A plethora of statuses have dotted my Facebook newsfeed in recent weeks criticizing the early onslaught of reminders heralding — Hark! the herald ads do sing — the coming holiday season. And of course, by “coming,” I mean eight weeks in the future. I don’t mind this early hullabaloo over the holidays, though. I love this time of year.
The holidays represent a beautiful blend of nostalgia and hope, an effervescent unification of the beauty of the past and the promises of the future. Some of my fondest memories stem from Christmastime.
My father would go Clark Griswold on our house, covering every last inch with technicolor lights and garlands, and completing his artistic masterpiece with a glittering candy cane fence that snaked its way down the driveway to the street’s edge. My grandmothers would travel from North Carolina to join us as we plunged headfirst into the presents beneath the tree. I’d make dozens upon dozens of cookies with my mother.
On Christmas Eve, my sister and I always received an early present of warm pajamas, which we’d hastily throw on before the entire family congregated around the fireside to watch “It’s a Wonderful Life” while my father roasted chestnuts on the fire — living proof that the first line from “The Christmas Song” remains relevant in this century. After we saw George Bailey realize what a wonderful life he had, we children would scuttle off to bed, tossing our comforters over our heads to keep out the cold and giggling to ourselves in excitement of the impending visit from Santa Claus.
After we’d finally silenced the fantastical thoughts in our heads and fallen asleep, Mom would arrange gifts on the hearth — something I, of course, didn’t find out until much later. In addition to Santa’s milk and cookies, we’d lay out carrots for his reindeer; the following morning we’d find these carrots on the sidewalk by the porch, apparently fallen from the roof, with large bites taken from their middles courtesy of my father. Christmas days were a blur of casseroles, parade watching and smiles.
I hold these memories closer than just about any others — closer than my graduation from high school, my summers in England or my first kiss. These memories take me back to being a child and to the feeling of security. I didn’t have to worry about the future; I had only to look forward to it. As I’ve grown up, though, and especially as I’ve begun my collegiate journey, that sense of security has vanished to be replaced by anxiety and disillusionment.
Christmases aren’t the same anymore. Sure, some traditions remain — I don’t think a nuclear holocaust could destroy those green bean casseroles; they’ll outlast the roaches — but many of the best parts of my childhood Christmases have vanished.
My great-grandmother — one of my best friends, of whom I am a near perfect carbon copy — now lives in a nursing home three hours away and no longer comes for Christmas. My sister and I don’t leave cookies for Santa; Mom and I don’t even bake cookies anymore. I don’t wake up at the crack of dawn to dive into my presents; last year, I didn’t wake up until 11 a.m. missing the televised parade. My sister spends half of Christmas day with her boyfriend’s family, leaving me to meander aimlessly through the halls of my home, wondering how our grand family Christmases disintegrated so quickly and so resolutely.
But then, some traditions remain. Dad still hauls his dozens of boxes of Christmas lights from the attic every December, albeit sans candy cane fence. I still feel a flurry of eagerness when I see those packages tied with gossamer ribbons beneath the twinkling lights of the tree. And every Christmas Eve we still watch “It’s a Wonderful Life.”
I am certain I will take numerous cues from my own family Christmases with me wherever I go. There may come a day when I don’t see my family at all during the holidays; but I will carry them with me through their traditions. After all, it is really is a wonderful life. George Bailey would be proud.
Laura’s column runs biweekly Fridays. She can be reached at l.holshouser@cavalierdaily.com.
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