Christmas Eve, Revisited

When I was growing up, it wasn’t until the day before Christmas that my parents put up the tree. This was quite an undertaking and it wasn’t until I grew up that I realized how difficult this job must have been every year. They never used the conventional tree stand we see everywhere today. For all I know, this helpful item hadn’t yet been invented and marketed in the mid 1950’s through the ‘60’s--the Christmas years of my childhood memories. The tree, which had been purchased up to a week beforehand, was stored safely and lovingly outside, propped up in some protected corner of the house. It often acquired a sprinkling of snow which helped keep it happy and fresh.

When the time came to set up the tree, my mother brought forth a sturdy bucket in which it was set and gravel was poured in and around it. We had a long gravel driveway but surely this wasn’t the source of the stuff year after year. We’d have had no driveway left in a few years so where did this mysterious gravel come from? I honestly don’t know. Two thin lines of twine were attached to the upper part of the trunk and radiated out and attached to nails or screws fastened into the walls to help hold the tree straight and steady. We always had a good-sized dog around with an energetic tail so it was imperative that the tree was well secured. Once the tree was up, my dad proceeded to take on that time-honored chore of all dads and put the lights on; lights with bulbs bigger than nightlight bulbs and those fanciful, wonderful "bubble lights".

The tree was now ready to be decorated and my mother took over. The privilege of helping her with this pleasant task was not granted until one reached the age of some semblance of knowledge of symmetry in the placement of ornaments; maybe somewhere around eight years old? All my siblings had already arrived at this point when I was born. Here was a classic example of desperately trying to catch up with the rest of my family, an on-going effort throughout my youth. Once the tree was finished, mother swirled a white sheet around the base of the tree. Not even one present was visible but it was all ready for the much anticipated, annual visit from Santa Claus. For many years I had a stuffed white cat that I left in front of the tree before I went to bed. It was always moved to the back the next morning and my childish reasoning was certain only Santa could’ve moved it. This fact, even more so than the appearance ofgifts, was concrete evidence that the jolly old elf had actually visited my house.

I remember sitting on the sidelines watching the gradual, magical transformation of the tree take place before my eyes. Then, at some point late in the afternoon, I was hustled off to my bedroom for a nap. Why? Our whole family went to the late night Christmas eve church service at All Saints Episcopal Church and no one wanted the company of a tired, cranky child. This was the one time in the whole year I loved going to church. I knew that instead of some long, boring sermon and even more boring Sunday School, there was going to be the best kind of singing in my young opinion, the singing of Christmas carols and lots of them! Our church was always beautifully decorated with lots of wreaths, garlands and candles. My mother was a member of the choir and I always felt such pride watching my beautiful mother singing in the church choir each Sunday and especially on this special night. Evidently this sight was laying the foundation for my future love of singing four-part harmonies in future choruses and choirs which I joined in the years to come. Add all of this to the rare opportunity of staying up late and Santa’s impending visit and I was in little kid heaven.

When we returned home from church on Christmas Eve it was quite late and time for bed (for me, at least). Even though we had a fireplace and mantle from which to hang one, I never hung my stocking there. Instead, I attached a large sock to the side of my bed at the end with a big safety pin with care, of course! I favored one of my big brother’s hiking socks as it was sturdy and quite roomy. On this most wondrous of all nights, no self-respecting kid could ever sleep a wink. All through the night I would reach down and check the status of my stocking. Limp. Limp, sigh! Would he ever get here?...and then, finally, I would make contact with a bulging, crackling, temptingly full of who-knew-what Christmas stocking. It was perhaps then that I was able to finally go to sleep for an hour or two. I always waited until Christmas morning to open my stocking and as I got older, I became savvy enough to have crayons, scissors and pencils handy by to help keep myself occupied until it was safe to even think about venturing out to the living room to see if Christmas had started yet.

In later years, I would sometimes get up and tip-toe to within sight of the tree just to take in the bounty that always appeared as if by magic around the tree. I don’t think it was a sense of greed or materialistic longing but the sight of a beautiful Christmas tree with colorfully wrapped presents set all around it, pristine and untouched, was always one of my favorite sights. It still is! I never touched anything and returned to my room until I heard sounds of people finally getting up. This was the signal that Christmas was finally about to begin. There was always what seemed like a multitude of gifts for all of us. The love which ebbed and flowed among us was palpable and the stuff from which the most indelible Christmas memories are made. These are memories I have within me for as long as my memory remains intact.

I thank my parents for creating these wonderful times for me and my siblings and for themselves as well. I’d like to think my children will one day look back on the Christmases of their youth with similar fondness and affection.