When I think of my childhood Christmases, I think of going to my grandparents’ home in Klamath Falls, Oregon. They moved out of that house when I was six or seven, and some of my earliest Christmases were spent at my home rather than traveling to my grandparents’ house. So I can’t have spent more than three or four Christmases in their Klamath Falls house.
And yet, to me, these were the perfect Christmases.
Why were they perfect?
I was with my Nanny Winnie, who unlike my mother, almost never got mad. I could play with my mother’s old doll, whom I named “sewing doll”. We didn’t have Lincoln Logs at home, but at our grandparents’ house my brother and I could fight over the folded bunny plastic figurine that came with Lincoln Logs. The house smelled of holiday ham and roasted beef and chocolate. I could chase the ancient cat named Kitty. There wasn’t much not to like about being at my grandparents’ house.
Plus, I was a true believer in Santa Claus in those days, and I knew with utmost assurance that he would bring me many good presents. And he did—enough presents to fill the room, it seemed.
Even now, I can picture the living room in that house. I can see where the Christmas tree stood each year—next to the fireplace, in the same place Christmas trees had stood since my mother was a little girl. I hear the crackling logs in the fireplace and Chet Huntley’s voice recounting the news. I smell holiday cookies baking and I taste peppermint stick ice cream from Percy Murray’s creamery.
Yes, those Christmases were perfect.
I wonder if anyone else remembers Christmases in that house. My grandparents and parents are dead. My younger sister and brother hadn’t been born before my grandparents moved out of the house. Only the brother right behind me (the one with whom I fought over the folded bunny) is still alive, and he and I are not in touch. Plus, he was younger than me and might not remember.
Still, when I hear “over the river and through the woods” I remember the drives to Klamath Falls. And when I hear “chestnuts roasting on an open fire” I hear the crackle of flames in the fire by the Christmas tree. Then the magic of these Christmases past returns to me. For two generations, that house made Christmases special. And in my memory, Christmas is special again.
What perfect Christmases do you remember?
Going to my German grandparent’s home in central Kansas in the heart of a Mennonite community. Grandma’s cream cookies and peppernuts (pfeffernusse) made for some fond memories. Grandpa kept the yearly tradition of handing out paper lunch bags with each grandkid’s name written on them filled with hard candy, chocolates, an apple, licorice, etc. We each had to “say a piece” (bible verse) or play a solo on our school band instrument. I still remember the tile pattern of their floor because I was too embarrassed to look up while playing my flute.
So many lovely memories. Merry Christmas, Cindy.
Merry Christmas, fellow Kansas Citian!
I love seeing the belief in my grandkids’ faces that when they set up treats for Santa and his reindeer, they have no doubt whatsoever that the big guy and his sled pullers will be enjoying them.
I know the kids won’t be disappointed!
Okay but what’s the furry thing? Is it a Christmas tree of some sort?
If you mean the item my brother is pointing to, yes, it was a table-top Christmas tree, and we got to help my grandmother decorate it. I got to put the star on top. The image is blurry. I should go look for a better copy of the picture and scan it again. Merry Christmas, Theresa