The Great Santa Debate

My 11 year old son came to my husband and I the other day, and announced that he knew there was no such thing as Santa Clause.  And further, that he knew it was just us, acting like Santa.  To which, my husband chuckled, saying that “Us” was not completely accurate—since it’s generally just myself.

Most people I talk to remember how they found out this disturbing truth.  Personally, I was 6 years old, and came home crying to my mother, asking if it was true.  My parents had gone out of their way to keep the dream alive for as long as possible. They had special paper that only came from Santa’s Workshop.  No matter how late I stayed up, or early I got up, I never caught them putting out the gifts.  The cookies and milk were always nibbled and sipped. And there was always a present or two that I hadn’t told them about—only written in my letter to Santa Clause.

I was devastated for weeks!  For some reason this realization was very traumatic to me, and I never forgave the neighbor boy who had the audacity to share such depressing news with me.

I carried on the same farce with my own son for many years.  I even added the tidbit of having “Santa” write a thank you note to Brandon for the cookies and milk!  He had a blast, and loved to get up every Christmas morning and run around to check that the cookies and milk had been consumed, and see what Santa had written, even before checking out his stocking or the presents.  When he first came to me a few years back, asking if Santa Clause was real, I wrote a children’s story for him, discussing how “Santa” had more to do with the Giving Spirit, than the physical manifestation of St. Nicholas.  He didn’t ask again for a couple of years…until now.

I was personally saddened to see his innocence end, but at least he was able to come by it more naturally.  But the poor boy has been sworn to secrecy, not to tell any one else, and ruin their fun.  Plus he’ll have to keep up the party-line with a younger sibling on the way, including writing letters to Santa Clause and acting surprised and excited on Christmas morning.  And truth be told, I’ll miss being the Jolly Ol’ Elf for him—it’s always been fun for me to offer him that little pleasure.

For everyone who learned the hard truth too early, and all of us who love to keep the story going for our children, I say again, that St. Nicholas is alive in the Giving Spirit that we are willing to share with others!  Merry Santa-ing to all!

O'Tannenbaum

I’ve always been the one in my family pushing to put up the Christmas tree as soon as the Thanksgiving Turkey was cold.  When I was a kid, my little sister and mom would join the band wagon, while my father would drag his heals until at least after his Birthday, on the 11^th.  Now, as an adult, I’m still the same way, but now my son joins in the chorus on my side, while my husband makes excuses for delaying as long as he possibly can!

Getting the Christmas tree up has always been a bit of an adventure.  Once we finally had Daddy convinced that it really was time to get the tree, then he had to decide where the best place was to get the tree.  Sometimes this was off our own property, but often times from a local tree farm.  Of course this process included much tramping through mud to find the perfect tree. At which point poor, dear ol’ Daddy would have to get down in the muck to cut the tree by hand.  Said tree was then dragged back to the truck.

Once home, Daddy spent a good amount of time on the carport trying to wrangle the tree into a perfectly vertical position in the not-so-convenient tree-stand.  He finally got to take a break while the tree stood sheltered in the carport to dry.  This reprieve was short lived however, as his brood of women-folk were soon clamoring for him to bring the tree in.  He and mom would decide where to put the tree for the year, and he’d have to help move furniture around, usually trying a couple of different formations before it was decided that it all looked just right.  Now Daddy got to dig through the storage bins to find the Christmas tree lights, check that they all worked, and untangle them.  It was also Dad’s responsibility to get the lights on the tree before we started with the other decorations.

Finally, after hours of waiting ever-so-patiently for Daddy to FINALLY get the tree ready for us, my mother, sister and I would apply all the little ornaments to the tree.  My father would start his German Christmas Carol record (Yes, record) and we’d decorate the tree to “O’Tannenbaum”.  Daddy would sit, rocking in his chair with a cup of tea, softly singing in German along with the music, and watch as we meticulously adorned the Christmas tree.

The tree is already up at my house this year, much to my husband’s chagrin.  We do usually keep it a little simpler than it was during my childhood, by just getting our tree at the supermarket, or in really lean years, pulling out the plastic tree.  However, my husband stops at getting the tree properly placed in the stand. After that, the lights and decorations are all on me. 

I love having the Christmas tree in the living room, seeing those lights, and reminiscing about the times that each of those special ornaments represents. But I have to admit, now that most of the decorating and taking down are MY responsibility, I suddenly have a whole lot more sympathy for why my father seemed reluctant to start on this particular Holiday project.  On the other hand, I wouldn’t forgo having our own Tannenbaum for even twice the amount of work!  Aah, what a wonderful time of year!!

Decorations "Make" the Tree

When I was about 5 or so, for reasons I was too young to remember, we didn’t have any Christmas ornaments.  So my mother purchased a package of construction paper, scissors, glue and glitter.  For several weeks, we sat around making paper decorations.  We had snow-men with real twig arms, paper candy canes, wreaths, Santa’s and reindeer.  My mother even made little collage scenes of our house.  And of course we made miles of paper-chains!  Crowning this beauty was our star: cardboard covered with tin-foil and doused in every color of glitter we had!  My mother still raves about that tree; and we both have fond memories of all the time we spent making all those little curios.

The year after that, we had a few more ornaments, but my mother insisted on mostly using those paper decorations we’d made the year before.  In fact, the star was our standard for several years, and I think she still has it buried away somewhere, along with some of the more memorable of the other items.

By the year I was seven, we still didn’t have very many ornaments. But I had received a brand new Singer Sewing machine from my grandfather the year before, and mom had a plan to decorate the tree, which still did not include store-bought ornaments.

Instead, she had found fabric of little cloth Christmas Angels, ready to be cut and sewn together into ornaments.  I can’t tell you how long I worked on those buggers, but it sure seemed like a long time to a seven year old.  Each one had two identical sides, of course, which had to be sewn together, leaving a small opening. Then I had to carefully turn them right-side out, using a chop-stick to push out the corners, stuff them with cotton, and meticulously hand stitch that little opening. By the time I was done, we probably had about 100 of these decorations, and I had become pretty good at sewing!

Those were the ornaments we used for most of my child-hood.  Admittedly they were very handy with animals and a toddler in the house! My mother bragged about how I had personally made each of those decorations, to everyone who would possibly listen.  And when I left home, all but a few of those Angels came with me, to start my own tree!

As an adult, I look at those Angels, and think about the paper decorations, and shake my head about how imperfect they were.  But no matter how poorly I think those items look, my mother remembers all of it with pride. Pride at my creativity, my resourcefulness, and my coordination in making them all!  And her pride, and the things I learned from making those projects, has become one of my own fond memories!

Haunted by the Ghosts of Thanksgiving Past

For many years when I was a child, every Wednesday before Thanksgiving our house was invaded by a plethora of relatives, with a record total of 18 at our table by the time dinner was actually served on Thursday one memorable year.  Wednesday afternoon my mother would exit society to begin the process of cooking: baking the pies, stringing the beans, whipping the cream, and anything else that could be done the day before.  Thursday morning she would be up at 4:00am to start the 25 pound turkey, then make cinnamon rolls for breakfast.  Mom would have a couple of minutes to drink coffee over breakfast and pretend to relax with everyone. Then she’d be off again to continue cooking! Rather than lunch, we’d enjoy salmon pâté on rye bread, with Sparkling Apple Cider in the afternoon while we salivated over the smell of turkey and baking bread.

By 5:00 our formal dining room was decked out in china, crystal stem-ware and silver.  Cloth napkins in fancy folds. Casserole dishes, salt and pepper shakers, and gravy boats matching the china. And a spread of food fit to feed an army of French gourmets. Everyone arrived at the table scrubbed and polished, in their Sunday best, and sat patiently in candlelight while the pictures were taken.

The family would chat about inconsequentials and eat for nearly an hour! Even so, we hardly seemed to make a dent on the mounds and mounds of food that my mother had taken so long to prepare.  When we finally abandoned the idea of being able to stuff any additional food down our own gullets, everyone slowly moved away from the table.  Of course my Grandfather would lead the charge of men into the living room to watch meaningless television, while my mother and I lead the attack on the platoon of dishes from the table, and attempted to fit all the left-overs back into the refrigerator. Of course, we were hampered by the phenomenon of how things once un-packed, never fit back into the original container, but somehow, eventually, we prevailed. 

It usually took about an hour to get the kitchen back in some semblance of order, and start the first load of dishes.  By then, the masses felt ready to indulge in pie.  And most everyone would try a couple of different flavors of pie, from a choice of usually no less than four!

So, I have found that whenever I visualize Thanksgiving, this is what I see as “right”.  Somehow I feel that dinner should include an overflowing table, served on matching china, to dressed-up guests.  Recently, when I learned that we were expected to partake in Thanksgiving Dinner at my husband’s Grandmother’s Nursing Home, I found myself disappointed that this event would surely not live up to the expectations that my childhood experiences had set in me.

And then it struck me: the memories I have of those long ago Thanksgivings are great, they taught me an ideal to strive for.  But I was being held prisoner by the ideal!  I need to be able to embrace this opportunity to meet my in-laws, and become part of their family!  China and silver don’t make the Holiday: the friends and family at the meal are what make it important and memorable! 

May we all be blessed with mis-matched dishes, plastic utensils and lots of happy family and friends at our Thanksgiving tables this Holiday!  And of course, the time to enjoy them!! 

Beginnings

One can get so bogged down with all the day to day details of life: taking care of the house, cooking, cleaning, grocery shopping, working…and then there are the bigger things, like leading your son’s Cub Scout Group, Home-schooling that same son, dealing with the exhaustion, hormonal overload and other symptoms of an Advanced Maternal Age pregnancy, fixing and updating an older home…..well, it all just becomes mundane and you forget that you actually ARE happy and enjoying your life!!

And then you see the excitement in the big brown eyes of your son as you read a book together, snuggled under the blankets.  Standing over the stove, for the um-teenth-million time, when the love of your life wraps his arms around you as a silent thank you and acknowledgement of all you do. Over the game board at the dining-room table, you see your love and happiness reflected in the eyes of your family.  And you know, without a doubt, that through all the frustrations and run-down moments of your life, things are GOOD!

But while you enjoy your life, is there anything in there, in that life, that might interest others? Are there other people that share your moments of joy, and frustration, hopes and fears…? Surely there are! But then again, the other question is: Does it matter? Perhaps just the act of regularly reminding yourself of the good things that have happened in your life, the mis-steps that ultimately led to a better outcome, and all the things that add up to the life you have…perhaps reminding yourself is the point. 

So here I begin my journey. Down a path that many have traveled before me, into the world of Blogging! I take this opportunity to shout out both my joys and my frustrations.  To remind myself that each is important and has coalesced into this one life that I am living.  I remind myself that although it might seem meaningless at the moment, every day something happens that leads to something new in the next. That while memories of my childhood might be far from my mind, they have contributed greatly to the person I am today. I celebrate them all! And invite you to celebrate with me, if you’d like!