Re: It was the best of times; it was the worst of times... -- Lafcadio T. Lion and Strawberry Sage and Friends Fun Forum

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Date Posted: 12:03:30 12/11/02 Wed
Author: Sage
Author Host/IP: qam1b-sif-86.monroeaccess.net / 12.27.214.87
Subject: Re: It was the best of times; it was the worst of times...
In reply to: Scrooge was my hero 'til he sold out Lion 's message, "It was the best of times; it was the worst of times..." on 02:02:53 12/08/02 Sun

I grew up at the foot of my father's mountain in upstate New York. We lived at the top of a circle about a mile from the village. My grandmother lived next door and my cousins lived across the street from us. A school bus chugged up the hill five days a week to take my cousins and me to the only place we socialized outside of family. Back in those days when my mornings began by meeting my cousins at the "big rock," my contact with the outside world went only so far as the school where eventually I would graduate with the same sixty students with whom I started kindergarten. With the exception of an occasional classmate's birthday party, special events were always family happenings.

My grandmother's birthday was on Christmas Eve and sometime after supper, we would walk next door to her tiny shingled house with a gift. I remember how her eyes sparkled as she opened atomizer after atomizer, perfumes and powders. That tiny house was filled with relatives crammed into every corner. All of the children would sit on the living room floor as my Uncle Bill shot movies of us from his perch on the stairs which he shared with a stuffed owl that fascinated and intimidated all of us. My grandmother had been a companion to a wealthy lady and as such, had brushed shoulders with people like Georgia O'Keefe. A book of the artist's greatest works was one of her most prized possessions. But during these days that I remember, she was a chambermaid. She took great pride in her work. There was no one who knew how to operate the machine that ironed sheets and bedspreads as well as she did. She earned just enough to get by, but somehow, she would manage a small gift for every grandchild and there were close to 50 of us.

She would sit finally at the dining room table where there was a cake waiting for her. It was a "pass-through" room and only four or five people could fit in there with her, so, on cue, seventy or so voices would join in singing "Happy Birthday" from as close as we could get to her.

It was a "special night" with no particular bedtimes. We would filter out slowly and go back home to dress in our red choir robes and wait to leave for Midnight Mass. The most magical Christmas Eves were marked by a freshly fallen heavy white snow that would sparkle under the street lamps. My father would inch slowly down the steep hill and around the corner through snowbanks too high to see over. When we climbed the stone steps and opened the heavy wooden doors of the church, our nostrils were immediately filled with the smell of incense. Friendly hands reached out to shake my father's, and as my parents and younger brother were led to their pew, I would climb the little wooden stairs to where Mrs. Schalm awaited her choir members. At a certain time during the Mass, we younger singers would take a step backward and Vic LeFebvre would take his place in front to sing "O Holy Night." We listened, awe-struck, as his voice brought home the meaning of Christmas. That feeling went back home with us and kept us silent and in a state of peaceful wonderment until it was time for bed.

In the morning, I was always first up. In the darkness, I would go stand in front of the Christmas tree, unlit, but with a sparkle and magic created by shiny metal icicles. I was enthralled by gift shadows under the tree. I was a little impatient, I suppose, to discover what Santa had brought, but the moments before gifts were unwrapped remain with me now more than the excitement of opening the few gifts my parents had been able to afford.

It was 4 days before Christmas when a few of us fourth graders crowded around our teacher's desk just before the bell rang that would signify the end of the school day and the beginning of Christmas vacation. We had enjoyed the traditional school Christmas party that day. The students had drawn names for gift-giving and I had been surprised when my name was called and I received an envelope with $5 from my friend and classmate, Kim. This would be the Christmas that would mark the beginning of the end of my childhood. Back then, a gift of that amount of money made you rich and I looked at Kim with surprise and awe-struck wonder. But what I saw when I looked at him was embarrassment and shame. He came to me quickly with his head bowed and apologized. His mother had been too busy to help him find something special for me and had instead given him money to give me as a gift. As protected and naive as I was, I understood immediately and did all I could to absolve him from his shame. Life did not get better for Kim. This little rich boy with parents who shuffled him back and forth would evetually grow up to shoot himself to death in a game of Russian Roulette.

In those brief moments when we surrounded our teacher to wish her a Merry Christmas, a classmate made a comment about not believing in Santa Claus. I remember looking into the eyes of my teacher and she looked back at me with a sadness in her eyes that told me the truth. My mother confirmed my fears when I got home from school and for a few short moments, I was devastated. But only for a few minutes, because there was an excitement that replaced the sadness.

It was a moment when adult affairs and emotions suddenly became understandable for the first time and this was my entrance into that world. I felt important and powerful. I had knowledge that had yet to come to my younger brother and sister. My mother asked me to help her with the last minute shopping made necessary by the timing of my father's paycheck. I was no longer just a recipient. I was part of the secret and I was delighted.

Unfortunately, I was also blessed with all the faults of a perfectionist. I still struggle with that. No one else has to be perfect, but I must make things "perfect" for everyone else. Christmas music and decorations that appear in stores the day after Halloween give a sense of urgency to the season that is wrong. And we let it do it to us.

Last Christmas was close to perfect. I had the ability to give material things and that gave me great pleasure. When you walk the streets at Christmas time and you encounter eyes filled with sadness, that sadness is usually caused by that individual's inabilty to give material things to someone he or she loves. But there is something worse and that is having no one to give to. I will not push platitudes about giving material things being unimportant, because even the wise men did not arrive without gifts, but what I truly want for Christmas is not something money can buy. It is something so simple and yet so complicated, so easy, yet so hard and frightening to give.

That is what I want to find under the tree on Christmas morning. I think it's what we all want.

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Re: It was the best of times; it was the worst of times... -- Lion on a rampage, 18:35:31 12/16/02 Mon