Christmas Past

Most of my Christmas memories blend together into a cluster of church pageants, unreasonably-large meals, and apple cider. There's always been a tree. There's always been music. There are gifts from family on Christmas Eve and from Santa on Christmas morning. No matter our age, it is the job of my sister and I to "find out what people want to drink" and to eventually serve the pie, which is stored not in the kitchen, but in a mysterious place in our house that has always been known to our immediate family as the Cold Sewing Room.

I remember sleeping downstairs in sleeping bags one year with my sister and our cousin Jody. We tried to stay up all night, an unsuccessful effort to catch Santa. We covered every doorway with wrapping paper and tape, certain we'd hear something in the middle of the night. When we woke up in the morning, the traps were securely in place, the gifts were under the tree, and our parents were calmly sipping coffee in the kitchen, undaunted by our paper barriers.

Another Christmas, the three of us put on our snow pants and boots and walked a mile through a snow-filled ditch to our grandma's house. Someone would have surely driven us, had we asked. Or, we could have simply walked on the road in far less time than the two hours it took in the ditch. But if we'd chosen either of those options, I'm sure I wouldn't remember that day.

In the late 90s, my sister claimed the unique experience of ruining Christmas three years in a row. One of these occasions was incited by my mother's addled plan for her 18 and 19-year old daughters to wear matching velvet dresses to church just as we did when we were 4 and 5. It didn't play well.

More recently when we were home for the holiday and in search of entertainment, my sister called a local movie theater to find out what was playing. After getting her answer and the showtime, she thanked the person on the other end of the phone and began to hang up. "So," the theater attendant interrupted, "are you for sure going to come then?" If we'd gone to the movie that night, they likely would have shown the movie to a theater of two. Because we didn't, I'm sure they locked up early.

It hasn't been a great year. Some bad memories have been added to the good. But as I near home, I first drive past an empty movie theater. My jeep then creeps carefully down the icy gravel road bordering the ditch we once hiked through, up to our waists in snow. I walk through the doorways once sealed tight with wrapping paper, past the framed picture of matching velvet dresses from our childhood. And for a little while, because everything seems okay, I find out what people want to drink and go to the Cold Sewing Room to get the pie.

Merry Christmas, everyone.