It’s Christmas and memories abound. Especially at my age, (70). And what is a man when he dies but only a mire collection of memories to other people. And maybe that’s why at this age I’ve become very nostalgic and feel the need to pass on some of my collection.
The earliest Christmas I remember is Christmas of 1945. I was going to be 6 in March. WW2 was over. My uncles were already home from the war in Europe and my father, John Henry had just come home from the Pacific. These were the earliest memories of my dad. He was not as ‘loud’ as my uncles (both Goolsby and Morgan), who often drank a little too much. I remember Uncle Bob, thin and 6’4”, rolling around on the ground drunk and giggling as his wife Aunt Maurice (barely 5 foot) jumped up and down in frustration, trying to kick him, in our front yard. Like a Benny hen after a snake.
Dad was a ‘tea total-er’ compared to my uncles. But that Christmas - - - well the war was over, I guess there was much to celebrate. From the time I was three until Dad came back home, there was only my mother, aunt, grandmother and a black woman (I remember she looked just like Hattie McDaniel in the movie “Gone With the Wind”) who took care of me and my brother and cousins since all the women working on the war effort. And having a father was really new to me at that point so perhaps I was particularly watching every move this “new man” in my young life was doing. That year the uncles and my dad, decided that us boys needed to have Bebe guns. I remember they were lever action Daisy “Red Riders” and from them I learn much, both good and bad.
One evening the whole family was together. It might have been Christmas eve or Christmas night. Besides the Bebe guns I remember an electric train set that was running and the uncles and dad were playing ("setting it up and testing" they said) with it. Somehow they needed to "test" the Bebe guns. Targets? Why the Christmas tree ornaments of course. Much the chagrin and loud protest of the woman, they took turns at marksmen ship they learn in the war I guess. To 3 of my uncles I believe this was more fun than the beaches at Omaha or Anzio.
At one point Dad took a pot shot at my Mom’s passing posterior, which must have really stung from the yelp she let out. That didn’t help her disposition any of course, but for the men it cause great hilarity. I seem to remember, it was my diminutive grand mother “Mud Pud” Lola Bleaka, who put a stop to the shooting, where her daughters had had no effect at all. At this point all that remained of the ornaments were 5 or so bulbs.
To this day I have those 5 bulbs that survived that Christmas. My wife thinks these bulbs are old and ugly, and that makes sense because she has no “history” to them. I put them on the tree in memory of my father, my uncles, my family in its happiest days and each time I see them, I remember my earliest Christmas. And though they have faded color and rusty hooks, their memories are still bright to me.
And what will happen to these “memories” of mine when I’m gone? That part of me which IS me will be gone too. In other words more of me besides my body will disappear too. We pass on our genes in our children, and though them our grandchildren and great grandchildren. Our bodies changed back to the basic elements they were made from to begin with. In this world our souls are really nothing but memories that made our character which become memories to others. The family of long ago still lives in my heart. The only way can I see to keep them alive in time and place is in those old faded and dusty Christmas tree bulbs.
Maybe I can give them to my only granddaughter Elise. In her I see the very personification of Christmas. She has been wearing Christmas colors and singing corals constantly around the house since Thanksgiving Day. She is so full of joy and excited spirit, it is unbelievable she has so much energy. She is now going on seven. She spent a good deal of time, busily making personal Christmas cards for each and every one of the family. When you opened the card there was no doubt who it was for, for in either picture or word you knew instantly it for you. So much love poured out them.
So maybe sometime in a distant future as a little old lady with grand children, she’ll tell my story of my first Christmas after a great war. She’ll show them the old bulbs that survived that Christmas night of 1945. That way I still be alive as well as the family I loved on that Christmas. Maybe seeing those old beat up bulbs, they’ll wonder about me and those I loved. We will still be alive - - - but in their memories.
I hope you had a Merry Christmas my friends. May you make many memories with those you love and love you and live forever.
