Holidays, especially Christmas, hold a special kind of magic when you’re a kid. Looking back, I cherish the memories of Christmases past, filled with family, laughter, and the unique brand of chaos only a large, loving family can create.
Our celebrations were a whirlwind of activity. Thanksgiving marked the start of the Christmas season, where we’d draw names for a gift exchange – a precursor to what I believe is now called a White Elephant exchange. My grandma, bless her heart, always showered all the kids with gifts, regardless of whose name she drew. We weren’t a wealthy family, but the love and togetherness made us rich beyond measure. Grandma’s gifts were…let’s just say, memorable. One year, I received a 10-pack of Coke (apparently a 12-pack originally, but someone got thirsty pre-wrapping). Another year, my cousin, a college volleyball player, unwrapped a pair of thong underwear in front of the entire family. Mortifying? Absolutely. Hilarious? Even more so. The image of her holding them up, face bright red, still makes me chuckle. We’d pile all the wrapping paper in the middle of the room and dive in for a photo op before hauling it out to the trash – a tradition I’m not sure I understand now, but it was pure joy then.
Christmas morning at home was a different kind of magic. My dad, a true champion, would wake up at 3 am to make biscuits and gravy (my brother affectionately called them “hockey pucks and gravy” since Dad made everything from scratch). My brother, fueled by pure Christmas excitement, would be up at 4 am, ensuring the entire house was awake and ready to celebrate. The living room, overflowing with newspaper-wrapped presents, was a sight to behold. Socks, underwear, school clothes – the practical gifts were always there, but the real treasures were the ones Mom and Dad hid in their bedroom. One year, it was a bike; the next, an Atari – cutting-edge technology back in the day! We’d patiently (or as patiently as excited kids can be) wait for Dad’s signal to divide the presents into piles before the unwrapping frenzy began. The process usually lasted until 9 am, after which we’d head to Grandma’s for round two of festivities. My brother and I always had 30 presents each under the tree, “from Santa,” of course. Looking back, I’m amazed at how my parents, a beautician and a secretary, managed to pull it off. Rumor had it Mom started shopping for the next Christmas the day after Christmas and had a dedicated Christmas account. She paid attention all year round to what we wanted, ensuring our wishes came true on Christmas morning. It wasn’t just about the presents, though. It was about being together, surrounded by family, creating memories that would last a lifetime.
This Christmas bliss, I naively assumed, was universal. That illusion shattered when I spent my first Christmas away from home, stationed in Korea after basic training. Newly married (a story for another time), I found myself alone in a foreign country, surrounded by strangers. The loneliness was crushing. The camp’s holiday meal and unit party were pale imitations of the warmth and laughter I was used to. Sitting in my barracks room, watching Armed Forces Network, I felt a pang of sadness for all the holidays I would miss while serving overseas. It was a harsh reality check, a stark contrast to the joyful Christmases of my childhood.
That experience solidified my resolve. I promised myself that when I returned home, started my own family, I would recreate the magic. My kids would experience the thrill of Christmas morning, the belief in Santa, the overflowing presents under a real pine tree (because how else can you create a proper fire hazard during the holidays?). We’d decorate together, I’d make breakfast, and we’d cherish every moment.
Little did I know what the future held… but that’s a story for another blog post.
The Road I’ve Traveled 