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My oldest Christmas memory was when I just turned 3 years old. I’m sure I don’t really remember it, but a photo taken that morning has only made the image stronger in the 53 years since then.
There I am, sitting atop one of those rocking horses with springs that allow the rider to bounce back and forth with reckless abandon, a big ol’ smile underneath the big ol’ cowboy hat I was wearing. There was my cousin Paul, a year and a half younger, standing next to me with plastic pistols loaded in each holster, waiting for his turn on the horse.
Grandma and Granddaddy were there because it was their house. My mom, her two sisters and a brother were also living in that tiny old two-bedroom-plus on Lytle Street, just a block off Dixie Highway. So was an unrelated sweet woman next door – coincidentally named Ms. Brown – who I used to visit almost daily in search of goodies.
It never occurred to any of us that we were poor, that other people might have more than us, that somehow life had been unfair in the process. Because what my family lacked in money we more than made up for in love. That rocking horse has been retired for many a moon, but the warm feelings I experienced at that moment are locked inside my heart.
Despite having our family priorities in the right order, my grandma treasured Christmas most of all, and every year she seem determined to out-do the previous holiday. She did it when she was working two jobs, and she did it when she was living on Social Security. No one knew how to use layaway better than Bobba, the grandkids’ pet name for her.
When my family moved to Asheville in fourth grade, it was my first time away from south Florida during the holidays. Yet, several family and friends joined us for Thanksgiving and Christmas that year, and those big UPS trucks had to make several trips to deliver all of the packages, so it felt like home.
When my family moved to Virginia Beach, Va., a year later, no one was able to visit – and they made up for it by stacking presents so high in the living room the tree was half covered. I got so excited I almost fell through the ice playing hockey on Christmas Eve.
Grandma is even responsible for one of her grandchildren’s favorite memories. She rented a camcorder during Christmas in 1991, I recorded everything like I was Francis Ford Coppola’s sidekick and we’ve worn out that VHS tape in the three decades since then.
Our last really big Christmas was in 2002, my final one before moving back to Murphy a few months later. Several generations came to our home in Florence, Ala., that year, which resulted in The Longest Christmas Day Ever.
That’s because at my house, we open each present one at a time, respectfully. We carefully announce who sent it, read the card if attached, open it, admire it and express thanks before moving on to the next person. With a half-dozen grown-ups and another half-dozen kids on hand, that took awhile.
We started opening presents around 9 a.m., then stopped after an hour or so for breakfast. We resumed gift opening activities afterward, but still weren’t finished when it was time for dinner. Somewhere around dark the last box was unwrapped, the dogs played with the paper and the adults crashed hard on the couch.
The kids, of course, were having too much fun to go to sleep.
The stacks of presents won’t be quite as high on Christmas today, with Bobba in heaven and inflation taking its toll, but the love in the room still couldn’t be any higher. Regardless of what you get, or don’t get; whether you have a turkey in the oven, or just a burger on the stove; if you’re surrounded by people who love you, care about you and don’t want you to be anybody but yourself, then you are a rich person indeed.
May your Christmas remind you of all of the good things that have happened since you were knee-high to a duck. Thankfully, I have two grandchildren who will do just that.
David Brown is publisher of the Cherokee Scout. You can reach him by phone, 837-5122; email, dbrown@cherokeescout.com; or on Twitter @daviddBstroh.