Christmas Days of Yore

Christmas, for me, is among other things a time of fond remembering. Some of my most vivid memories are of the late 1950s and early 1960s celebrations at the country home of the Trenchards, my uncle and aunt, in Deland, Illinois. In the middle of the endless Central Illinois farmland sat Bondurant Place. Named for Uncle Wendell's grandfather, it was nestled among hundreds of trees with a winding driveway. Truly a festive gathering place for my granddad, his nine children and their families.

I remember waking up early to see what Santa brought to our house at 18 West Winter in Danville. Mom and Dad were in their robes and we opened presents and hugged and laughed. It was hard to get me away without taking a favorite something to go on the road to Deland. But by the time we got to Champaign on two lane, snow packed roads, I was anticipating the event at Bondurant Place!

Uncle Wendell would be HO! HO! HOing at a door wrapped with an image of Santa! Aunt Helen would gleefully shriek at our arrival almost as if she didn’t know we were coming. "They're Here! They're Here!" they would exclaim. We were always the first to arrive...except that cousin Joan, her husband Taylor and the boys had spent the night...and had Christmas Eve together. The oldest son, Bon, would be down at the trains in the basement. I was so excited I could burst. People would start coming almost in order! Granddad and his companion Mavie were next, then Aunt Beulah, and then everyone else almost at once and then.....Aunt Nellie, Uncle Lester, Irene and Sarah! Always last...always anticipated with joy! Everyone received the happy "They're Here!" greeting. The smells of turkey and goodies filled the house. The cousins played mostly downstairs. There was no need for lots of toys...but there were plenty of them. We just delighted in each other. We shot each other with Ack-Ack Guns, played with the best model train set in the world, looked for spooks in the coal bin, explored the unknown....Every now and then one of the parents or uncles or aunts ventured down for a minute. They knew that we were OK but just wanted to share in the fun! My older cousins could only resist for awhile. We usually got them involved without much struggle!

Then came the call! Dinner was ready. All of the adults sat at the big table and the younger members at the children’s table. As people moved or died you graduated to the adult table. I never made it. The littlest kids sat in the adjacent sun room next to the kitchen and the older kids sat at the table in the hallway. Everyone hushed and Uncle Wendell called for order. Aunt Nellie said the blessing. Then we got in to the feast. What a feast it always was! Turkey, dressing (traditional and oyster), cranberries, mashed potatoes, green beans, rolls, fancy butter....place cards at every seat made by Aunt Cil....Oh Boy! When the main course was done we got to have special frozen Santa ice cream made just for us and Hickory Nut Cake (We all LOVE Hickory Nut Cake).

There was short a play time while we waited for the next tradition. In a few minutes we would all line up according to age and put our hands on the right shoulder in front of us. Sarah was always in front of me. Granddad Jones was first and held the long strand of Jingle Bells. Uncle Wendell would fire up his lights and movie camera. Then we marched through the house singing "Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle All The Way". Opening presents took forever! Someone would play Santa and bring a present one at a time. The relative would open it and we would all go "Oooh and Ahhh". Then the next one.

FINALLY...we could go and play again! It was back to the basement. Uncle Lester would fall asleep on the couch. The Moms would clean up and the other Dads would play gin rummy. This would be story time in by the fireplace in the basement. I would start with the most horrible ghost story that I had learned that year. Usually Strawn, Penn, Danny, or Debbie would sit on my lap. The room would hush. Terror would fill the room!

Now the call would come again! Aunt Helen would have made a special bag of goodies and leftovers for each family. It was time to go home. Sometimes I wanted to cry...but usually I was eager to get home to tell my buddies about "what I got". I could never relate to them that what I got at Bondurant Place was more important and more fun than anything that came in a beautifully wrapped box. It was dark and there was snow hanging on every branch. I fell asleep in the back seat of our Chrysler. Happy Family....Happy Christmas to all.

Hope is Made of Memories

The sights, sounds, and smells of this holiday season evoke memories of days-gone-by. We should be keenly aware that for some, those reminders are not necessarily pleasant.

While the fragrance of cookies baking or lighted decorations and traditional music may warm our hearts, the same things might also call to mind old wounds. What is wonderful for one causes depression for another. It is always a good idea as we cheerfully celebrate the light, to walk gently and with open hearts for those who struggle silently during this season. What we can bring along with us as we travel together is hope. For it carries the universal message that love will overcome all adversity.

I borrowed the title of my column today from the visionary activist and spiritual leader, Joan Chittister. She goes on to say;

“Hope reminds us that there is nothing in life we have not faced that we did not, through God’s gifts and graces...however unrecognized at the time...survive. Hope is the recall of good in the past, on which we base our expectation of good in the future however bad the present. ”

— Joan Chittister

And so, indeed, hope is made of memories. Even when those recollections are painful. We are still standing despite, or even because of adversity. We have overcome it all and have the potential to serve as a beacon for others. This is why sharing our memories is so important. If we remain silent in denial of our valuable experiences, nobody will have the opportunity to know us, connect with us, or learn from us. Hope is a gift both given and received when we are brave enough to share our stories.

Here is an example of what I'm trying to get across.

The most amazing things happen around the tables at a meeting of AA (and other Anonymous groups). Though the foundations and principles of recovery are contained in their 12 Steps, much of the healing that goes on happens as people openly tell their life stories. It is initially unsettling for an outsider to hear men and women laughing as a speaker discloses what seem to be horrific losses and tales of damaging misadventures.

But without fail, some other participant will approach the teller later and make the remark that they felt as if they were hearing their very own story and how much it meant to know they are not alone. Hope flows around those rooms more freely than anywhere I have ever visited.

I think one reason their unfettered sharing is so powerful is that their revelations roughly follow a formula described as 'what it used to be like...what happened...and what it's like now'. In other words, there is no room for war stories if they cannot point toward hope for tomorrow. Wouldn't it be great if each of us could be so courageous as to offer our own memories.

Since hope is made of memories, make time to reconstruct some of your favorite and most meaningful ones this season.

Tell them to those with whom you gather over the holidays. Write them down or record them for loved ones to treasure in the future. Some hearts will be gladdened. Someone will be touched. Someone will see a flicker of light where darkness seemed overwhelming. There is no gift presented which will have more impact or be more fondly treasured than this.

Here is one of mine which I call The Christmas Boxes.

One of the warm Christmas memories that I have comes from 1992. I had been living in the mountains of North Carolina near Brevard for almost two years and had just moved into an A-Frame home near Lake Toxaway. My good friend, Michael Sessom, had been staying with me. The move took place in November and it was obvious that the house would lend itself nicely to holiday decorations. Michael called it a Christmas House. The steep two-story ceiling would accommodate a huge tree but buying one that tall would be impossible. Friends of mine came to the rescue. They chopped down a gigantic pine and hauled it down to the house for Thanksgiving. A wood frame had to be constructed just to hold it. Hours of planning, building, pulling and yanking finally resulted in success. The living room was filled with a magnificent tree. Michael spent days putting balls and ornaments on it. He made dozens of “God Eyes” and other things to hang. It took lots and lots of lights as well. The finished Christmas tree was impressive to say the least but the few little presents underneath looked lonely. This led Michael to make a decision that would change the way that I would look at presents.

We were admiring the tree after work at Bridgeway Treatment Center one chilly December night. Michael was disappointed in the emptiness underneath and made a suggestion. “Let’s wrap up the moving boxes like Christmas presents.” He said. “You take half of the boxes and I will take the other half. Then we will write a Christmas memory and put it in the box. On Christmas Eve we can open them and share our memories.” I agreed with some hesitation. It sounded like a silly idea to me. But, we went about the job for the next several days. The big wrapped boxes looked stunning around the tree. It was perfect. Our Christmas Eve opening was moved to the day before because I was headed up to Illinois to be with my daughters. There was never a more emotional or deeply moving present exchange. Each box contained such joy and happiness. The old memories reflected the great love that we both had experienced in our lives. The meaning of Christmas went far beyond the material things that year and has traveled with me ever since.