Christmas Through a Child's Eyes (11 page)

BY HELEN C. COLELLA

I
grew up in Newark, New Jersey, and lived in a gigantic five-story apartment complex that encompassed an entire city block. Five well-groomed, meticulously maintained courtyards housed anywhere from eighty to one hundred and ten families, all of whom knew you, your family, and most of your business. Neighbors were friends and more — they cared about you.

The residents, as did the management, took pride in the complex.

Each season brandished its own strong points: lush green lawns, colorful flowerbeds, and blooming trees surrounded by paths that led from one courtyard to the other, providing a sanctuary in which to appreciate Mother Nature. Year-round family activities also flourished, allowing for working parents to enjoy special time with their children and friends.

Yet, despite all the amenities this mini village provided, it is Christmas time that stands out most in my memory. When I close my eyes and think about my childhood, the decorations that adorned the courtyards, the giant nativity scene in the playground, the evergreen tree with its festive lights, the children's gift exchange, and, of course, that visit from old St. Nick — and his candy cane treat for every child — are the first visions that come to mind. I can still hear the voices of the children strolling along, caroling to those who could not participate, but who cheered and clapped as we paraded along the courtyards. I still feel the closeness and love everyone so generously shared.

Christmas meant church, family gatherings, and enjoying the holiday season, all within personal parameters. None of the residents were wealthy, but some of the families splurged on real Christmas trees, which seemed like a very big deal to me. We were hardworking families, all trying to make ends meet to the best of our ability, and most of us owned artificial Christmas trees that could be used year after year.

For as long as I can remember, an artificial tree held the place of honor in our house. We simply couldn't afford to buy a new tree every year. Owning an artificial tree meant convenience for a busy mom with a full-time job. Mom had to go to the storage room, rummage through the boxes where our tree and decorations lived, and drag it all back up to our fifth-floor unit. My brother and I took it from there.

One of the artificial trees, a replica of a traditional six-foot Douglas fir, lasted several years. We dressed it up so well you could hardly tell it wasn't real. We decorated every single branch. However, somewhere in between the years of the Douglas fir's longevity, Mother surprised us with a few novelty trees, as well.

One year, an all-white tree joined the ranks of our holiday décor and overwhelmed everyone. It stands out stark and sterile in my mind. I remember my dumbfounded expression and the question that popped out before I could contain it.

“Did you bleach out the green six-footer?”

Mom had scowled in response. “It's the style for this year,” she answered. “We're going to decorate it in red.”

The following year we had a white-on-white treatment with the same tree.

“Classy,” Mom exclaimed, pleased by the overall appearance. No one challenged her remark to her face, but when she turned around to admire her classy purchase, Dad shook his head.

“Don't worry, kids,” he whispered, “she'll get it right one of these times.”

Then it happened. The holiday season that hurled all of us into a state of shock. Mom came home with an enormous silver foil tree.

“We don't need any decorations at all this year,” she informed us with an air of authority no one dared to question. Then, with the grace of a fashion model, she plugged in a multicolored, rotating-light mechanism. “Just watch.” Her eyes twinkled as the lights changed colors from red to green to yellow to blue. The foil picked up and reflected each color handsomely.

“In effect,” she added with a satisfied smile, “we have four different trees!”

We all nodded, unenthusiastically, and then waited patiently for the foil tree to be replaced by what we hoped would someday be the perfect Christmas tree.

As Dad had said, Mom would eventually get it right. I hadn't expected it would happen so quickly, or that it would come about because of a family tragedy, but I suppose all things happen for a reason, and perhaps the perfect tree was waiting to be there for us when we most needed it.

Our perfect Christmas tree appeared the year Dad died. Mom tried to keep the spirit of the season going strong for the family, and in her mind that meant finding the right Christmas tree. This task had always fallen on her shoulders, but this year she took the responsibility very seriously.

Her exact words had been, “I'll take care of it. Nothing too big. Nothing too fancy. Nothing but a tree.”

With “artificial mode” still in mind, Mom busied herself in the living room putting the Christmas tree up. Before long, she had set up a small green tabletop model and adorned it with nothing but a silver star.

I recall the word that slipped through my mind when I walked into the room and looked at her newest creation: perfect. My eyes glistened with unshed tears. At long last, Mom had gotten it right. And I knew in my heart of hearts that Dad would have loved this tree.

BY LYNN RUTH MILLER

A
unt Sunne celebrated Christmas the way they do in storybooks. Her tree was like a page from a Victorian scrapbook — covered with tiny gingerbread men and hand-painted angels she had made when she was a child. She tucked antique wooden clowns and dancing elves between garlands of berries and strings of popcorn to create a tree so exquisite it sparkled with heavenly light. It became a tradition for our family to gather at her house on Christmas Day to celebrate and bond together after a year pursuing our own directions.

We had more fun at Aunt Sunne's house, with its overflow of books, music, dog bones, and playbills, than we could even imagine in a stadium or a movie theater. At Aunt Sunne's, we rekindled the lost art of conversation. We relaxed in those worn-out chairs of hers and exchanged one story after another about the neighbor who iced in his front porch when he tried to clear the snow from his drive or a clerk at the grocery store who couldn't count change. We told jokes on ourselves, and the more eggnog we drank, the harder we laughed.

The best part of the afternoon was when we opened the gifts my aunt had chosen for each of us. It was Aunt Sunne who gave me my first adult novel and tickets for a live stage production. It was she who gave me a Broadway musical record album and a doll as big as I was, to cuddle when I felt alone.

As the years went by, we separated to make lives of our own, but still, until the year Aunt Sunne turned eighty, we came together at her house on Christmas Day to experience family. That last year, I visited her the night before to help her put up the tree. That's when she told me she had sold the house and was moving into a small apartment.

“What do I need with such a big house now that I am alone?” she asked, and I was overwhelmed with a sense of loss.

Ignoring the lump in my throat, I asked, “Do you need help wrapping your gifts this year, Aunt Sunne?”

“Oh no!” she said. “This year I did my shopping on the telephone. I called Doubleday's and they sent all my selections wrapped and ready to give. See?” she said, pointing to a large pile of books with festive ribbons on them.

On Christmas day, we decided to save Sunne the trouble of cooking for so large a crowd. Sunne's brother, Bobby, and his wife Em, brought the turkey and the sweet potatoes, and my mother made a casserole and a pumpkin chiffon pie. I provided the eggnog and plum pudding. After dinner, we all gathered around that glorious tree for the last time, and Aunt Sunne handed each of us her offering.

“The lady at the store forgot to put in cards,” she said, “but I can tell which present belongs to whom by its size.”

Aunt Sunne's selections were always unusual, but this year, she really amazed us. My father received a book on twenty-four positions for a happier marriage; my mother's volume was entitled
How to Stalk Lions in Africa during Winter Months
. My sister's book discussed Hindu dietary habits, and Bobby, now a grandfather with lumbago, received a belly dancing manual. My book analyzed winning moves in Sumo wrestling, and Em, whose arthritis had crippled her fingers years ago, received an illustrated collection of piano melodies for jazz professionals.

When it was time to leave, we thanked Aunt Sunne for another perfect day and for the gifts she had given us. “Next year, we'll celebrate in my apartment,” she said, but we knew no one-bedroom flat could hold the kind of Christmas we had returned to year after year. We would never again gather around a magic tree that emanated celestial light, or relive our family memories on her sagging, worn-out couch.

We stopped to chat outside on the street and my sister shook her head. “Aunt Sunne is really losing it, isn't she?” she said. “What ridiculous gifts she gave us! They had nothing to do with who we really are.”

“So what?” I replied. “Her gifts tell us she loves each of us in a different way. Aunt Sunne's real Christmas present to us is her affirmation of our importance to each other. She has given a meaning to this holiday that we will carry in our hearts no matter where we are throughout the year. Now it's time for her to sit back and let us create our own ‘Aunt Sunne Christmas.' All we have to do is remind one another that every individual has something unique to offer that enriches the world.”

“Sure, Lynn Ruth,” said my sister. “And will you be inviting us to your wrestling match next year?”

“Indeed I will,” I said, “If you promise not to eat a cow and Em does a majestic piano roll to announce my entrance!”

Em giggled. “Count on me,” she said. “And if your mother isn't killed by a lion or your father's practice moves, let's have it at my house next year. We'll let Sunne choose the tree!”

And that's what we did.

These days, every December 25th, I close my eyes and remember Aunt Sunne and, as if by magic, I am filled with wonder at the beauty of the season. Once again, I am warmed by that perfect tree of hers and the wonderfully comforting sense of family. And with that thought, this newest Christmas, the one we are about to celebrate, becomes another rare jewel in my box of precious Aunt Sunne memories.

BY NANCY JO ECKER SON

M
y family was not wealthy when I was growing up. It was a beautiful life, although not lavish, by any means. Dad was a teacher and Mom was a housewife, so we often did without the frills and frivolous things in life. We counted on hand-me-downs from siblings for our wardrobes, and made good use of our imaginations for coming up with creative ways to play all day.

One standing rule in my house: In order to get new jackets, coats, mittens, or boots, you have to have totally outgrown your current attire. That was about the only excuse you could have. Holes in the clothes were patched, socks were darned, but if you just plain got too tall, then and only then, could you escape from that article of clothing.

It was the start of my thirteenth winter, and junior high school was even more daunting than I had imagined. The importance of looking right and acting cool could never be overstated for a seventh grader. The customary summer/winter clothing switch uncovered a very unfortunate fact — last winter's coat still fit perfectly. The current junior high fashion rage for those of us in the Buffalo area was to wear reversible ski jackets, and everybody who was anybody owned one — along with a membership in the local ski club.

By late November, I gave in and wore the “baby” coat from elementary school. My world didn't end, but I can't say it was a stellar time, either. Then, to add insult to injury, while Mom and I were Christmas shopping for relatives, I spied the most perfectly cool, quilted, red, reversible ski jacket at Hens and Kelly's department store. Mom watched as I tried it on and spun left and right in the mirror admiring myself. I did look really good in that red jacket. The reverse side was a pink and red floral print on a white background. I was beaming as I wrapped myself up in the pink hues of this exquisite find.

I gave Mom my best pitch, but of course, I knew: I didn't need the jacket.

Honestly, I was amazed at how I took the news. Maybe I was maturing, because I didn't even pout, and like most seventh-grade girls, I had pouting down to a fine art. But, I really understood that year that my parents were doing their best for me, so I let it go.

Nonetheless, Christmas morning brought excitement, as always. I had to admit, even opening our stockings was still entertaining, in a “reminds me of when I was little” kind of way. The sweet fragrance of oranges tucked in the toe of the stocking wafted throughout my bedroom.

At the end of the morning, I didn't even get as many presents as my big brother, JD, but I was fine. This was the first year I was able to work — cleaning houses and babysitting — enough hours to save a tidy sum to buy gifts. Most of my energy that morning went into watching my family members as they opened the presents I had bought them.

So, that was the first Christmas of my mature life. I was cool, and content to be cool.

All the gifts were unwrapped and a collective sigh of delirious exhaustion washed over us all. Mom had gone to turn on the oven for the Christmas turkey and little brother Steve was busy with a racing car. Suddenly, Mom appeared in the doorway with one more box. She said she had found it on the way to the kitchen and that it had my name on it.

Forsaking my teenage cool image, I leapt into the air and grabbed the box. Whew! It was a fair Christmas after all. Just having the same number of gifts was enough, but when I opened that box, my whole mindset concerning grace changed. There, tucked between layers of crisp white tissue, was the most gorgeous red, reversible ski jacket, with pink floral print on the reverse side. I knew the sacrifice my mother made to get me this jacket. I knew the customary rules that had to be broken, too. My mom was now elevated to a complete hippie — totally cool in my book. Thanks to my very loving mom, my teenage years were off to a great start.