I have been enjoying all the seasonal memories and will add mine. Happy Holidays to one and all.
In 1963-64, my husband had a one-year grant to Harvard. Since the Russians had stunned the world by putting up Sputnik, there was a lot of National Science Foundation money floating around for American science teachers. Although my husband was the Biology instructor at the very new Peninsula Community College, and his work not closely related to space exploration, he was awarded a grant to study whatever he wanted at Harvard for a year.
My parents lived in the Everett area. His lived in Seattle. Our two boys, ages 8 and 5, were the only grandchildren on either side of the family. We had spent each Christmas of our married life shuttling between the two families. Presents opened at one location on Christmas Eve, the other location for Christmas morning. My husband and I both wondered silently just how this Christmas in Cambridge, "alone" was going to be.
Right after Thanksgiving, the two boys and I started making decorations for the tree. We certainly had not had room in the stuffed U-Haul trailer we pulled across the country for anything non-essential like decorations. We found lots of inexpensive supplies at near-by shops and had great fun being inventive. I did dread, though, what the tree was going to look like with out the traditional lights. Of course, it turned out to be one of our favorite trees of all time.
On Boston TV, there was a local children's program featuring Bozo, the Clown. The boys quickly became devoted fans. Sometime in the early fall, I had written the show for tickets. Even that far in advance, we got two tickets for the Christmas Eve show, to be broadcast in the late afternoon. There again, I wasn't sure that was such a good time to be going but it turned into a favorite memory for the boys. The eight-year-old even had the chance to tell a joke, very corny, on the program. We had gone to the TV station via subway, an adventure in and of itself for our boys.
The Boston area had lots of snow that winter and it was snowing seriously that Christmas Eve day. We had heard, even before we left Port Angeles, of a very famous restaurant, Durgans Park, upstairs in Faneuil Hall in Boston, where the waitresses were known for being crabby. The restaurant was said to be very rustic, of course very old, as were the waitresses. But the menu was renown, not to be missed. So, again via subway, we made our way there. The windows were dirty but we could see, against the street lights, that the snow was still coming down heavily. I can't remember what the others had but I had lobster. The boys had never seen their mother wearing a bib before so that caused quite a sensation. Our youngest son, kindergarten age, was not known for being an enthusiastic eater. He was doing his normal job of moving food around the plate. Our waitress, determined not to disappoint us, came over and loudly announced that, if he did not hurry up and clean up his plate, she would let Santa Claus know not to bring him any presents. All of us maintained our composure and he went to work without delay.
To get the Cambridge subway for our trip home, we walked across Boston Commons. Of course, hardly anyone was still out and about since it was at least 7PM by this time. Not even the sounds of cars intruded. In the silence of the new snow, we saw a wonderland. Everywhere we looked were leafless trees, hundreds of them, decorated with tiny white lights, something we had never seen before. We felt as if something magical had occurred. To be all alone here took on a new meaning - not the alone we had dreaded when we left Port Angeles. But just the four of us together, living this moment. Even the boys were in awe. On the other side of the park, the spell was broken as we caught the subway, but when we got out in Cambridge, the silence and solitude decended again. We walked in the middle of the deserted street -Mass Ave. - normally so busy. We had a mile to walk and we enjoyed every moment in that world where we were the only people.
In our big, warm apartment, there was our tree, resplendant with our homemade decorations. There we were, just the four of us. We opened presents and sang carols as my husband and I discovered that the four of us together were not alone. I think the boys already knew that. It was a truly memorable Christmas, never to be recaptured except in our memories.
My parents' relationship was a convoluted one...they were both romantic, complex and tortured people...and our family life was the stuff of a southern novel. But something always congealed as the holidays approached, and us kids (there are 3) and our parents were able to both create and visit a deep well of bonding, recognition and love that sustained us all in the long and usually difficult other 11 months of the year.
We were a military family during most of my growing up years, and the inherent rootlessness made our holiday rituals essential anchors that we could return to no matter where we were. It is these times from which so many of the family myths and memories emerge and us kids can still visit them with both poignance and hilarity.
We always had an Advent Calendar and I remember the delicious anticipation of opening the tiny window for each day as December unfolded. We looked with scorn on those who had to get their trees early on in the game. The "right" way, was, of course, to make the journey on the 24th (sometimes we cheated and got it a couple of days early) and then, and only then was the tree set up and decorated. We each had our jobs and the only time I ever remember seeing my father on a ladder was as he was entangled in the intimate embrace of Noma lights (you know...those big, colored lights that were the only option until the pretty dainties appeared many years later) and evergreen branches. He was an artist about it and it was a job not to be rushed. When we were little our mother did the honors with the ornaments and as each of us got older we could graduate into participating in that function. The application of the final embellishment, tinsel, was a highly technical affair...no indiscriminate flinging permitted...not on the Carter tree INDEED NOT! We lovingly separated each strand and draped it carefully along each branch until the tree shimmered. We would hang our stockings and then retire, and Mutti and Daddy would stay up late, filling the stockings and painstakingly arranging the hidden stash of presents under the tree.
But we all grow up too quickly and we each spun away in our separate orbits scattered to the four winds and those Christmases of childhood retreated into a place of longing and sweet memories.
Ten years ago I was awakened in the week before Christmas by the sleepy but urgent voice of my sister that signaled trouble. Our father had blown out an aortic aneurysm in his abdomen. He was in emergency surgery and at almost 79, was not expected to survive it. By the dawn, however, he had not only emerged from the surgery, but his surgeons were astonished at his condition and were optimistic of recovery. But we all knew what we needed to do, and by that evening I was on a flight from northern Virginia to Florida, my sister and family on the road from Atlanta and my brother and his wife en route from southern California.
It was the first time my family had all been together for the holidays in 13 years and the pictures of the time reveal how undiminished the bonds and connections were. We were all joyful in that last week of his life and when our father was done with his celebration and his goodbyes, he asked our mother not to bring us to the ICU anymore. On Christmas Eve he told his nurse that there comes a time to let go, and in that early evening he died.
I have taken on the job of those lights now as an adult. It is a pain in the rump, but I am always determined to get those blessed lights on just right so that the tree doesn't just have lights on it. No, it must be "illuminated" so that it glows from every angle. My father is so alive to me during those moments, and I take another drink from that deep, sweet well that reminds me that no matter what, we loved each other then, and still and even now.
The cycle of the year encompasses all of us, whatever our spiritual beliefs.
At the Winter Solstice, for some years I heralded the Return of the Light, Welcome Back the Sun, Ta-Da! But as I observe the reality, I see that the Solstice is DARK. It is the very darkest reach of the cycle of light and dark, the Haggiest Crone before the impending new birth of all things in the Spring, as Maiden once more.
Outside the window it is undeniably DARK. Cold, too. It will be early February before we really start to notice the days less short, the first bit of crocus pushing up. What light then do we celebrate? It is the hope and trust that the Light WILL return. It did always before, it will again. The evergreen trees and holly give us a glimpse that life goes on in the cold and dark. The red berries of holly and the awesome interior of a pomegranate betoken the life-giving blood, the creative force which always continues with new life.
So, before rushing to celebrate the Sun, I first contemplate the Darkness. I note the hard, painful sorts of darkness -- war, grief, starvation, lost love, confusion, pain--- and know that this is balanced by periodic returns to peace, joy, love, well-being. I focus my intentions on a speedy increase in all of that, and hope for patience to see it through, and energy to do what I can to move it that way.
I honor another kind of darkness-- the nurturing period of gestation, of repose, of reflection. The quiet of winter in the old farming life-- after the hard, pressed, work of planting and tending and harvesting, a time of collection, of waiting, of mending, of looking back and forward. The darkness in which we sleep at night. The darkness in which we repair, and prepare, ourselves for what follows. I think back on springtimes, and summers, and autumns, and winters, and more springtimes. The moon waxes and wanes, the sun moves through the constellations. It is all a cycle, and turns round in a known rhythm, and I take solace and comfort in that.
I look at that which is presently a mystery in my life. Things I don't know. What will happen? How will it turn out? I think of the seed or bulb in the earth. We can't see it, but it has in it all that it needs to become a sunflower or an ear of corn or a patch of grass or a lily. I still my struggles to KNOW. I wait patiently.The dark is less scary when you are not alone. I appreciate the company of others, as they too wait and trust.
The light will return, and in that knowledge I rejoice. I kindle lights in the darkness, I adorn the evergreen with the sparkling glow of colored lights and bright ornaments. I embrace my friends, who keep me company on the mysterious path of life. We feast on the past year's harvest, knowing that there will be more next year. We warm ourselves by the flames of candle and hearth.
With friends I gathered for the Winter Solstice. We sat around a circle, bundled in blankets, talking through memories of the cycle of seasons, sharing about that which was still a mystery in our lives, and our hopes for how it can reveal itself. We sat awhile in darkness, then rekindled the lights. We took away flower bulbs to symbolize our hopes. We feasted on a thick soup, and a big platter of roasted vegetables -- with potatoes, beets, parsnips, carrots, and onions which had grown in the nurturing darkness, as well as sweet peppers and others that had grown in the sun. (A welcome respite from a week of chocolate.) We revelled in the fire of dozens of candles, and the reassuring warmth of each others' company.
I wish as much for all of you: MAY YOU BE WARM INSIDE AND OUT !!
For the past 24 years, my family celebrated on Christmas Eve - a German tradition brought by my 'previous partner.' The evening included trimming of the tree, a wonderful meal, and opening of gifts, followed by a Feurzangebolle. The festivities were replete with excited daughters and Christmas music. Then I would usually drive off to Midnight Mass by myself and come back to a house where all were asleep.
This will be the first Christmas without my biological family since a Mediterranean deployment on a haze grey Navy ship back in 1965. It will seem strange, but I know that we are all one and that I have family here in Port Townsend. Besides, one of my girlfriends has been arranged a Christmas Day potluck for Unity singles. Hmmm, maybe I should bring the Feurzangebolle.
FEURZANGEBOLLE
Heat a liter or two of red wine and pour it into a lined copper bowl (Bolle) over a warmer flame (Feur). Slice several oranges and a lemon or two into the wine. Place a solid cone of sugar (or, on the West Coast, a pile of sugar cubes) on the metal tongue (Zange) over the warming wine. Soak the sugar cone liberally with 150 proof rum. Turn out the lights and apply a match to the soaked sugar, which will burn a pretty blue. Rum on the surface of the wine will also ignite. After the flame has died down, the sugar has melted into the wine, and the volunteer fire department has left, drink up and enjoy. Keep any leftover wine and orange slices in the refrigerator for a nibble treat later. Although the rum burns off, check BAC before letting anyone drive home.
When writing Christmas cards this year, I found myself remembering many incidents that took place during Christmases past, such as:
the Christmas morning Santa brought me a bicycle but there was too much snow to ride it
going with my big brother to choose what looked like a handsome tree in a cold, wet tree lot, then having to hide the bare spot against the wall
the string of wrapped nickels, 20 of them, my uncle gave me
my aunt's perfect divinity fudge
my three-year old singing "Partridge in a Pear Tree" endlessly
making Barbie clothes with those teensy zippers
the eggnog recipe that starts "Separate eight dozen eggs"
sewing two little red velvet dresses with white eyelet pinafores
the year the cats took down the Christmas tree
my little girl's doll that was NOT a Chatty Cathy
the year my first grandson was born on Christmas evening
the Christmas I spent without any family, bore up bravely, but got sick anyway
caroling the Sierra Club campers in the campground at Death Valley
my little girls on Santa's lap
the year I gave a difficult person in my life a lump of coal
being Angel of the Sun in the Sunday School play
my mama taking me to see the decorated store windows downtown
and last year my first granddaughter's birth. I got the expected call
about 8:30 in the evening, made the 3 hour drive in 2 1/2 hours, and
arrived in plenty of time to welcome her into the world later that night.
My grandson, now almost six, was awakened for the last few minutes and
remarked "There's a new person in the world now!"
Some Christmases have been wonderful, some not so wonderful. Here's a poem:
The Spirit of Glastonbury
Our Christmas tree that year was black & gray
With fungus ruffles on the trunk; it bore
No leaves, no needles; thorns adorned its four
Wounded branches. We dragged it, without a sleigh,
Home in cold rain, tubbed it with backyard clay
And brushwood chips. Bare side to the wall, lowering
Branch by branch, it bent down, least glorious of all.
The thorns fell off the next day.
The children wailed, "Why'd we buy such a sick Tree?"
"It was the last one they had---let's trim It"
With stars, wishes, popcorn, make-believe
Jewels, berries, fish, we strung on a quick cure
Bleach-bottle angel on top, each limb
Splendid, our thorn tree bloomed on Christmas Eve.
(Legend has it that when Joseph of Arimathea arrived in Glastonbury with the Holy Grail to found the first Christian church in England, he leaned his hawthorn staff against the ground where it took root and thereafter burst into bloom every Christmas Eve.)