I grew up the child of a coal miner in southern Indiana, which means we didn't have a lot of money, but we got by. The whole time I was growing up, Mom kept telling me we were poor, but I never truly believed her. Back then, in the fifties and early sixties, most mothers stayed home, kept house and raised the kids. At least where we lived, they did. We always had plenty to eat, clothes on our backs, and decent toys to play with, so I had no occasion to ever feel poor. Mom liked to bake and cook, so the house was always filled with delicious homey smells. We had a big dinner every Sunday, usually fried chicken, homemade noodles, mashed potatoes, gravy and other vegetables. In the summer, we had fresh produce from the garden in the back yard. Mom always had some kind of pie or cake on hand, too. She was the best baker. Her coconut cream pie was like manna from heaven.
For many years, every Easter and Christmas, Mom made me a fancy new dress for church and got me either new black or white patent leather Mary Jane shoes, depending on the season, i.e. black for Christmas and white for Easter. She sewed like a dream. I remember one Christmas, she made a beautiful polished cotton dress covered with big deep blue roses. The skirt was heavily gathered and very full; it had big puffed sleeves and a solid blue sash that tied in the back with a bow. (At Easter came a similar dress (probably the same pattern), only in a solid pink that she took a lot of time to hand smock the bodice of.) She'd get one of those stiff, net petticoats for me to wear under those dresses to make the skirts stand out. I still remember the Sunday School teachers making a big fuss over those dresses and saying what a wonderful seamstress my mother was, while I simultaneously blushed with embarrassment and beamed with pride.
The 'rich' kids in the class rolled their eyes, smirked and coolly ignored me. They wore clothes from Osborne's, the dress shop in town, or from Gimbel's Department Store in nearby Vincennes. It didn't matter though, because I felt like a princess in those gorgeous dresses Mom made. After church, I'd go home and stand in front of our old Philco television and dance, watching my reflection in the screen, twirling or tapping, depending on whether I felt like Swan Lake or Yankee Doodle Dandy. I usually stuck to 'ballet' as tap dancing got me in trouble a lot faster since we had bare hardwood floors. At any rate, Mom and Dad did their dead level best for us and gave us as much as they could, especially at Christmas. So although I knew we weren't wealthy, I never once thought of us as poor.
We were well taught that Christmas was really all about the birth of Christ. Our holidays were filled with church, caroling all the old time songs and being in Nativity pageants. It was during this stage of my life (about six years old) that I learned that there was no Santa Claus. Kids at school let that cat out of the bag. It didn't break my heart much; Santa was apparently just a nice story that only little kids believed, thus I was only moderately disappointed, since now I was a big kid. I did feel somewhat hoodwinked by the whole scam, though. Mom and I had numerous discussions about it. Seemed like Mom was trying hard to cast doubt in my mind about the whole thing, like maybe those kids were just telling lies and maybe there really was a Santa. But I knew better--those kids at school were savvy and knew what they were talking about. Besides, there were already presents under the tree way before Christmas. And I knew they were from Mom and Dad and other relatives since I saw them put them there. Santa Claus, my eye!
Then YIPPEEE! School let out for two whole weeks! We didn't have to go back till after New Year's Day! The tree was put up, decorated and tinseled. Lights were strung outside around the porch. Stockings were hung on the battered cardboard fireplace my Dad hauled up from the basement. Bowls of nuts in the shell, along with the nutcracker and picks were set out. There were also dishes of apples, oranges and tangerines and best of all---Christmas candies! Tiny peppermint canes, raspberry filled candies, white satin coated black walnut chewies and the hard ribbon candy that you can hardly ever find anymore. The very air around our house fairly dripped with festivity!
One of my favorite things to do was to lay under the tree with my head amongst the presents. It was best to turn the living rooms lights off and turn on the tree lights and stare up through the tree at all the different colors winking in the dark. It felt like Christmas Fairyland! There would be holiday specials playing on TV or Christmas music in the background that added to the ambience. Mom would be in the kitchen making fruitcakes or other goodies, while Dad sat at the kitchen table doing the crossword puzzle in the newspaper. Sometimes an aunt or neighbor might be there, too, keeping them company and gossiping or talking recipes. I'd feel the packages and shake them and sniff them and try to guess what was inside.
Though I'd been 'gypped' out of the myth of Santa, I didn't lose much of the thrill, wonder and magic that was Christmas. By the time Christmas Eve arrived, mercenary me had every single package under the tree thoroughly memorized and my best guesses as to the contents of each in mind. I could scarcely bear to go to bed that night as the anticipation of the next morning was overwhelming. But at last I drifted off dreaming of those beautifully wrapped gifts waiting to be opened at long last in the morning.
I was usually up before anyone else and had to wait patiently till everyone else was up, too. I was up early this Christmas too, but this year, a miracle had happened overnight! In addition to the presents under the tree that I already knew by heart, there were now two new bicycles with bows on the handlebars! One for me and one for my sister! There was also a set of doll bunk beds with Raggedy Ann and Andy perched on top, smiling broadly at a little girl who was dumbstruck with disbelief. Nearly hysterical with excitement, I ran to Mom and Dad and said in complete awe, "There must really be a Santa Claus! He came in the night and left those! They weren't here when I went to bed! He must be real! He left them! He left them right there!" They smiled and nodded and didn't disabuse me of the notion. Of course, I finally understood the whole Santa Claus thing a year or two later. And then I grew up, had my own family and spent years making Christmas happen for them. Now my daughter has a child of her own and she is the 'Christmas Maker'.
We're 62 now, my husband and I. In the years we've been married, my dear husband knocked himself out year after year making the holidays as joyful as he could for us all. Eventually, it became so very exhausting and once the kids grew up and left home, we gradually stopped doing much anymore for the holiday (insofar as putting up a tree, decorating, making goodies, etc.). Though we miss a lot of the things we used to do, we still love Christmas time. Alone now out here in the wild west, our families scattered all over, we watch dozens of Christmas movies every year, and hand each other the tissue box when we start getting weepy. And then laugh at our own sappiness and smile with a certain kind of contentment.
You know, what's really funny is that Santa looks remarkably like my sweet husband these days. Or is it the other way round? Well, there really is a Santa Claus, you know. He's real. My six-year-old self can tell you.
Till next time,
"Christmas waves a magic wand over this world, and behold, everything is softer and more beautiful." ~Norman Vincent Peale~
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