Ah...Christmas Memories

My mother is kind of a saint. She doesn't glow or anything like that. She was not above spanking and grounding us as we needed it (and we all did need it quite badly at different times, trust me). I can't ever remember her raising her voice and really yelling (clearly that part of my and my sister's personalities came from the other side of the gene pool). And she would have had puh-lenty to yell about. My father left when I was about 10 years old to work overseas and was never really around much after that. His mother, my grandmother, came to live with us and was not the easiest person to spend a lot of time with. She managed all of that, plus 30 acres, and a job, and did it very well.

Nothing seemed to faze her. Once she almost hit a bear over the head with a shovel. When I was 10 years old, I broke my arm falling off a horse (rather seriously, as it turned out). "Oh, you'll be fine tomorrow," she said as she put me to bed. And I was, too, after getting my arm set and casted. I tend to be the same way (although I did manage to get my own daughter to the ER in less than 24 hours when she broke her arm).

She always tried to do things that I think were about creating some family traditions. Sadly, we often scoffed at them and I think she probably felt like she was paddling upstream on many of those times and I'm sad to report that if there were Christmas traditions, they are a little fuzzy to me now. But we always went to church on Christmas Eve. I still love Christma Eve services, and don't really care about going on Christmas Day. There's something about the darkness outside and the light and warmth in the sanctuary. It's very calming and reflective. It's the time when I know I will feel that sense of awe at what we really celebrating, what happened so long ago, what it really means, and I look forward to that after all the "getting ready for Chistmas" activities that go on. Going to church on Christmas Eve sets a tone for the next 24 hours in a way that doesn't seem to happen when we go on Christmas Day.

We sat down to a big taco feast that night. My sister was dolled up in a sweet dress, pefect for a Christmas service. She had amazing blond curls that set off the wine taffeta and black velvet and looked the way I want Ava to look at Christmas. After eating a taco or two, she announced that she was not feeling very well. I don't know about any of you, but that's a common statment uttered around our house. Sometimes it's to avoid eating something, sometimes it's someone's eaten too much of a good thing, sometimes I wonder if it's not just something to say, a sort of conversation starter. Like my mother, I've generally learned to pay little attention. "Oh, honey, you're fine. Just go lay down for a minute," was probably what she said.

As we filed into church, I remember that we must have been late. Late because the church was packed and we were sitting right up in front, a seat that no Lutheran worth his or her salt would dare occupy unless there were no other options. We settled in and wished the family that squeezed in with us a "Merry Christmas."

It was a lovely service, really. The organ that so often reminded me of the one that played at the roller skating rink, was heavenly. All the best Christmas songs were on tap. It was Christmas and when we got home we were going to be allowed to open 1 small gift to tide us over until the next morning. I settled back with a contended sigh. That's when my sister bent over and threw up. A LOT. She must have been 4 or 5, so a couple tacos is some amount of food, especially when you're seeing it the second time around.

And my mother did what any good self-respecting mother would do when pinned into the pew in the front of a packed church. Faster than speeding...faster than speeding vomit, she reached down, grabbed my sister's black skirt and pulled it up over her little face, thereby trapping the tacos. Unfortunately, they were trapped on her face. And in her hair. My mother then rose and carried her out of the church. And here's the best part. No one, not one person, not even the family sitting next to us, had any idea what just happened. Not a speck of reguritated meat hit the floor. Not even a hint of sour odor to alert suspicion. My mother, bless her heart, had contained all the damage on my sister's head. As a mother myself, I can only look back on that with a serious amount of respect and hope that I can manage damage control so quickly and quietly.

We didn't have any extended family living near us. I don't remember much about presents. I don't have memories of sitting down to a Christmas dinner with my aunts and uncles and cousins. We didn't have a lot of traditions. I just learned to take my Christmas memories where I could get 'em.