Ghosts of Christmas Past (Part 4 of 5)

Then the unimaginable happened. My grandma died of lung cancer on Christmas morning, just a couple weeks before I turned nine. She’s the one who told me I was almost nine one day when we visited the hospital. A nurse had asked my sister and me how old we were, and I said, “eight.” Grandma weakly interjected that I was almost nine, and it was a sort of revelation. I’d been going along all this time as an eight-year-old, and then suddenly I was almost nine. January birthdays are often eclipsed by the excitement of Christmas. Really, can a child imagine anything beyond Christmas?

I looked out the hospital window onto the dreary, gray parking lot and tried to imagine being nine. After Mom had explained that Grandma might not make it through this illness, I tried to imagine her not being in the world. It was too much to fathom.

On Christmas Eve, we visited her at home. That Christmas morning, the phone rang early, way before dawn.

The next few years seem blurry and irretrievable—nine, ten, eleven. I must have gone to school, church, McDonald’s, the skating rink, the neighbor’s house, but I remember so little.

I do remember riding around town looking at Christmas lights when I was eleven, or, as Grandma might have said, almost twelve. Grandpa, never quite at home in this world but even more estranged as a widower, sat in the back seat with me and Sis. Dad drove through all the usual subdivisions, while Grandpa commented now and then, “Will you look at those blue lights?” His saying something lighthearted was always a small surprise; you could feel the discomfort just beneath it. Gramps was the best of grumps.

Rounding a cul-de-sac and staring at a manger scene projected on a garage door, I remember the thought that bubbled up, unbidden: they’re just lights. No more shiver of anticipation, that ping-pong of hope that ran from head to belly and back again. It was not a winter wonderland, this cul-de-sac, and those were mere bulbs strung on a wire.

I recall this moment and wonder at the reasons behind it. Was it the chemicals of puberty washing away childhood astonishment? Or was it the censure of religion, the attitude that this world is a mere façade? Maybe it was the daily erosion of living without Grandma close at hand and never voicing what a raw deal we’d been dealt that Christmas of 1984.

The voice in my head insisted, “They’re just lights.” And I didn’t argue.

To be continued. Jump to Part 5.

Ghosts of Christmas Past (Part 3 of 5)

When we lived on College Street and my grandparents and great aunts and uncles were still around – those were the days. Around Christmas, I couldn’t wait for the relatives to come over. Mom would put a record on the turntable, maybe the Oak Ridge Boys Christmas. The dining table would be carefully set with plates, food, napkins, and candles. A set of ceramic carolers in Victorian garb graced the top of the stereo cabinet, their mouths permanently formed in the O of “Noel.”

Aunt Ernie was there, always, wearing her pale bluish-gray coat with the silver Christmas tree brooch that I now wear on my blue coat. Aunt Ernie’s birthday was in early December, and something about her pastel sweetness just went well with the month – the pale blue of her coat and the tiny rhinestones of her brooch echoing the month’s blue birthstone. Her demeanor never veered from genuine warmth and humility and love and all the non-material aspects of Christmas. She gave Sis and me Matchbox cars for Christmas. I chalked it up to her having only grandsons, no granddaughters.

Yes, Aunt Ernie was there, along with Uncle Bob. Probably, Uncle Bill was there, Grandma and Grandpa, Evelyn and George, and I don’t know who else. But I do remember the smell that filled the house when Mom got out the Mr. Coffee machine. My parents weren’t coffee drinkers, so they used the Mr. Coffee only when we had guests. In my mind, coffee was a holiday drink. Small as I was, no one stopped me from having a cup or two, with generous doses of milk and sugar. To this day, these are a few of my favorite things: old people, Christmas music, rich foods, memories of Aunt Ernie, and the aroma of coffee.

Another holiday tradition we had was driving around Sparta to gawk at the Christmas lights. We were not a family that lit up the outside of our house. Our Christmas tree stood in the front window most years, and that was the extent of it. I remember thinking of those decorative people who lit up their eaves as exotic, rich, festive — a wholly different kind. Those other people hung lights on their roofs, from tree branches, and around the pillars holding up expansive porches—colored lights, white lights, even big old-fashioned Charlie Brown-style bulbs.

From the warm back seat of our car, I imagined the people who lived on the gently curving byways of “subdivisions” held some secret knowledge of the world that I could not grasp as I lived on the simple grid of our small town. I didn’t know these people, but I did appreciate their festive yardwork. A home’s display of multi-color bulbs could send a shiver of delight from my face to my belly and back again.

To be continued. Jump to Part 4.

Ghosts of Christmas Past (Part 2 of 5)

My mom’s parents lived just down the street from us. I remember one December night after having dinner at their house walking the short trek back home. The inky darkness made it seem scandalously late, like we were getting away with something. It was maybe 8 p.m. The air was cold enough to see our breath, and the sidewalk shone like crystal in the yellow glow of the single light of the funeral home parking lot.

As we walked past the Burns’ house, I spotted the lights of our Christmas tree through the front window, multicolored off-red, off-yellow, off-green, off-white. Back then I loved, though couldn’t have articulated, how the lights of Christmas imitated primary colors, slightly yellowed. They were magical, those lights, far from energy efficient and difficult to replicate after 1991 or so.

My dad’s parents lived a half hour from us, and we saw them much less than our down-the-street grandparents. One evening, they stopped by our house on the way to a Christmas dance at some nearby KC Hall or Elks’ Lodge. They had brought inflatable reindeer for Amanda and me, which stood about three feet high — larger than life to a little kid. I was impressed with them standing guard in front of the Christmas tree, bigger than our dogs and reeking of plastic. My grandparents left as quickly as they came, a blast of cold air from the front door lingering in the living room.

My other grandpa would have examined the reindeer for an origin sticker and grumbled, “Made in China. Damn.” I remember him looking at other things and cursing their provenance. He also hated when McDonald’s employees would ask if you wanted fries with that. I suppose he picked his battles with care.

As I went upstairs to bed that night, I glanced down at the smiling reindeer pair with something I can only describe as sheer wonder. Did one of them just wink at me? Possibly.

The next morning, I discovered the deer deflated into a puddle of malodorous synthetics. Mom said that this happens sometimes – maybe your Dad will blow them up again. Only now can I see the subtext of her shrug: “Manage your expectations.”

Christmastime, I would one day learn, sometimes brings a confounding mix of high hopes and bruising reality – strings of lights bright white and off-blue.

To be continued. Jump to Part 3.

Painted in Waterlogue

Ghosts of Christmas Past (Part 1 of 5)

This morning as I exited the tiny Baptist church that my parents attend, a kind older man urged me to take a brown bag from the table at the door. Some sweet soul had prepared a bag of Christmas treats for each person, a brown lunch bag containing peanuts, chocolate candy, and an orange. Seeing that pile of treat bags transported me about four decades into the past.

I remember entering the cold narthex of First Baptist Church of Sparta, the air slowly warming as we walked down to our pew on the piano side of the church. Other families sat on the organ side, but we’ve always been piano people. Greenery, a nativity scene, festive candles – I remember none of these things. I do remember the Christmas treats for the kids: a brown paper bag filled with unshelled walnuts, a candy cane, and a bright navel orange. We weren’t really into fruit, my sister and I, but were still delighted by the brown bag. It was a sure sign that Christmas morning, which pretty much took forever to get here, was just around the corner.

Mom was obsessive about Christmas morning fairness. Sis and I often received identical Christmas gifts, which we had to open at the same time to warnings of “no peeking” and “don’t look at your sister’s present!” One wouldn’t want to ruin the surprise by five seconds.

As we got older, mom would season Christmas morning with explanations that while it may look like one sister got a bigger pile of gifts, remember that the other sister got one big gift that cost the same. My mom is terrible with numbers, but Christmas turned her into a human tabulator. Even now, Amanda and I both in our forties, Mom will explain that this gift is equivalent to your sister’s three gifts combined. We aren’t keeping tabs, and we’ve never called for an audit. Mom’s concern with equity and fairness is a harmless quirk. It’s actually pretty sweet.

My dad, as far as I know, has never chosen a gift for me or my sister. He may have given input if asked, but he is not a gift giver. He has written me poems and beautiful, heartfelt letters on a yellow legal pad, but gift giving for him is a last-minute trip to the drug store on Christmas Eve.

Back in the day, Mom drew the line at choosing gifts for her in-laws, so that’s why he had to make the two-block trek to pick up a set of perfume, lotion, and powder for his mom and possibly a box of chocolates for his dad. I remember that feeling of déjà vu when he’d bring home the same boxed set of perfume for Mom’s wrapping service, wondering if Grandma went through a whole set of the same perfume every year. I don’t recall her having had a particular smell, but it’s possible.

At Christmastime, anything is possible.

To be continued. Jump to Part 2.

cutlass supreme

Miss Your Face

My family and I have been spared from pestilence so far, thank God. Still, I have this complaint: I am smile-starved. Before this season of masks, I never realized how much I communicate with smiles or how nourishing it is to get a smile.

Last night at Schnucks, I was struck by the cashier’s deliberate eye crinkling. I crinkled my eyes back at her. To me, eye crinkling takes more intentional effort than smiling, and I did my best to match her intensity. They don’t call them “the friendliest stores in town” for nothing. It was great, but it wasn’t the same as smiling.

I miss smiles the most at school. There’s nothing like the smile of a second grader with a couple of teeth missing. Well, unless you count the smile of a teeny-tiny kindergartner. However, the smile of a seventh grader is exceedingly rare and therefore precious. And, if memory serves, a teacher’s smile isn’t too shabby either. Reader, I am starving for smiles – genuine, IRL smiles!

Before school started, I ordered a transparent mask in anticipation of doing some smiling. When it arrived weeks later (after taking the slow train from China), I was let down by its poor design. The transparent window stuck to my lips and steamed up with every breath. It was gross. It was the opposite of smiling.

Smiling is my favorite, but I’m a big fan of faces overall. I love a good face. I love a so-called bad face. I love a sharp nose, a broad nose, a big, honking, dramatic nose. I love to find beauty in every face. I am starved for faces.     

I heard a podcast recently in which the host interviewed a famous rabbi who talked about the value of looking for yourself in the face of others. He illustrated this idea with the story of the Pharaoh’s daughter finding Baby Moses in the bulrushes.

When Moses was born, his mother was struck by the beauty of his tiny face and did her best to keep him safe for three months. But when the Pharaoh’s daughter found Moses at the river’s edge, his face was red and streaming with tears, and her heart went out to him.

This is the great challenge: to find beauty not just in those of our own tribe who think and act and look like us. The challenge is for our hearts to go out to others, especially those whose faces don’t match our own. I just love it when someone interprets a story in a way I’d never considered. Also, it reminded me of how much I miss people’s faces.

A smile, I think, is shorthand for your heart going out to someone – not in pity, but in a split second of simple human connection.

I realize it may be a while before we can safely smile and be smiled at. For now, crinkly eyes may be the best we can do. But I warn you: when we can smile again, watch out! I’m gonna be smiling like the morning sun, like a Cheshire Cat, like a fool with a secret, like eye crinkles are so last year.

And I will savor every smile I get in return.

-Em : )

This Is Not Forever

A friend and I chatted this morning as she made photocopies, commiserating over the inconvenience of this whole COVID thing. As she walked out the door, her parting words bounced through the library and in my mind: “But this is not forever!”

Over the past several months, I’ve been thinking about what to call this. Most people, including myself most of the time, just call it “the pandemic,” but something about that label doesn’t feel quite right. It’s accurate yet incomplete; it doesn’t cover all that we’ve experienced thus far this year.

A poet whose blog I enjoy calls it “the pandammit,” which made me chuckle when I read it. This label gets points for trying to incorporate the frustration of being hemmed in and inevitably fraying at the edges. Suggested usage: “Man, my nerves are frayed by this never-ending pandammit.”

My sister has embraced the term “jackass season,” which is apt if you’ve spent any time on the road lately. Driving skills and common courtesy have deteriorated in this period of upheaval. Has the concept of right of way lost all meaning? Amanda and I now use the term to explain bad behavior, as in, “What’s with the monster truck passing on the imaginary shoulder of the road?” “Ope, well, guess you hadn’t heard — they extended jackass season this year.” The obvious problem with this terminology is that, although it follows the pattern of “deer season” or “turkey season,” the jackasses are not being hunted. Instead, it seems they are running the show.

My friend Amy has taken to calling it “the apocalypse,” half-jokingly. She enjoys dropping this dire term into everyday conversation, as in, “We had a great turnout at the dance studio fundraiser, despite the apocalypse.” While I haven’t adopted the everyday use of “apocalypse,” I appreciate its literal meaning: a revealing. The times, they are revealing, that’s for sure.

I’ll probably just continue to call it “the pandemic” or, more cryptically, “these strange times,” but I think “the corrections” might just work. In the context of the stock market, corrections are U-turns in trends. At least that’s my feeble understanding – a zag in response to an over-zealous zig. As so many of us have become more individualistic, this awful pandemic offers a chance to consider the health and well-being of others — an invitation to care. Maybe someday I’ll tell my grandkids, “Those of us who lived through the corrections of 2020 came out humbler and wiser on the other side.”

Without a doubt, this is something that no one asked for, but it forces us to consider people other than ourselves. Indeed, the only way out of this contagious pandammit, or jackass season, or apocalypse, or strange time is through taking the welfare of others just as seriously as I take my own.

Will “the corrections” catch on? Probably not. To date, I’ve only used the term in my head. Still, it’s a helpful way to think about the sacrifices we are making to ensure that this is not forever. Come to think of it, maybe that’s the best name for this season: “Not Forever.”