It’s about this time of the year I miss my folks all over again and, yes, it has to do with Christmas.
Through long-ago years of young adulthood, somewhat older adulthood, and — hopefully — more older adulthood to come, I’ve learned a few things and have changed my mind about others as it relates to Christmas.
For instance, it’s now no longer, “What am I going to get?” or “What’s Santa going to bring me?” The reality is I really don’t want or need anything I don’t have. And the things I don’t have that I’d like to have are things money can’t buy, things Walmart doesn’t offer during a Black Friday sale. And besides all that, while there’s a place for Santa if he’s presented in the right way, that’s not really the true meaning of Christmas.
Let me hasten to add — and I think I’ve said this before — I’m not an opponent of the American Free Enterprise System. As a matter of fact, I think we need more of it. Rather, I’m just saying the sun and moon and stars don’t rise for me in that world.
I don’t need clothes; as my grandpa once said, “I’ve got enough clothes now to last me until I die if I die when I’m supposed to.”
Books and music are big things for me but I won’t live long enough to read all the ones already given as gifts, or that have been purchased at the Friends of the Library Sale or on sale at Barnes & Noble. Ditto for tapes and CDs and even some old vinyl LPs that I can play on the electric gizmo Shirley gave me some time ago that I still haven’t figured out how to operate.
Nope. As the years fly by, I’m really coming to believe even more and understand the same that what The Book says about it being “more blessed to give than to receive.” All I want now are things related to time — better use of it, especially, for things like those notes I need to send, those folks I want to visit, those times with loved ones ... and a good cup of stout coffee.
But still this season evokes still-strong memories that lay asleep until December, especially when it’s a bit nippy, comes around.
When I was a child, we found our Christmas tree in the woods, usually a cedar that was mostly shaped the way it should be — but still sometimes it had the Charlie Brown Christmas syndrome going on. It went into the corner of the living room where the two windows let it cast its lights out toward the highway and it became a beacon as I headed home. Mama covered it with old-fashioned big multi-colored lights and strands of shiny garland.
Packages began to appear under the tree and most of them invited a good shaking. On Christmas morning shoeboxes full of candy bars and seedless raisins and fruit and nuts appeared. I ate the chocolate first and then tried to substitute the almonds for my brothers’ candy when they weren’t looking.
Sometimes Mama would start a fire in the fireplace, which was for decoration most of the year. Out would come the coat hangers and marshmallows. One year they bought a console stereo and Christmas meant great music, including the Harry Simeon Chorale’s rendition of “The Little Drummer Boy,” which is, as far as I’m concerned, the only approved version. It also reminds me of my Dad, who dearly loved the tune. Even today my eyes tend to become a bit more moist when I hear it.
And the kitchen, of course, took on a life of its own, although I had to experience most of it by way of my nose since I’d often hear, as I approached: “Stop running in the kitchen; you’ll make my cake fall.” And the doors in the dining room and the door frames held a bazillion Christmas cards Mama carefully taped to them.
Now, from the vantage point of being old enough to ask for a “senior drink” when I go through the drive-thru, I realize several things about Christmas — that it’s all about what, or rather, who — we were given and about what we can give in return.
I wouldn’t take a penny for all those memories and certainly don’t intend to exchange them. Now I’m just trying to add to them and give some to other folks, especially in this time of virus and a different society.
And I hope you’ll take advantage of yours and not lose sight of the opportunities you may have as you move through this time of year.
Bob Wachs is a native of Chatham County and retired long-time managing editor of the Chatham News/Chatham Record, having written a weekly column for more than 30 years. During most of his time with the newspapers, he was also a bi-vocational pastor and today serves Bear Creek Baptist Church for the second time as pastor.
