My earliest Christmas memories include cutting down our own
Christmas tree in the woods near our home. The tree was usually so tall and
heavy, that traditional tree stands were not up to supporting it. So my dad, the engineer, would suspend the
tree from the ceiling with high strength fishing line. This had the amusing
side effect of making the tree rotateable, like a drug store comic book
rack.
It would be decorated to the sounds of Dolly Parton and
Kenny Rogers (who none of us listened to outside the season) with my three
older brothers and sisters. I remember
that my oldest brother and sister were usually tasked with the tinsel because
it only looked good when placed on one strand at a time and they were the only
ones who had the patience. At the bottom
of the box of decorations was a string of blue plastic beads. My brother taught
me how to bite off a bead and spit it at the tree trying to hit the metal
ornaments, which would yield a rewarding ding if one’s aim was sure. This activity was frowned upon by my parents,
but it was hard for them to get too angry about it, since it was sort of funny
and wrapped in years of nostalgic mischief.
These were purely happy days for me. The season, our family rituals, and the
senses connected to them are well guarded sources of warmth for me. To this day, I only listen to Dolly and
Kenny’s Christmas songs when I’m alone.
My relationship to these songs, and the high octane happy memories they
inspire are private. I’m protecting them, but from what, I’m not sure. It’s not that I’m worried about the ridicule
from wife or kids (which would surely come). It’s something more sacred than
that. Those are holy days—tucked away in
our upstate New York farmhouse, with snow falling outside the bay window. If our family were a tv show today, it’d be
labeled “normcore” by some clever critic.
There were miracles involving surprise gifts that we were told “we just
couldn’t afford this year”. There were acts of kindness directed toward our
family in hard times, and to other people by our family. And there was mystery.
I remember sitting on the couch staring deep into our
enormous suspended tree imagining I was two inches tall and exploring it’s
branches like a Christmas spelunker. I
dreamed of eating enormous popcorn pieces that were strung with cranberries
around the tree and looking at my reflection in the silver ornaments, only
slightly dented by plastic bead projectiles.
Even now, as I recall these sugarplum fantasies, I’m a bit
ashamed. I know very few people had it
this good. So there’s some guilt about enjoying such a lavishly rich happiness,
when so many I’m close to were living hand-to-mouth when it came to happy
moments.
Perhaps it’s because I know that the memories are wrapped in
sentimental selectivity. That they don’t
include my parents’ nearly constant worry about finances as my dad’s job seemed
to always be gone or in jeopardy around the holidays. They don’t include one of my sibling’s
complex struggles with mental health and identity issues that none of us fully
understood.
Happiness guild and nostalgic white-washing aside, there’s a
kernel of something real there. The love
in that home was good. It was done right.
And the flame of that love is at the heart of the dad and husband I try
to be. It’s the driving image in the home I want to create for my family.
And maybe that’s why I am ashamed. Hard-earned wisdom and unsolicited
world-weariness have left that flame a weak flicker. It might just be easier to forget that place
existed—to believe that the spinning tree and bay window were merely fantasies,
fables. I’ve seen too much pain in my life and the lives of others to indulge
in such childhood fantasies. I should know better. And so, I secretly delight
in Dolly Parton’s country giggles and Kenny Roger’s bourbon-smooth crooning
alone. They are just for me. Dolly sings:
I believe that everything in life is what it's meant to be
I believe there is a God somewhere although he's hard to see…
I believe in Santa Claus, and I believe in you.
I believe there is a God somewhere although he's hard to see…
I believe in Santa Claus, and I believe in you.
When I hear these songs I feel like a child, far too old to
believe in Santa, straining to hear sleigh bells. Straining to believe.
No comments:
Post a Comment