"My Reel Christmas"

This time of the year, most of us can’t help feel a little melancholy. The Christmas season can be filled with parties and activities to celebrate with family and friends. For others it can be a time of sadness, loneliness, and anxiety about an uncertain future. During our lifetime, we have all experienced melancholy feelings during the holidays with the loss of family members, divorce, arguments and the stress of over extending your budget and the disappointment of unrealistic expectations that were envisioned for gift giving.

For many people my age and older, the mind's vision of a perfect holiday is portrayed in the paintings by Norman Rockwell, by showing the celebration of the American family with strong small town values. Streetlights illuminated the freshly fallen snow, every home beautifully decorated, dinner being prepared for a large family gathering, and warm embers glowing in the fireplace, while everyone gathered around the tree, singing, laughing and enjoying each other’s company.

We didn’t have a Norman Rockwell Christmas, but it was close as it could be in my mind. Everyone on our street knew one another. Our elders were referred to as Mr. or Mrs., and it was rare when someone moved away. We didn’t have extravagant gifts that robbed our parent’s savings, but we had plenty of love, respect, and togetherness. My friends didn’t brag about what they got and no one seemed jealous that one of us got a toy the other one didn’t get. Those fond memories of my youth are magical, and when I close my eyes, I feel like a child again with the nervous anticipation every child feels on Christmas morning. I’d like to share one of those holiday memories that have been accepted for publication, entitled, “My Reel Christmas.”

Merry Christmas!

My Reel Christmas
By
Monica L. Sharpe
(Condensed Version)

The holidays spark wonderful memories of my childhood, especially the year my dad suffered his first heart attack. Christmas came five months after my father’s month stay in the hospital, and because his recovery was extensive, money was very tight that Christmas of nineteen fifty-eight. My two oldest brothers were in the service and three of us were still at home, me being the youngest of five children and the only girl. My parents made it their priority not to let any of us kids know how difficult their financial status was, so life went on as usual not noticing a little less food on the table or fewer outings.

The basement of the home I was raised in was converted into a comfortable family room. We all spent a great deal of time downstairs as a family watching television or playing games. The basement also had a combination laundry room and kitchen where my mother did her seasonal canning and baking. Mom took in ironing when I was young and generally had several large rolling laundry baskets piled high with clothing. When one of the baskets became empty, she would let me lay in it like a hammock and for a special treat as I laid there, she turned on the wire recorder so I could listen to the numerous old radio stories and songs she recorded when my older brothers were young. It fascinated me to watch the reels of wire turn and listen to the recordings of my grandfather playing his fiddle and sing, while mom and I chimed in and sang along as she ironed. My mother had a beautiful soprano voice. Anyone could single out the pure clarity of her voice in the church choir and know it was she.

When she needed a break from the ironing, she fixed our lunch and we would have our little “tea party” on the old oak table in the corner of the room. Only after we were finished with our little “party” did she provide the entertainment she so gladly promised, and I was delighted when she reached for her guitar to play for me.

The old Spanish guitar was my grandfather’s. The dark as ebony finish made you believe you were looking into an endless black gazing pool and if you touched it, your hand would truly become immersed in the wood.
Before she began to play, mom always closed her eyes as she lightly strummed the steel strings. She hummed the notes while she adjusted the tuning keys to make sure it was perfectly tuned to her ear and mind before she continued to play. In spite of the fact, my mother never learned to read music, she had a gift for creating her own melodies and lyrics. Some of these songs were silly juvenile ditties that made me laugh and dance; while others were so compellingly beautiful your senses were free to drift away. I was certain when I looked at her calm face, her thoughts did move her to another place as she became one with her instrument.

On this one particular snowy day, she encouraged me to sing-a-long more than usual to the songs that were so familiar to me, it didn’t seem to matter to her that loads of clothing were still needing to be ironed, she was thoroughly wrapped up in the special moment we were sharing. Like all good things, the concert had to come to an end. I climbed back into my basket hammock and listened to more stories on the wire recorder until they eventually lulled me to sleep and mother worked on her tasks.

I counted the days to Christmas and the only thing I asked Santa for that year was the red and white stuffed squirrel I saw at the big toy store downtown, and for my two oldest brothers to come home. In preparation for the holidays, mother let me help decorate cookies and mix the “secret” ingredients for all the traditional sweets she made only once a year. Two days before Christmas, a heavy snowstorm blew in and blanketed the city, nobody could get out.

Christmas Eve arrived, we still did not have our tree and my parents were encouraging me to go to bed early, when we heard some racket out on the front porch and someone started to pound loudly on the door. My mother opened the front door and started to cry with happiness, my brother Jerry was at the door in his Navy uniform, snow dusted his broad shoulders holding a Christmas tree, we had not seen him for two years. There really was a Santa, and one of my wishes really did come true.

We all gathered in the living room to decorate the beautiful pine tree with decorations that were handed down, reminiscent of Christmas’s past, and sipped steaming apple cider with cinnamon sticks. My brother Joe lifted me up to place the angel on the top of the tree, while my brother, Tom laughed when the pine needles pricked my arm. I sat on Joe’s shoulder staring in awe at the lit vision of love and promises. It was difficult to go to sleep that night, with every turn in bed I listened for any indication that Santa was coming, but eventually I succumbed to the nervous fatigue.

I awoke the next morning before dawn, and when I sat up, I squealed loud with delight. It was clear to everyone who heard me, Christmas Day and Santa was here. There sitting on the foot of my bed was the red and white stuffed squirrel, adorned with a big beautiful bow, the one I had admired and longed for, from the first time I laid my eyes upon it.

Under the tree were a couple of presents for all of us, and since the best was left on my bed, there was only one more for me to open. My mother handed me a small item wrapped in a white lace trimmed handkerchief tied with a scarlet satin ribbon. The message on the tag was written in gold ink, “To Mary, May this bring you the happiness you have given us.” signed “With Love, Mom & Dad.” I untied the ribbon and a reel of wire exposed itself to me. The look on my face must have showed my disappointment; because at that moment she went over to the wire recorder she brought up from the basement and I gladly handed the reel over hoping there was something else for me.

My dad picked me up sensing my disillusionment, sat me on his lap and told me to listen. The wire started to wind itself on the empty spool. First there was a little static, then silence and all of a sudden a strong voice boomed from the speakers, “Merry Christmas, Mary!” I leaped off my dad’s lap and jumped and clapped for joy. My brother, Jack who could not be home for the holidays called home from Korea and my mother recorded his voice over the phone sending his Christmas and New Years wishes for all. The rest of the recordings on the spool became my very own reel of memories of my parents and each one of my brothers expressing something personal to me. It’s the recordings of the day that took place only a couple weeks ago in my mind, when my mother and I sang and told stories to each other. The day I will hold forever in my heart when we were each other’s undivided audience of one.

Peace & Love...

Letters from Grandma...

“A drop of ink may make a million think.” Lord Byron


I am the historian, so to speak, for my husband’s side of the family, and I share the responsibility of collecting facts with another family member for my ancestry tree. My husband inherited a handcrafted suitcase, for lack of a better word, which was filled with postcards from family members who my husband never knew. My father-in-law kept those memories tucked securely inside, since they were the only memories he had left from his brother who was killed in WWI to his parents, his grandmother, his brothers, and his cousins. He was he was a sentimental person and guarded these mementos with great respect, which I have the privilege of doing so now. The postcards depicted the holidays for which they were sent, Valentines Day, Easter, Thanksgiving, and Christmas. Beautiful vintage cards that I pored over for hours at many different times through the years, imagining what life was like for the Sharpe family over a hundred years ago.

Several years ago, I had my husband’s family tree printed as a Christmas gift for his sister. A few weeks after we flew home from the West Coast, she called me and thanked me for the effort of doing such extensive research. It made her very aware, that if she didn’t not write down stories about her grandparents, that time and those memories would be lost forever with her passing. Her children and grandchildren would never know how she loved to comb her grandfather’s beautiful white hair, or know about his love of flowers as she and her sister helped him in his garden. Her words made me think. It made her think. We both had the realization that we both needed to write down the stories our parents told us about their parents. We talked for a long time and proceeded to tell each other some stories about some very funny incidents. So, now when I look at the aging sepia and black and white photos, I can put a pleasant incident with many of the faces and feel a part of someone who is no longer a stranger to me.

I have written many stories about my childhood, about my parents, and about my relationships with each of my siblings. I want my children to know about the times that made me happy and the times that made me cry. I want them to know I am not a perfect human being, but even though I did my best, I still made mistakes. I hope that my grandchildren would read the stories and say, “I’m not the only one who feels this way,” when I too, have had my heart broken and know what it’s like to be young and in love.

I haven’t forgot the silly stories, like the time my cousin, Marcy and I sat fishing at the edge of our dock for an entire afternoon, when we were ten years old. We sang silly songs at the top of our lungs while the fish nibbled at our toes. We laughed, we swam, and eventually we dragged our sunburned bodies and the wash bucket filled with three-inch perch back to the cabin, only to be told by my aunt they were too small to cook. Yes, it may not seem poignant enough to document, but it was a memory that makes me smile when I think about it, and it’s one to share, proving I was a kid too, once upon a time.

The stories go on and on. It only takes a few minutes to write a memory and paint a scene so vivid, your reader will feel your words. And, what a “treasure” it would be if it were handwritten! So, what are you waiting for?

Thank you, Sally!

The picture posted with this blog is my grandmother, Delia and her eldest son, Emery.

On Writing Letters...

"People are afraid of themselves, of their own reality; their feelings most of all. People talk about how great love is, but that's bullshit. Love hurts. Feelings are disturbing. People are taught that pain is evil and dangerous. How can they deal with love if they're afraid to feel? Pain is meant to wake us up. People try to hide their pain. But they're wrong. Pain is something to carry, like a radio. You feel your strength in the experience of pain. It's all in how you carry it. That's what matters. Pain is a feeling. Your feelings are a part of you. Your own reality. If you feel ashamed of them, and hide them, you're letting society destroy your reality. You should stand up for your right to feel your pain." ~ Jim Morrison

How many times have you ripped open a letter from a far away friend, only to be disappointed when you read the last line? Most letters consist of a few hastily scribbled sentences that tell you absolutely nothing about what’s going on in the writer’s life. When was the last time you wrote a letter from your heart? Maybe, it’s because you didn’t know how to start.

Drop the formal address you learned in grade school. Instead of “Dear Jane,” write “Hi Lady,” or what ever nickname you had for your friend. If you want to get her to laugh at the opening line, write something like, “Hey there wonder woman,” and if you want her to smile, “Hello, my dearest friend.” In other words, be yourself. It’s your personal greeting. Start your letter by asking how their life is going, not the boring, “How are you?” but something that lets them really know you are interested in their life.

By now, you should have two or three paragraphs. Let’s face it, you probably can’t wait to get into the “meat” of the letter. Meaning, people are vain and want to talk about themselves. That’s when you jot down a few things of mutual interest about what you’ve been doing. But, don’t go overboard, no one really wants to hear about your mundane teeth whitening appointment, or the growth behind your ear that’s been getting bigger for the last 10 years, good Lord! Your reader will certainly roll their eyes and shake their head, and maybe even wished you didn’t write in the first place (just kidding)!

The last paragraph should, if possible, remind the recipient of something the two of you have in common. This keeps the bond between you strong. Perhaps, you went to the same high school together. You might mention you ran into a mutual friend at the grocery store, or, have shared a camping experience together. You could tell them how much you have missed the good times you had together at your favorite hangout.

Finally, end your letter with a friendly phrase, making it more personal to the reader. After all, we are talking about personal letters. “I am so looking forward to hearing from you, Janie,” is much better than “Yours Truly.”

Stay with me, all this may sound a little corny, but I am trying to make a point…seriously!

Then, there’s the apology letter. They say 'to err is to human' and we are all humans. Therefore, it's normal for us to make mistakes and hurt someone's feelings knowingly or unknowingly. It might be something that we say, or something that we do, which hurts others. It could have been an incident from the past or one from the present.

Sometimes we do not feel bad, when we know that the person deserved it, but sometimes we feel really bad, when we realize that it's totally our fault that the other person was hurt by our behavior. We want to say sorry to that person, but although we can easily say sorry to some stranger, or to someone who does not mean that much to us, saying sorry to someone whom we really love and who means a lot to us, is the most difficult thing to do.

It made me reflect on all the things I said and wondered why I opened my mouth and inserted my foot so many times. It also made me realize what I lost and why I am guilty of holding grudges. I’ve seemed to do a lot of this recently. Apologize. To quote the wise words of someone I care very much for, “Without the “loss,” there could not be a “found.”

Those words explain why today, I truly have smiled and felt the warmth of the sun on my face. ~M