As a boy Christmas was pure magic. The official beginning of Christmas took place when we cut down the tree, plugged in the lights, (replacing the six or seven bulbs that gave up the ghost during the year), retrieved the boxes of ornaments, placing them in no prescribed order. We still have a little round ornament onto which I glued sparkles with the name “David”, I think from as far back as Cub Scouts. We have ornaments that Teeny made, that the kids created, that we’ve bought during our travels, funny ornaments that mean little (an alligator) or some that simply reflect who we are, such as a camera and a guitar for me.
But that is now. We’re repeating today what we all did sixty years ago, although with our kids grown and gone, it’s really not the same. Sixty years ago we went to All Saints Episcopal Church for the evening service on Christmas Eve. Johnny Schmidt had already opened his presents, which I always thought was a terrible mistake. What did he have to look forward to tomorrow? My mother once said that the worst Christmas she ever had was the one where she opened a closet door and discovered all her gifts, leaving her nothing to look forward to Christmas morning.
I mostly remember singing the traditional carols on Christmas Eve, everyone joining in, standing next to my mother, who only sang on key about as often as a stopped clock tells the real time. When the service ended we piled in the Gray Ghost, our 1953 Ford Sedan, headed home, and I climbed into bed, waiting for the arrival of Santa. Of course we left a cookie or two on our fireplace mantle. Its disappearance the next morning was the first sign that Santa had made it safely to 6210 Ridge Avenue. Had he remembered to bring me my Mattel Burp Gun? Did he bring enough roll caps so that I could shoot up the Post Office the next day? Did I get the Stallion .45 caliber pistol with the interchangeable black and white handles? Seeing the extraordinary array of wrapped presents below the tree gave no hint as to who got what or what was contained inside. I knew what was in at least two presents. I had bought $.99 45 rpm records for both my brothers, records that I wanted for myself, rationalizing that they might like them, too.
Since we had all gone to church the night before we didn’t have to accompany Dad as he led the sparsely attended Christmas morning service, returning home to a late brunch of eggs, bacon, toast, and of course my mother’s delicious sour cream coffee cake. I wolfed down breakfast, anxiously waiting for everyone else to finish, so we could attend the main event—the opening, appreciating, and lamenting the wrong toys, contained within the gaily wrapped packages.
In the evening we drove to my Aunt Helen’s house where all my mother’s family gathered, had dinner, then once again repeated the entire ceremonious unwrapping of gifts, oohing and aahing, insincerely thanking our aunts, uncles and cousins, listening while my Uncle Andrew told tasteless and cruel Polish jokes, which none of us understood anyhow. And that was Christmas. Then.
We always had a Christmas tree, usually purchased at a lot. We’ve saved ornaments, too, and they mean more each year. This is one I made with my name on it. I put glue on it, then sparkles to make the letters. It’s probably sixty-five years old.
David
Part II was a repeat of Part I, except we’ve never been churchgoers, so the carols were out. (I miss that part). The kids all went to bed early. We left ketchup and oranges for Santa. (I insisted that he loved ketchup).
We still had brunch, and Jadyne learned how to duplicate my mother’s sour cream coffee cake. And we still had presents. Here are two color slides taken on Christmas morning that echo in Jason the feelings that we all had (or have). I’ve always meant to print these together and call them, “Different Presents.”
But Christmas for the five Buchholzes were not without other memories as well.
Teeny made this in 1985
So now, 2018, we don’t even celebrate Christmas on Christmas. With families scattered from El Cerrito to Sacramento, we find a time where everyone can be together. This year it’s December 22nd, and we’ll host six adults, six grandchildren, and all will be as it was when we were growing up and when our children were growing up. For our adult children and their spouses, though, they will celebrate Christmas on Christmas, with their own families of four, in their own houses, at their own times, and in their own ways.
Jadyne and I will be at Asilomar in Pacific Grove, walking along the beach, or perhaps at Point Lobos, near Carmel, celebrating Christmas privately, giving thanks for the celebration three days earlier, for our families, our health, for the love we have for each other. And we will remember, that although we don’t attend church or raise our voices to heaven, that the message that Jesus brought two thousand years earlier still resonates, and for that we will give thanks.