But the day will be filled with visions. Among other memorable Christmases were those in the late 1930s when I was a grade school child. I can still see my father descending the stairs Christmas morning before dawn to turn on the Christmas tree lights, not knowing—or did he?—that my little brother Peter and I had crept down those stairs an hour earlier to observe the pile of gifts under the tree. That tree was always richly decorated with traditional—mostly homemade-- ornaments. The actual decorating did not take place until Peter and I were safely in bed. We were not to see the finished product until we were roused from a deep sleep—as if we really were still sound asleep.
My father and I had bought the tree from the neighborhood tree lot, but not until late Christmas Eve when the leftover trees were much cheaper even if almost bare on one side (the side we would turn to the wall). We never paid more than a dollar, and if we waited for the tree lot to close, they were even cheaper than that. We may have been poor, but didn’t know it, never never complained about it or even discussed it. We were warm, well fed and surrounded with a love no money could buy. What more would a child want? There was no TV to show us what we didn’t have.
My father and I had bought the tree from the neighborhood tree lot, but not until late Christmas Eve when the leftover trees were much cheaper even if almost bare on one side (the side we would turn to the wall). We never paid more than a dollar, and if we waited for the tree lot to close, they were even cheaper than that. We may have been poor, but didn’t know it, never never complained about it or even discussed it. We were warm, well fed and surrounded with a love no money could buy. What more would a child want? There was no TV to show us what we didn’t have.
That tree would remain in place for weeks, until at night we could hear the needles falling on the newspaper used as a decorative base. When the tree had finished its assignment, it was carried to a nearby field and, with a couple hundred others, ignited in a great community bonfire.
Later on Christmas Day Nana and PopPop would arrive with wooden wonders PopPop had made. Christmas dinner would be turkey. Easter would arrive in a few months and the dinner would be ham. (Don’t ask me why. Tradition doesn’t need a reason.)
The gifts under the tree, or hanging from the fireplace mantel in mother’s old stokings, tended to be apples and oranges.There were also warm clothes and at least one game, or a little device for stringing beads to make Indian bracelets, or maybe even a child’s chemistry set.
I remember the years when there was a serious snowfall, and after the gifts had been opened, hours would be spent building a snowman, complete with a carrot for a nose and lumps of coal for eyes. When we had finished that creation, we would lie on our backs waving our arms resulting inI include the creation of angels. Then there would be hot chocolate.
During the war (WWII), we would sit quietly in a much subdued darkened house and remember Cousin Fred, who was a prisoner of the Germans somewhere in France. Mother would be hard at work creating braille books for blind veterans, and Dad, as the area’s air raid warden, would have checked neighbor houses the night before, to be certain no light was escaping the curtained or boarded windows.
As deeply religious as was my family, we never went to church Christmas Day or Christmas Eve. In fact, there were no services at our church. That’s only what Catholics did. Once when our youth group was going caroling, my parents were astounded that I wanted to join the carolers when Christmas was a day dedicated to the family.
Each of us will have our own stories. Some will be fountains of joy and others will be wet with tears. What are yours? Why not tell them to each other?
I include our yearly Christmas greeting:
OUR BLESSINGS
ON YOU AND YOURS—HAPPY CHRISTMAS
A few months ago we ran across what has been the heart of this year for us, and what also may typify our three-hundred person Pilgrim Place community. WALKING EACH OTHER HOME is increasingly an appropriate way to identify how this year may be defined. Early in December when, Wendy had a nasty fall in nearby Claremont village, she was immediately surrounded with people wanting to help—including five Good Samaritan boys from a local junior high school, two fire trucks and an ambulance, and a couple of nearby observers. Back in Pilgrim Place, the community immediately rallied, reminding us once again how blessed we are to be living here.
Prior to her fall—from which she is steadily recovering—she spent time in The Twin Cities, at a family church camp, with her daughter Mary, on a trip to Australia, and in Seattle with Jennifer and family. While her various women’s groups support her, she magically touches so many others whose lives she continually nourishes.
Charles has managed to stay upright on increasingly shaky legs after surgery that resulted in a wound it has taken months to heal. He uses a cane inside and a walker outside. He spends most mornings drafting his weekly column and most afternoons working on the paintings from which has made and sold hundreds of greeting cards, the revenue assisting residents who need financial help. During the year, daughter Beth has visited, as have two grandchildren and three great grandchildren.
We continually count our blessings and are finding new ways to walk together durimg these sunset days. Charles will be ninety in a few months, and Wendy is a half-dozen years behind.
While most of our energy is spent with each other and in this blessed community, we stay focused on the trials confronting our nation which is being led by a destructive unfit President. November in the new year must prove a way to heal our nation’s nasty wounds. For now we approach Christmas with Mary’s long-remembered song: He has brought down the powerful from their thrones, and lifted up the lowly. God has filled the hungry with good things… .
Wendy and Charles Bayer
621 Mayflower Rd. apt 204
Claremont , CA 91711
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