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.