Christmas Past - P1.

When I was growing up, Christmas came with a definite schedule. It kind of had to. Being a child of divorce I know what scheduling means.


Christmas Eve I was always with my dad, Christmas Day I was always with my mom. That’s how it always was.

Christmas Eve morning my dad would pick me up and we would spend the day at my grandmother’s house. She’d be bustling about in the kitchen, from whence the most delicious smells would pour fourth, and we children were usually relegated to the living room, where one responsible adult (or one of the older cousins) would make sure none of us youngins dug into the presents too soon.

It was invariably raining. That’s pretty much all the sky does in December on the southern coast of Oregon. And when we weren’t playing “Button Button, who’s got the button” on the steps or reading the hardbound Little Bear Books, or playing cards, we were staring out the window at the soggy cows, chewing on their soggy grass.

The Christmas tree was one my dad or uncles had pulled off the property somewhere, it was usually a spruce and very pokey. My grandmother strung it with bulbs from a bygone era, which looked sure to light the boughs on fire if lit for more than a few hours. There was never a tree fire, though. The ornaments, possibly new when my father – the eldest child – was a toddler, were strewn about amid strings of cranberry and popcorn, candy canes and Cards, tucked into the fray.

Each year, at about three, we’d sit down at the tables, bow our heads to say grace and then we stuffed our faces with the delightful creations my grandmother proffered.

After dinner everyone gathered in the living room and gifts were exchanged. Names were drawn at thanksgiving to see who would get who what. And so the gifts would be handed out and we would go around the circle, each person opening their gift before moving to the next.

In later years, after my father remarried, we would return home and my step siblings would open the presents I got them and I would open the presents I received from them. I was never allowed to open my stocking there – because I received the same general things as everyone else, so my step mom would usually hand me a small brown paper bag and I would put it with the rest of my things, unable to open it until Christmas morning at my mother’s house.

And then we would wait.

Christmas Eve meant Midnight service. We would leave for church just about 10:30pm and arrive for the service that started at 11. This was probably my favorite church service all year. #1, I got to stay up late, and #2, I got to sing a ton of Christmas songs.

The church Christmas tree was enormous. What do you do when you have 30ft ceilings? You get a 25ft Christmas tree. As everyone squeezed into pews with people who weren’t seen but that one service a year, any signs of grogginess quickly faded with the excitement

The service always culminated with the lighting of candles (handed out to each person as they entered the sanctuary) and singing Silent Night. One of the ushers would flip the breaker to turn off the lights and the hundred+ people who showed up for this service would sing that haunting carol to the flicker of the small white candles. (One year, the choir director’s daughter somehow forgot she was holding a candle and that she’d put on liberal amounts of hairspray… I think we all know what happened…)

And then we’d adjourn to the social hall where someone brought smoked salmon every year… and a cheese loaf… and there was hot chocolate.

And then My dad would drop me off at home and I would crawl into my bed, forgetting the presents and then unopened “stocking” and fall into an exhausted sleep.

(Tomorrow, Christmas Day)