.
I still believed in the miracle later that day as we drove away from my grandparent’s house and I saw that there was only one house on the block where the reindeer hoof prints could be seen. I believed, not because I really believed, or that I had to believe but I believed because I wanted to believe.
………………..
Time is not a friend of children. Memories of things that delighted us can come to haunt us if we view events of the past as things we have lost. The hauntings can become so tightly woven into the tapestry of life that we lose the ability to feel the warmth of the fabric so we shy away from what we should wrap around us. Sometimes memories are hung over windows and they block the light that shines on the paths we are meant to walk on as we travel through life and we lose our way in the darkness. Time carries us forward into an unbidden future where uncertainties become certain but never in ways that we expect. It was a reality of time that the Christmas when I found the reindeer tracks was the last Christmas of my childhood even though I was far from being a grownup for several years thereafter.
In October the following year my father died suddenly. The first Christmas after that came to a family forever shattered by loss. I don’t remember much about that Christmas but I do remember this.
I was loved as much as I always been and I have come to appreciate that I still completely loved.
It is a miracle of life when memories that once haunted us can once again bring us delight. I have already been given the best gift I will receive this year for Christmas. I have been given the gift of remembering all Christmas’s past without regret. I am able to walk down the corridors of my memory and look into each room where the treasures and hurts of our family are stored to and to embrace them.
As I stand in doorway of room where the memories of the last Christmas when I believed in Santa are stored, the power of the real message of Christmas washes over me.
The message is not about presents or snow falling softly on a gentle night. It is about the sermon Reverend Huff delivered all those year ago. Christmas is when we celebrate the birth of hope in this world, hope that comes in a message of love carried on the wings of grace that transcends time and place. Miracles happen again every time we remember them because they bring with them the ability heal a soul that is in pain. Miracles, like memories, are timeless.
Living now in the afternoon looking back at a moment in the morning of life, I suppose I could have been angry that the adults’ worked together to encourage me to continue belief in a fairytale. I could have been disappointed they did not accept my understanding of things that belong to grownups and having been denied the right to be grownup and to have been treated as a child. I am none of those things. I can smile and remember the morning I still believed.
I want to tell the story of the Christmas of 1965 to honor every member of my family because they are such an important part of my life. I also tell the story not just for them but also for their families so they will hear about a special Christmas when the circles of time and space that bound us together were small and we could grab them and hang on. Our children should know they come from a heritage of love. I also tell the story because the telling makes it real again and I cling to things are real. We all do.
It is good we take time to remember the love my grandparents had for each other, the love they had for their children and for their grandchildren. We also need to tell the story of that love to a fourth generation, our children. God created us in His image so that we might know His love and to love Him in return. Families are called to make the love of God real in this world through our love for each other even though we lack full understanding of how to love. All we can do is to remember we love each other and let God take care of the rest.
Miracles happen when we have the faith to believe. I believe in Santa. This story is a gift to you from him.
Merry Christmas.
