I remember so well the unbearable anticipation of Christmas Eve with my sisters Sharon and Sheila in the little teacher’s home across from the Beulah-Hubbard school in rural Newton County a half-century ago. Sheila, my twin, shared my suffering. Sharon, who was older and wiser, was able to put up a more mature front.
But we all lay awake late into the night, listening for sleigh bells, reindeer hooves and wondering how Santa actually got into a house that didn’t have a chimney.
The rituals were observed. We helped decorate the cedar tree that our father cut in the woods and brought home. Most of the decorations were homemade and the lights were colorful, large and hot.
Momma carefully selected a plate and glass for us to leave cookies and milk for Santa.
There were photos made of the children by the tree in our pajamas. We sang Christmas carols loudly, and engaged in other diversions that Momma created to help us pass the time. My father would make the announcement that it was time to go to bed — and always intoned that if we didn’t hurry up and get to sleep that Santa might not come because he would pass our house and find us awake.
So off to bed we went. I fought against sleep — wanting so badly to hear or see something, anything, that would reward my faith in Santa. But I never could stay awake long enough.
Once, when I was 6, I could have sworn I heard something large and foreign on the roof — but the next morning there was no evidence of that.
Some hours later, usually about 4 a.m., I would awaken, run to awaken my sisters, then together we’d inspect what Santa had left behind. My parents would join us after Momma put on a pot of coffee.
Our parents had a rule that presents weren’t opened in our home until the scriptures sharing the story of the birth of Christ were read aloud by one of us. I think whatever skills I later had in broadcast journalism were born in my ability to speed-read the first 20 verses of the second chapter of the Book of Luke without discernible errors.
When the carnage of torn paper and bent ribbons was over, there was a big breakfast and then off to our grandparents’ home to spend time with aunts, uncles and cousins.
The feast, and it was a feast, would be enjoyed down to Mamaw Salter’slast custard pie. I remember it all — and in my heart of hearts, I miss those days in ways I can’t readily describe.
Mom and Dad, all my grandparents, most of my aunts and uncles and some of my cousins are all gone now. My wife and I are now the grandparents and the destination of four beautiful grandchildren who ponder the wonder of Santa Claus and greater joys of Christmas. They so enjoy being together.
My older sister and I will have some time together with our grown children. Our sister Sheila left our circle in 2006 and her absence has forever changed Christmas for me. But her daughters will be with me and what a gift that will be.
I remember watching my father open his presents back in the 1960s. Another bottle of Old Spice, another necktie, another white dress shirt. He feigned surprise and delight, but there was a touch of boredom in his manner. He was more concerned with watching us open our presents and asked us earnestly if we were happy.
We were — which I think was his greatest gift on Christmas. When he died, I remember finding in his closet enough bottles of Old Spice to float a battleship and boxes of unworn shirts and ties.
All that makes sense to me now, as I have reached the age that it’s no longer the presents that matter on Christmas, but the presence of loved ones young and old mean all the world to me.
Republican or Democrat, liberal or conservative, I wish you peace and joy during this season. May your Christmas presences be everything you want and need.
Sid Salter is a syndicated columnist. Contact him at sidsalter@sidsalter.com.
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