~a column by Colleen O’Brien
The ghost of Christmas past – as in long ago and far away Christmases — visits more readily the older I get.
Adult Christmases were about our kids, and those years were very busy, for it wasn’t just the kids, it was the job and the house and the school pageants and the parties. Then, when the grandkids came, it was the same riot of presents and gleeful kids and still plenty of parties.
Now, it’s old-age Christmases, and they’re mild to nonexistent, at least in relation to those years of wild and crazy action tinged with exhaustion. Now, depending on the weather, one’s health and if travel to family is involved, Christmas is much less tree, if there’s one at all; one or two presents; dinner at a friend’s house or with friends at a restaurant (don’t tell my kids; they’d feel so sorry for me).
So, an ordinary, peaceful, home-alone Christmas invites the ghost; he visits me now because my memories are about me as a kid, not me as an adult or even a teenager. It is a strange but true fact that this is what happens as we age – forgetting yesterday as if it never took place, and last year as if it never mattered but able to recall minute-by-minute when we were 10.
And, when I was 10, I happened on a present hidden in the basement – a darling stuffed purple poodle. I was at first thrilled as I ran my hand over his head and down his back, enchanted with his rhinestone collar; and within the minute so disappointed I could have cried. I knew I’d have to pretend surprise and delight on Christmas morning, and the surprise and delight I’d experienced a moment prior was mine only — no sharing would be allowed to happen. I would, in essence, have to lie.
When I was younger still, maybe five (I can recall as if I’m right there), my sister and I were too excited to sleep. Dad had read us The Night before Christmas, we’d said our prayers and Mom had tucked us in. But we whispered and giggled and wondered if the cookies and milk for Santa would be gone, if we’d hear anything on the roof. . . . Which we did when, unaware that we’d finally drifted off to sleep, we were suddenly awakened by the sound of sleigh bells.
We rushed downstairs, but alas, the man in the furry suit was nowhere to be seen; which didn’t bother us too long because there was the lit-up tree with presents piled underneath. Pure glee. Can you recall it?
This was for me the first Christmas of real recognition and remembering. It went on for a couple more years until I gradually figured it out — it was really Mom and Dad who chose the books and the skates and the dolls. But this was fine with me. I was never hurt by the myth, and for a few more years we played along because we had a little sister, and she believed for a long time.
There was truly magic in the holiday. That I can remember it brings an honest-to-goodness feeling of happiness and a smile to my lips. Old is old. But my memories are young.
Merry Christmas, all.
