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...
