We Need a Little Christmas (Right This Very Minute)

As many of you know, I lost my mom last week, and I haven't much felt like writing. In many ways, I still don't, but in some ways, I feel like I need to.

After my dad passed away in the fall of 1996, my mom started journaling. It was really good for her, and she did it for many, many years until very recently. I realize that a blog is much less personal than a journal, but the concept of writing out your thoughts is still the same.

My sister posted the consummate synopsis describing our collective experience of my mom's passing. I know this post won't come close, but I feel like I need to write it anyway. And please don't misunderstand; I don't at all feel like I'm competing, rather that her post was so perfectly eloquent that I'm not sure I can say anything else.

When I was a kid, I always begged my mom to decorate for Christmas early. She would say, “Not until after my birthday”, which was December 16^th. I used to sing this song every day until she decorated. One day after her birthday, I'd come home from school, and the house would be magically transformed into a marvelous wonderland of nostalgia and sparkles. 

It wasn't until I was older that I realized some things.

Those of you who have December birthdays often find your birthdays combined with Christmas, or worse yet, virtually ignored. You get the “combination birthday/Christmas gifts”, your presents are almost always wrapped in Christmas paper, and rarely did you have a birthday party. I think that not decorating until after her birthday was my mom's way of saying, “nope, my birthday is important, too”. Yet, a more selfless person you will never meet. She was generous with her time and material things as well.

We had a LOT of Christmas decorations. It was Christmas from one end of the house to the other. We had lights for all of the windows, towels (kitchen and bathroom), things that hung on cabinets, things that hung from lampshades, tablecloths, runners, and things that sat on most any flat surface. When it was Christmastime, it was CHRISTMASTIME.

Now, I'm in awe that my mom could do it all within the time frame of a single school day. It takes me days to decorate for Christmas, and I don't think I have as many decorations as my mom and dad did.

Then, there was our tree. Until I moved to Chicago, we always had a real tree. My mom, dad and I would pile in the car to search for the perfect tree. As I got older, my mom and I would go get the tree.

Our tree was really special. We had a one-of-a-kind tree stand that my father built. The reservoir for the trunk and water was steel (Bethlehem Steel), and it was set in a square wooden platform about 2 feet across. It was painted red and white, and it was electrified so you could screw bulbs along the outside perimeter. I always loved that tree stand.

Getting the tree straight in the stand was near torturous. Because the reservoir was steel, it wasn't adjustable in any way. My dad kept a collection of shims and blocks that were used to keep the tree in place. One year, no matter what we did, every time we put in a block to keep it steady, it would lean. We'd shim the other side to counter the lean, and it would lean the other way. It was like the Marx Brothers putting up a Christmas tree. We managed to get it straight enough.

The lights for our tree were amazing. We didn't have the small lights like trees have now, but the old glass ones; the size of nightlight bulbs. And they got HOT. Many a piece of tinsel melted, and many little fingers got toasted from them. That's where I learned the importance of keeping the tree watered, lest we start a fire. Thankfully, we never had a fire.

My father would put the lights on the tree, which was no small feat. First came the untangling of the many strings that apparently decided to huddle together through the year. Then, the testing to be sure all the lights were lit. If a bulb was out, there was the frantic rush to find the spare bulbs, usually culminating with a quick trip to Valu (a local hardware store chain) to get a pack of bulbs.

Some strings of lights had metal clips to attach them to the tree, but some strings were so old that they had braided cloth over wire with these little gumball-type sliders. You would slide down this ball, put the string around the branch, then slide up the gumball to tighten it. My dad had many a poked finger between the needles and the metal clips.

After the lights were on (and working), my mom and I would put the ornaments on the tree. Each one had a story. I loved hearing all the stories behind the ornaments.

We also had a village for under the tree. Not just any village, but a Plasticville village that was large enough to create streets and parking lots for businesses.

My mom would lay under the tree assembling these buildings, and laying out the town. The buildings were incredibly detailed. One house in particular always gave my mom trouble. It had a downspout that hung from the roof. She would no sooner get the downspout on, start to get out from under the tree, and the downspout would fall off. When I was really little, I couldn't understand why I wasn't allowed to play with the “toys” under the tree.

 

Growing up in my house, Christmastime really was the most wonderful time of the year. There were parties, relatives, friends, food, drink, love and laughter. My parents were party people; any excuse to have a party was a good enough reason, but Christmastime was the pinnacle of reasons.

Which brings me back to some of what my sister said about this past week. My mom was the ultimate party planner; the ultimate organizer. It's absolutely the way she intended; getting both sides of our family together at Christmastime for food and laughter.