The older I get, the more desperately I crave my childhood at Christmas. I found myself spontaneously bursting into tears today at inopportune moments -- in the middle of the checkout line at a local kitchen shop, for example, and whilst looking at frozen turkeys in Save On.
And when I turned on the radio in the car and heard Bing Crosby crooning, "I'll be home for Christmas, if only in my dreams," well.... well, we can just forget about anything getting done at all.
I'm not really sure
why I experience such waves of nostalgia at Christmas. By all reasoning, we didn't have a privileged childhood. In fact, I recall presents wanted but never received; I remember the furtive, shameful chagrin (oh, the horror) of our beater station wagon. But those little hurts, so sharply felt during childhood, have mellowed into nothing more than ruefully amused recollections.
More vivid by far are the memories of licking the Stollen icing off fingers, and dark winter mornings in shabby 'monas and mismatched pyjamas, and hanging the stockings from nails on the woodbox. If I live to be 90 years old, I think I'll still remember sneaking downstairs with my big sister, giggling and full of awe, hearts racing, to turn on the tree lights and gaze at the gifts; and when Mark burst out of his own room, in his grey-and-blue pyjamas, I can still feel that rush of love I felt (but never expressed. As if!)
I remember my Dad's gleeful grin as he watched us open our gifts; I recall my Mom's quick, efficient hands expertly twisting the cookie press to leave a trail of perfect, uniform camels. I can picture my Dad's work coat now: the towering piles of firewood he carried in were vast, awe-inspiring, incredible.
Now that I'm a parent, I realize that my mother and father were not so decisive and sure as they seemed to be back then. Maybe my Mom's hands didn't really move as deftly and assuredly as I thought they did; maybe my Dad stared into space, now and then, worrying about the decisions he was making. They were just a couple of regular people, doing what they had to to keep the family going. But to us, they were our security and stability.
I've come to the frightening realization that
I am the one creating those memories now, for my own children. Now that I know the reality of parenting -- the anxiety, the doubts, the fear of failure -- I can't imagine that my children will think us to be as omnipotent as we perceived our own parents to be.
It seems ludicrous to think that my own daughters will look back, from a far-off time, and crave the return to these days, these ones we're living now.
But I hope they do.
More vivid by far are the memories of licking the Stollen icing off fingers, and dark winter mornings in shabby 'monas and mismatched pyjamas, and hanging the stockings from nails on the woodbox. If I live to be 90 years old, I think I'll still remember sneaking downstairs with my big sister, giggling and full of awe, hearts racing, to turn on the tree lights and gaze at the gifts; and when Mark burst out of his own room, in his grey-and-blue pyjamas, I can still feel that rush of love I felt (but never expressed. As if!)
It seems ludicrous to think that my own daughters will look back, from a far-off time, and crave the return to these days, these ones we're living now.
I think these tree-getting days are just about my favourite of the year. Sometimes we go out with family friends; sometimes it's just us. But it's so elemental somehow, so basic. Our cheeks get red; we can see our breath lingering in the frigid air. I think of the early homesteaders that made a living here without Sorels, Thinsulate or 4WD. They didn't even have Thermoses, for goodness' sake.
