A Christmas Wish Granted

My father was born just a few months after his father was tragically killed in an accident involving a train. In the mid-1920s there were very few options for a single mother of two young boys. After a few difficult years trying to raise the boys on her own, his mother left both boys to be raised by her mother and father. The boys blended in with their younger aunts and uncles who were still living at home. Money was tight for many reasons, but mostly because Dad’s grandpa was a gambler. He worked all week for the railroad but more often than not the majority of his paycheck was lost in a poker game before he ever made it home. On one particularly bad night, he even lost the house where the family was living. Somehow, word got around to the man who won the house that he was, for the most part, leaving a family with several children homeless. In a moment of guilt or perhaps simple generosity, the man offered Grandpa a much smaller run-down old house so the family would not be living on the street. I think that story is what made me believe that love really is blind. Grandma always stood by Grandpa’s side, and she somehow found a way to make a home for her children and grandchildren.

Being the youngest of all of the children in the house, my dad never really had much that he could call his own. He shared a room and a bed with his older brother. They also shared a single dresser drawer, which was plenty of space as each child only had two outfits most of the time. But they simply thought that was how everyone lived. You had a set of clothes to wear while Grandma washed the other set. There was no reason to have any more. Living in a poor neighborhood, they didn’t know anyone who was living a much different lifestyle at the time. Everyone wore hand-me-downs and was happy to have them.

I’ve heard these stories more times than I can count, but what I never heard from my father was a complaint about the way he was raised or the things that he didn’t have. I always marveled at how he focused on all that he had during his childhood. He knew that he had a loving grandmother who was doing the best that she could for the family. And he knew that he always had company, companionship, and love from his brother and his aunts and uncles. He never recalled being bored or lonely as a child. He related stories of the adventures they shared that ranged from squirrel hunting for extra meat to sneaking over to the local mental hospital early in the morning to swipe a bottle of milk. He would chuckle as he told me stories of the mischief that all of the boys got into, then tell me not to ever try any of their pranks.

The bonds that he formed with his uncles during those lean years growing up never seemed to fade. They knew that no matter what, they could count on each other. That fact remained true for the rest of their lives. I was still a young child as many of my great uncles began to have major health problems and eventually leave us. But I remember sitting for hours at a time and listening to them talk about their childhood. To a spoiled suburban child in the 1970s, it sounded as if they had just barely scraped by during some pretty scary times, but to hear them tell it, those were glorious times to remember. Each and every one of them had a far off distant stare as if recalling fond memories. For them, those were wonderful times. They were young and carefree, all they knew was they had each other. And that was enough.

Slowly, all of those men left us, including my father. But I still hold on tightly to the stories and the lessons I learned from them. By today’s standards, their quality of life would be considered very low. But they never felt poor or in need. They appreciated what they had and most of all they appreciated and loved each other. They found happiness in being together as a family. And that happiness followed them for the rest of their lives. Any time the family was together, there were more smiles, more laughter and more love than any amount of money could buy.

As a child, Christmas Eve was always a night we spent with family. First, we trekked to one end of town to celebrate with my mother’s family. There was always a fancy dinner, and then we all gathered around the Christmas tree and exchanged gifts. This was great fun and excitement for a child, and I always enjoyed it. Then we packed all of the gifts in the car and headed out for the hour drive to see my dad’s side of the family. We always arrived later than most so when we got there, the house was packed, and the party was in full swing. I remember the sound of the back screen door as it opened, and the creek of the back step. Then it was like you were being drawn into the house by some invisible force. The aroma of wonderful baked goods and the sounds of laughter greeted you right inside the door. As you inched into the kitchen you were greeted by smiles and hugs from everyone. Aunt Rita would announce to those in the front room, “Clyde’s here!” in a voice filled with holiday cheer. There would be a slight uptick in the roar of voices as we were all greeted.

Even as a young child, it was clear to see that everyone was simply basking in the joy of having the entire family together for the holiday. There were always Christmas carols playing, and Bing Crosby’s White Christmas got everyone in a jolly mood. I know we spent hours there on Christmas Eve but the time always flew by, and I never wanted to leave. My parents had to bribe me to get me to leave. They said that if I didn’t go home and go to bed then Santa couldn’t come to our house. Finally, I gave in and began the rounds of goodbye hugs and kisses. Then we were out into the cold night air and ready for the drive home. I know it must have been late because I don’t recall much after backing out of the driveway and falling asleep with a big smile on my face.

Thinking of childhood holidays, this one night always seems to stand out as my most favorite part of each year. And in particular, the part of the evening with my father’s family. It wasn’t until many years later, when I had a child of my own, that I really stopped to think about why it was a favorite event. At first glance, it would seem odd. Unlike with my mom’s side of the family, here I was the only child. And many of the adults I only saw once or twice a year. There were no kid’s holiday shows to watch or games to play and we never exchanged holiday gifts with Dad’s family. But what we did share was love. I know now, some 40 plus years later; there in that house in Sunbury is where I learned the true meaning of Christmas. I lived it each year just as my father and his family had been doing since he was a small child. All those years ago, all they had to give each other was their love. And each one of them thankfully took that precious gift and cherished it. And even as many parts of their lives changed over the years, that one most important thing did not. They made the time and the effort to gather together on that special night to share what was most important to each one of them, love of family.

I’m almost fifty now, and I haven’t made a Christmas wish in a long time. I’m so blessed, I have so much. I need or want for nothing and more importantly, my life is full of another wonderful and loving family. But this year I wish that I could have just a second to say thank you to my Dad for the wonderful holiday memories and to tell him how much each and every one of those Christmas Eve nights means to me. Somewhere, I hope you can hear me, Dad. Thank you and Merry Christmas, I love you!