Christmas

I love Christmas. It's fun; it's happy, and it can be celebrated in many different ways. When I was little, the focus was on Santa Claus and presents. Everything was magical and filled with wonder for me. I knew all the religious stories, and tried to remember about baby Jesus, but none of that could compare to the strange story of a jolly fat man who traveled around the world in a sleigh pulled by reindeer that could fly. I accepted everything. It didn't matter to me that none of it made sense. It was exciting, and everyone I knew shared in the excitement.

When I found out that Santa Claus was just a made up story to keep kids entertained and occupied in the days before Christmas, I still retained some of the magic because it meant I was now one of the grown-ups. I could share in the make-believe, and make sure my younger siblings didn't find out the truth. I was allowed to stay up later and help wrap presents.  I could pretend with my older brother and sister that tonight Santa was coming and we had to go to bed early and make sure we were asleep before he got to our house. That was fun, too.

During the years in between growing up and giving birth to my daughter, I lost my way. I became embroiled in the rush and stress of the holidays, and believed I had to make Christmas the perfect holiday. I had to include a creche in my decorations, and make sure everyone knew that I remembered what Christmas really stood for. I made sure I attended church in the weeks before the holiday so I wouldn't be seen as one of those people who attended church on the holidays only. I became very self-righteous, and tried my best to be the perfect Christian. Of course, I failed, and became miserable at the very time of year when I was supposed to be happy.

My daughter saved me. Through her eyes I was able to see Christmas as a child again. I regained all the joy and happiness I had lost. Christmas once again became a fun and wonderful holiday. Even after she grew up I was able to forget the Christmas story and stay focused on the Santa Claus story. I hope I never lose that sense of magic again.

Keys

Last night I was thinking about a time when I was very young and wondering if what I remember is real or just what I've heard growing up. It seems that when I was very young, maybe one or two years old, my father left me alone in the car while he was throwing out or picking up something from the very back of our yard.. While he was gone, which must have been just a few minutes, the key to the car disappeared.  Of course, I was the only person around, so my father figured I had taken it and dropped it somewhere. After asking me and then checking the car, I guess he gave up. That's the part I can't remember.

What I can remember or think I remember, is sitting in the car with the key in my hand and trying to find the place where it was supposed to go, before my father came back and found me with the key. I finally saw these openings right in front of me on the dashboard, and when I put the key in one, it disappeared. When my father came back, I couldn't tell him what had happened, but I seem to remember trying to point to the opening. I was so frightened at what I had done, that I can't remember what happened after that. I'm sure my father was angry, and even if his anger was directed at me or not, I was still afraid of his loud voice.

Whenever I heard this story as I got older, my father and the others would be laughing so I think he must have eventually found the key. However, even to this day I've never been able to get past angry voices directed at me, and the feeling of helplessness which they cause.

Sisters

Sometimes I have memories of playing happily with my two younger sisters. Most of our play consisted of games we made up. We never had many toys but we did have our imaginations. The two homes we lived in as children had large yards which extended into wooded areas owned by us or by some unknown stranger. We liked to explore these woods and never worried about ownership.

On those few days when we stayed inside, we played with favorite toys received over the years. Mine were a ballerina doll with a pink tutu and slippers, a baby doll that smelled wonderful, paper dolls of characters from one of Gordon MacRae's musicals, and the Sears and Roebucks catalog from which we cut out our own paper dolls. My sisters and I usually received identical gifts at Christmas so we each had a baby doll, but only I had the ballerina doll and the Gordon MacRae paper dolls. I'm sure my sisters also had favorite toys they played with but I don't remember. I was happy with my toys.

As we got older our interests changed. I spent about half of my time by myself reading; my youngest sister started playing more with our younger brother; and my younger sister seemed to spend a lot of time daydreaming. When she wasn't daydreaming, she used to draw and write poetry. We still spent time together playing but our school activities made us realize that we were different.

I was always the first family member in each class because of my age, and usually when my sister came along, the teachers would call her by my name, and talk about when I was in their classes. I know they would compare her to me and expect her to be just like me. I can't imagine how she felt because, although I had an older sister, she was seven years older and we never even attended the same schools. I can imagine, though, how I would have felt if I had always been compared to an older sister who was there first.

Although close for awhile when we finished school, my younger sister and I have drifted apart again. We live in different states and don't see each other much. We've tried to keep in touch but I prefer email and my sister prefers telephones and regular mail. We lead very different lives, and have no friends in common. Even though she told me once that she'd gotten over her hatred of my big-sister attitude, I fear that the resentment is still there. We've been communicating recently by email about a serious issue concerning another family member, and every time I disagree with one of her suggestions, she reacts badly. It's gotten to the point where I feel I need to step away from the discussion, and give her time to see me once again as just a sister and not the bossy, big sister she often hated.

Nursing Homes

When I was still in school, my maternal grandfather came to live with us. My father had a shed off the kitchen made into a bed/sitting room for him and he moved in. Everything went well for several years, but while I was in college, he started having some physical problems, mainly, moving around easily. He would get up during the night to use the bathroom, lose his balance and fall. My mother's bedroom wasn't far away and he would call for her to come help him. He also had started having memory problems and didn't always know where he was. She was working during the day and between worrying about him while she was at work and losing sleep at night, she realized she needed to make a decision about how to  care for him. Her five brothers and sisters told her to put him in a nursing home and they would help pay for it. She found a place not far from where we lived and he moved in. He was put in a room with another old man, and seemed to be comfortable.

My mother would visit him as often as she could and he would tell her he wanted to come home. This upset her, and caused her to worry about whether she had done the right thing. Then, after a few weeks, she got a call from the nursing home telling her that my grandfather had tried to escape. He had told his roommate that he was getting out of that place, and encouraged him to come along. The two of them had almost made it out of the building before being caught. My mother called her siblings and told them she was bringing him home, and they had better help her make a decision about what to do. He was never sent back to that home, and they found other arrangements for him, not necessarily better, but at least safer.

I often chuckle whenever I picture my 90+ grandfather making a break for it with his feeble roommate and I feel proud of him, and also sad, but I can't help wondering why we don't have better alternatives for our aging relatives.

Dreams

Every so often I'll have a dream in which my mother appears. I think of it in this way because she's never the main character of my dreams but she usually makes a very definite appearance. Sometimes she's with other members of my family; sometimes she appears among people I know but whom she never met. These dreams are always pleasant, and I usually wake feeling not exactly happy, but thankful. I was young when she died, and I now realize that she was also young. She died at the same age that I am now.

I very seldom talk about my mother's death, but I think about her life a lot. I wonder about many things that I never thought to ask her when we were together. My father was her second husband and I've never really been sure if she loved him as much as she did her first husband. She used to tell me that she married him because he was a good man and she knew he would treat her and her children well. And then, as the years went by, she realized she loved him. I've always wondered if she was telling me the truth or if she suddenly remembered she was talking to his daughter and included the "love" part to make me feel better.  I think the reason I never asked her about this was because I was afraid to find out the truth.

Her death changed much about my life. I was married at the time with a young child. I was very close to my mother and visited her several times a week. Her house was on my way to work and I would stop in to spend a few minutes with her. Sometimes we had a friendly conversation, and other times she would say something that irritated me and I would lash out at her. But we always ended on a happy note, mainly because she was usually willing to overlook my anger...usually, but not always. There were times when our goodbyes were strained when we parted. I never worried about this because I knew her love for me was real, and more importantly, she understood me.

When my daughter was born, my husband and I were staying with my parents while we built our house, which we moved into when she was two months old. Just before her first birthday, she burned her hand on our wood stove, and I think that started me thinking that I wanted to stay home and care for her. So almost a year after we moved into our new home, I resigned my position. It was a difficult decision to make because I had always worked, even while in school, but my daughter showed me that she was more important to me than any of these other things.

My mother and father were always available whenever I needed them and they became very close to their granddaughter. We visited often and even stayed with them again when we were building another house. They went to Disney World with us one year, and another year took their granddaughter on a trip to visit my older sister and her family. This closeness continued until my mother's death. My daughter was so young at the time that she really didn't understand what death meant, and she took my mother's death very hard. It wasn't until a few years later, and after she had gotten to know her other grandmother better, that she was able to let go of her grief.

Every so often I will have a dream in which my mother and daughter appear, and this makes me very happy.

Summer Days

My grandson has finished his last week at the local Parks & Rec summer camp. It was an amazing time and he loved every minute. He's such a wonderful boy and deserved to have a great summer.

It brought back memories of my summer vacations. In those days most of us made our own fun. I knew of one or two kids who went away to camp but otherwise we all stayed in town. Most summers were spent with my family and I lost touch with my school friends. My sisters, younger brother and I played games, sometimes alone and sometimes with a few of the neighbor kids; roamed the neighborhood exploring; or traveled uptown to the library. The days seemed to stretch on forever but we were hardly ever bored and enjoyed our vacation immensely.

I don't remember much about what my older brother and sister were doing. My sister spent one or two summers working at the local sardine cannery and my brother was probably out with his friends. We never saw them much because when they were home, they were on the phone or watching TV. My sister was involved with the church even then and was probably making plans for her religious future. I really don't remenber much of what my brother did except for one time when he frightened us almost to death. We were walking uptown with him and he decided to show off by walking along on the top of the railing of the bridge that we used to cross the river. This river was shallow at that point and filled with big boulders. If he had fallen, he probably would have been killed.

I loved summer until the last few weeks when I would start missing school. Reading and playing with anyone who was available kept me entertained. Our games were simple. One game we played after a long day of running around was to sit on the edge of our front lawn and count the cars that went by. We lived on a State road but when I was young the cars were few. Once in awhile my older brother joined us and amazed me by being able to name the make and model of each car we saw. Another time we heard about a local farm that was hiring kids to pick vegetables, and my mother said we could go. I don't remember what we picked but I do remember that we were paid by the pound, and we were all proud of ourselves for earning some spending money.

My grandson has a much different life now but he enjoys summer in the same way. Days of nothing to do but have fun is the best memory he can have.

Cruel Fun

The town I grew up in was lily white. I never saw a person of another race until I was in college. The teachers in my schools, the people in my church, everyone was white,  and as far as I knew, all Christian. But when I was in fourth grade, one of my teachers was Jewish, I think.

I only knew about Jews from what I learned in Sunday school and of course, what I learned later in history lessons about WWII. Then my fourth grade teacher came along and made sure we learned something about the holocaust at a young age.

I don't remember much about my teacher. She was fairly young and dark-haired. I'm assuming she learned what she told us from her family or from people her family knew. Or she may have been given the information from someone she knew, or read about it somewhere, and had no personal connection to it. Whichever it was, she told her story very dramatically as if to make sure we never forgot, and I have never forgotten one especially graphic part of it.

I can still see her in my mind's eye, standing in front of the class, talking. She told us some scary things about what happened to the Jews  during the war. I imagine the parts I don't remember were the usual accounts brought back by news reporters and soldiers. These accounts were upsetting but were soon forgotten. However, the one story that I have never forgotten is the one about German soldiers killing Jewish babies. She described an especially heinous method that still makes me feel chilled. It involved soldiers, bayonets, Jewish mothers and their babies, and someone's idea of cruel fun.

I haven't thought about this teacher in years, but thinking back about my school years brought her to the forefront. I don't know why she thought she had to frighten 9 and 10 year old children with this graphically told story, but she must have thought she had a good reason. After that year she didn't return to teaching in my town. Maybe some of my classmates went home and repeated the story to their parents and those parents complained.

I just hope she didn't think of it as her own cruel joke.

Religious Freedom

When I was in third grade, my classroom was next to a class whose teacher was also the principal of the school. It was a small school but new and my class was there only temporarily. I never knew why except that it had something to do with our old school having some repairs done. I don't remember who my teacher was but I'll never forget the teacher next door.

Our principal was an older woman, or at least she seemed that way to me, and she was very strict and stern. We were all afraid of her. She would stand in the doorway of her classroom and watch everything that was going on. If she saw any of the students not acting appropriately, she would immediately call them to her. I never wanted to be noticed by her so I always behaved. I never actually saw her hollering at anyone but I just knew she could and would. Later that year we were moved to the other school and I assume she remained where she was.

My older brother went to school with one of her daughters and I remember my parents talking about the family once in awhile. Apparently they used to attend the church where my family went but left, supposedly because of the minister. I never knew what the problem between them and our minister was but I didn't really care because I liked him and his family. I was happy at our church. After my brother graduated from high school, he went to college and at some point started dating this teacher's daughter. They eventually got married and she and her mother came to be a part of our family, and I found that she was nothing like the teacher I thought I knew.

My brother and his wife never attended our church, or any other church. This made my mother unhappy but she never talked about it. After she died, my brother and sister-in-law started attending our old church which now had a new minister. They have become very active in the church and seem like different people. The new minister is very evangelical bordering on fanaticism and my brother seems to like this.

I often wonder if my brother feels guilty about my mother's unhappiness at his refusal to attend church and is trying to make it up to her. More importantly, he is making sure he will spend eternity with her. I feel sad about this. Not that he has a religion that gives him peace but that he feels he needs to go to extremes in his beliefs, which include judging other people and believing that everyone who doesn't believe as he does will go to hell. He's reached the same place that my older sister is in and I don't feel comfortable around either of them. Their religious beliefs have put barriers between us.

The Public System

In a way, education and religion are very similar. Teachers, as opposed to religious leaders, are the gods of education whereas in religion the god is out "there" somewhere. This difference is basically the only one.

Teachers have the true way of knowledge and only their way is right. Students must follow and obey without question. Any attempt at independent thinking is immediately eradicated. Most students find that learning what they're told to learn by their Teacher is easier and safer. After all, Teachers have the power to allow them to succeed or fail. It all comes down to self-preservation.

I was like all the others. I believed what my teachers told me and learned what was in my textbooks. My parents believed we were getting a good education. Although, according to some of the stories my parents told us of their school days, they may not have believed completely in the education system, but that was all there was. Thankfully my parents had a thirst for knowledge and read whenever they had a chance. This example is what saved all of us.

I know good teachers exist. I've met a few. Most of my teachers, however, were either worn out from the conflicts and politics they faced every day or just plain ended up in the wrong profession. Whatever the reason, the results are the same. Students don't learn much while they are in school. The lucky ones find ways to continue to learn after school. The not so lucky ones have no interest in continuing with anything even slightly resembling education. These are the future leaders of our country.

Family Dinners

Dinner with the family, supposedly one of the mainstays of American life, didn't happen very often in my house when I was little. My father worked nights, ate his main meal at noon and took his lunch to work. When we were in school, we usually ate school lunch and that was considered our main meal. In the evening, we ate a simple meal that my mother always called supper. Dinner was the noon meal. Since my older brother and sister were quite often late getting home, they ate whenever they got there.

On Sunday however, we all ate dinner together. It was usually a special meal for us and we looked forward to it, especially since it followed a long morning at church. We were always served meat along with potatoes and vegetables. The meat was usually beef prepared in different ways to stretch it among eight people. Vegetables were usually cheap so we were given plenty of those, and of course, there was always bread.

Our kitchen was small and even though we had a separate dining room, we always ate our family meals in the kitchen. My father removed the table-and-chairs set-up because we couldn't fit that many chairs in the space alloted. He built an L-shaped bench in the corner and placed the table next to it. I think we had room for three chairs at the table. The kids sat on the bench, my father sat at the head, and my mother sat next to him on the side next to the stove. The youngest sat next to my mother. It was crowded but I remember it with pleasure. The food was always good, the conversation was lively (we were all talkers), and my father often entertained us with stories of his life as a child.

We never had much money but my father had a good union job and he kept us supplied with the basics. I remember growing up knowing that we didn't have money for "extras" but I never felt deprived. It wasn't until I went out on my own that I realized my family was part of the working poor, and my mother had to scrape together enough money each week to pay the bills. There was never anything left over. Yet they encouraged all of us to continue our education after high school and managed to contribute something to what we earned on our own. I think my sense of security and well-being began at those family dinners and gave me the confidence to continue on to my future.

Presents for the Teacher

When I was in elementary school, everyone gave the teacher a present at the end of the year, I guess to thank her for all her hard work. Nothing was ever said about this but all the parents seemed to know. My mother had six kids and finding gifts for the teacher for each of her kids must have been worrisome. Luckily, the practice didn't continue after the fifth grade, and luckily, my mother had a good imagination and the assurance to act on what she felt was acceptable.

Our yard was crowded with flowering shrubs in the spring. It was a beautiful time of year and I loved to watch the blossoming of one shrub after another. If I had been gifted with a talent for painting, I would have painted these flowers. However, even though I enjoyed their color and fragrance, I wasn't prepared to see them as appropriate gifts for the teacher. My mother disagreed. Every year on the last day of school my mother sent me outside to cut a large bouquet of lilacs to bring to school. Now, I loved lilacs, still do, but I was embarrassed to bring this bouquet to school as my gift for my teacher. None of the other kids brought flowers. They all brought gifts that their mothers had bought at the local store. Little trinkets that seemed so much more appropriate for the teacher than what I had brought lined her desk for all to see. I never noticed that my gift always held center stage in a vase placed front and center on her desk.

Doctors and Sickness

When my siblings and I were sick with various childhood diseases, it was usually at the same time. I'm sure my older brother and sister brought the diseases home from school where they spread through the entire family, even infecting my mother and father at times.

We suffered through measles, chicken pox, scarletina, mumps, pneumonia and meningitis before I was seven years old. My father always blamed it on the germs hiding in the crevices of our old house which was at one time a schoolhouse. He said with all those sick kids mingling together in one room it would be natural for the walls to be permeated with sickness. Whatever it was, my poor mother had from two to six kids to care for each time, and at one time, my father, too. When we all got sick with scarletina, both my parents got sick. My mother always claimed she and my father were sick at different times so at least one of them felt well enough to care for the others. I'm not sure I believe that. Of course besides all these sicknesses, we were also infected with cold and flu viruses. I can't imagine what they went through.

When I was seven, we moved to a different town and all of us were exposed to a different set of infections. Those of us who didn't get sick with mumps, chicken pox and pneumonia  the first time got them this time. I remember my younger siblings and I being sick with mumps at the same time. I then caught a cold which developed into pneumonia and my older brother managed to get sick, too. This was his second time with pneumonia. My younger brother escaped chicken pox the first time but he caught it the second time. Again, my mother bore the brunt of the care.

In those days doctors made house calls. We lived in small towns and everyone knew each other. The doctor in the first town was a crotchety old guy, but he managed to find the way to cure my younger sister of meningitis when none of the big city doctors at the hospital could. She almost died. He also attended all of us at home when we were sick with the other diseases. In the second town our doctor was a member of our church and lived just down the hill from us. He also made house calls. One time when I was trying out my brother's brand-new birthday scooter and managed to fall and put a big gash just below my right knee, he drove to our house, inspected the damage, and then loaded my older sister and I into his car and took me back to his office for stitches. I guess he knew I would need someone to hold my hand and my sister was available. He also was the doctor who removed my tonsils. I can still remember him explaining about the ether mask and telling me to count backwards after he put it over my mouth and nose. The orangey smell is still with me.

My parents must have run up quite a medical bill in both towns, but no one that I knew of had insurance, so the doctors let them pay in installments. Even the hospitals used the installment plan for the births of myself and my younger siblings, and also for the time my sister was sick with meningitis. I don't know what they would have done otherwise.