Snow Globes

 Living in the moment seems the best fit for me, because my memories seem to be more comprised of moments than events. Though there are some things I recall in toto, there are far more vignettes that comprise my recollections. Maybe I don’t have the focus or the energy to commit most things to memory. Maybe I simply do not have the bandwidth for it. Whatever the reason, my life separates into moments where some remain with me while others join the dinosaurs or the socks that disappear from the dryer. Taking time to reminisce on Christmases throughout my life, I do not have full memories in the round, but moments strewn along the path of my life. Smooth and shiny as river rocks – and I’m good with that.

 As a child, my paternal grandmother (Nanny) would come down from mythical Ridgefield, Connecticut to visit us. In my youngest of times, she arrived by train. I could not tell you if the station we picked her up from was in Columbia or Orangeburg or Branchville or some other town. I don’t remember if the station platform was wood or cement. I don’t even remember the mighty locomotive or Nanny disembarking from a passenger car. What sticks in my mind is the image of the rails disappearing in the distance where the parallel lines merged (obviously Connecticut). The Christmas gift of this vision was my first glimpse of infinity. Not bad.

 Christmas with Nanny was filled with recollections of her taking her grandchildren to Eckerd’s Drug Store at the Orangeburg Mall for lunch at their lunch counter where every year, the waitresses were excited to see her.  Of course, there also are the moments that exist within me of Nanny’s bad driving (the stuff of legends), of her lovingly saying to me in Arabic Ya Habibi, and her occasional expression of amazement with her wrinkled hand pressed to her forehead as she would moan “Sheesh ohboy!” The thing I remember most from these many Christmas visits was joining my siblings around the tree one Christmas morning with Nanny telling us that a noise had awakened her in the middle of the night. She got up to check on the cause of the sound to find Santa with his back to her putting presents under the tree. I can picture her in her flannel nightgown quietly scurrying back to her bed, because magic is a fragile thing.

Most of the other Christmases of my childhood come as images of me crawling stealthily beneath the tree and opening a seam or corner of gift wrap on my presents to see what I would be receiving. This never spoiled my Christmas morning. It simply changed the excitement of the unknown to the excitement of expectation. The joy of finally stripping the wrapping paper from a football helmet or Coleco hockey game that I couldn’t wait to play with. I am not ashamed to note that this excitement did not extend to the packages bearing shirts and sweaters.

 Beyond that my snippets of South Carolina Christmases are mostly glimpses of a tree, an ornament, a smile. One thing that was universal to every Christmas in the Handal household was my mom’s dogged efforts to ensure she spent the same amount on each child for the under-the-tree presents, and carefully planning for the same number of knick-knacks for each child’s stockings. This latter habit brought to me my biggest Christmas smile one year when I was back from Clemson for the holidays. As was the tradition, when we kids got up Christmas morning our stockings were the first thing we went for. Never knowing what to expect. This time when I emptied out the lumpy red velvet boot, out popped a magazine, some baseball cards, maybe a yo-yo, and a can of tuna. Grinning I turned to mom as she explained with more than a little undeserved embarrassment that she had miscounted my share of stocking stuffers and needed to add one more item to even things out.

 As an adult, the memory of any Christmas day is murky at best. This surprises me because I would think that especially the addition of Jean-Marie and the kids to my life would place most Christmases complete in my heart. But it is the spirit of the day that persists, the happiness, the chaos, the grazing on cookies and leftovers from the Christmas dinner. The larger memories for me with my wife and children are the whole of the season where I see Christmas parties that filled the house, and I am once again scouring the city with Jean-Marie to find those things we think the kids will love, driving around to see all the neighborhood Christmas displays that delighted us so, and the taking of turns on the phone talking to in-laws and out-laws, siblings and friends.

It is all of these moments of Christmas that scatter before me each year. They are not pieces that when rearranged complete a puzzle. They are snow globes, one scene in each. And as I pick up ones at random, I give each a shake, place them before the light and see what arises as the white flakes settle and the water clears. I get new snow globes every year. I have quite a wonderful collection.

 

Merry Christmas

Ghosts of Christmas Past

Christmas stirs up memories in most people, and I am no different.  I have memories of all kinds from attending midnight mass on Christmas Eve to crawling beneath the tree to unwrap my gifts early to traditions built around my children and grandchildren.  This year I am thinking of Santa (which is only fair since he spends so much time thinking of us).

            When I speak of Santa, I am not talking about my father dressing up in costume for so many Christmases.  By the way, he wore the outfit even after we grew to adulthood, although by then he just wore the red pants and the cap.  What I am talking of is falling into my memories of the jolly old elf himself.

            I recall two very early memories of Santa Claus.  The oldest of which took place when the family lived on St. Andrews Drive in Orangeburg.  Our grandmother, Nanny (Dad’s mom), would come and join us from Connecticut most Christmases and in those days she would come by train which made her visits more magical.  She would come to town and take us kids to the cafeteria at Eckard’s Drug at the Orangeburg Mall where I would always get a chili dog and the waitress would always remember our Nanny.  Nanny would take us other places as well, and anywhere she drove was an adventure because she was not a good driver…she scared us.  Anyway, this one Christmas, I remember charging out Christmas morning to take inventory of what Santa had brought.  I don’t remember what it was that year, but what sticks with me the most was Nanny telling us, “I heard a noise in the middle of the night, and when I got out of bed to look I saw Santa and I rushed right back to bed!”  The image that formed in my mind was of Nanny peering around a corner and spying Santa from behind as he bent over his pack.  That goes down as the first and most substantial proof I needed that Santa truly existed.

            Later after the family outgrew the St. Andrew’s house and had moved to Mason Drive, my older brother Chris and I shared a room with a nightstand and AM radio separating our beds.  On Christmas Eve, we would go excitedly to bed and celebrate what became a ritual for us – the listening to the Santa radar tracking from the mysterious Cheyenne Mountain in some far off land called Colorado.  We would track him most often across Canada and Yankee climes (he must have been saving his visit to the South for later – the best for last!) before falling asleep to muster ourselves for an early morning assault on our parents and presents.  This memory is lasting not only because I live in Colorado Springs at the foot of Cheyenne Mountain now, but because if the United States Air Force said Santa existed, that was good enough for me.

            Time passes so quickly (as only time can), and I grew up.  I drew the mantle of Santa onto myself.  Santa is a busy elf, and I think it is our jobs as adults and parents to help him out so that he can spend his efforts helping those around the world that cannot as easily help themselves.  I married Jean-Marie, a beautiful woman with three incredible children, and we joined forces as Santa for them.  We filled stockings, and placed gifts out with tags reading “from Santa” each Christmas.  Doing our jobs as Santa helpers.  Though a joy, it is not really the memory I wished to share here.  The memory that is currently making me smile is after our oldest child at 21 years of age gave birth to our grandson Russell.  To provide space and security for them, Jean-Marie and I turned the detached garage into a cottage that she moved into at Christmas time two months before Russell was born.  It was in that cottage when Russell was almost three years old, that Haley asked me to do something special for her.  So after dark on Christmas Eve after Russell had been put in his bed, she called over to the house and told me it was time.  I grabbed a ladder, walked across the back yard, and set it up against her cottage. Quietly as I could, I climbed up on the roof, then stomped around for a bit so that Russell could have his magic moment with Santa.

            The last memory I am thinking of happened seven years after that last memory on a December afternoon when I was driving around with Russell.  We had the 850 KOA Sports Zoo on the radio and one of the hosts, Dave Logan, began some kind of rant.  Suddenly he made an inadvertent slip and said something to the effect that to think such-n-such was like still believing in Santa Claus.  There was a hasty commercial break and when they returned, the hosts Susie and Dave were trying to smooth it over any way they could.  I was just sitting there, stunned and silent behind the steering wheel.  At almost ten years of age, Russell was at the cusp where he might still believe and then again he might not.  It is not a conversation you hold with a child, so I didn’t know what to say or do.  So I did one of the things I do best - panicked.  I sat there sweating, trying unsuccessfully to map out what to say when Russell turned to me, placed a hand on my arm and said, “It’s alright, Bumpa.  I already know about Santa.”  My heart melted, because Russell didn’t know it then, but he was starting his path to take up Santa’s mantle with that act of kindness toward his grandfather.  And you know what?  For the second Christmas Eve in a row, Russell (now 17) will be joining his step-dad Mike on the Santa Hotline - Santa continues to be payed forward.

Christmas Time and Time Again

I’m convinced that Christmas is so cherished a holiday in part because it fits our oral tradition so well.  Gatherings of family and friends to open gifts and share meals is not only the perfect incubator for new memories, but is the ideal venue to share old ones.  I’m no different.  I am drinking in the experiences of this holiday season, and I find past Christmas’s rising happily unbidden to the surface.  These memories come in no particular order, no particular priority of smiles, and they come as naturally as the season itself.

When I was a young man and in my freshman year at Clemson, I remember coming home for Christmas break.  I couldn’t wait to see my friends from high school and their families.  One of the first things I did was grab some magic markers and a square of cardboard from one of my dad’s dry cleaned shirts, and I made an arrow sign with the words “My Tree” on it.  I then got my little brother Greg and my youngest sister Ginny to pose for a picture in the upstairs hallway pointing the arrow sign towards the family tree in the living room downstairs.  I then took this sign and my camera to the Lovejoys, the Wilsons, the Barkers, the Campbells, the Whitakers and others.  I got that film processed as quickly as possible and put together an album, I just couldn’t wait to do that.  I think on some level I intuitively understood that I could only experience these connections that were so critical to my formation this one last time in my life.  Beyond freshman year, the centrifugal spin of life casts childhood friends apart towards their individual destinies.

I also recall a Christmas just seven years ago when I was in the car with my grandson, Russell.  He was about ten years old.  It was Christmas school break and he had been to work with me for the day.  We were listening to 850 KOA Sports Zoo on the radio for the long ride home, and one of the hosts was going on an uncharacteristic rant and accidently implied the nonexistence of Santa Claus.  I took a quick look toward Russell and held my breath, I didn’t know what to say to him.  At ten, some children believe, some don’t, and others are on the cusp.  I didn’t know what Russell thought about Santa, and I was frozen as my mind held a veritable traffic jam of scenarios it was attempting to deal with.  In the midst of my panic, my grandson placed a calming hand on my shoulder and said, “Don’t worry, Bumpa, I know about Santa.”

This Christmas while listening to carols as my wife and I drove to our daughter Haley’s Christmas party, the radio station played “The Twelve Days of Christmas.”  Jean-Marie and I were singing along and laughing as we took turns forgetting how many maids were milking and how many swans were swimming, only sure that there were five golden rings.  After a time, we were both struck with memories form a Christmas at least fifteen years ago.  We found ourselves hosting a dinner for a group friends from Texas.  A dozen of us around a long table, enjoying good food and good conversation.  After dinner, Jean-Marie and I served dessert on our brand new “Twelve Days of Christmas” dessert plates.  I no longer recall how it started or whose idea it was, but we began singing and laughing our way through that song, each person singing the part that was on their plate.

There have been other Christmas’s and other memories.  There will be more Christmas’s and new memories.  They will find places for themselves in my brain with no guarantee when or if they will rise to the surface.  It’s not that different from looking at presents beneath the tree.  You don’t know what lies inside the wrapping, but each box is a gift and a surprise and a smile.  Merry Christmas.

Ghosts of Christmas Past

I am not looking to hear reindeer pawing at my rooftop tomorrow; I am not going to have visions of sugar plums dancing about my cluttered jagged thoughts when I go to bed Christmas Eve. I will be listening to the sound of my wife’s breathing and trying to dream of the tiny miracles of Christmases passed to settle my spirit from a year that has been difficult and at times painful.

I wish my childhood memories were more clear, that I could pick out defining Christmas moments from each year that passed beneath my young feet, but they no longer are, they are blended together. One of the memories unattached to time or age is of a nocturnal exploration of presents beneath the tree. I do not recall if I was joined by any of my siblings (and would not implicate them even if I did) only that on this secret venture I peeked at every present I was receiving that year and it ruined the surprise on Christmas. When I told my mom of this just today on the phone, she told me two things: 1) She didn’t know that I had done that, and 2) She had done the same thing when she was a child. I was surprised and pleased by her admission as it established a new link to have with my mother. I love Mom.

Childhood memories also bless me with mental snapshots of what made Christmases in my youth wonderful. Closing my eyes I can see images of my father in varying degrees of Santa garb, of trees overflowing with gifts for five children who were just lucky to have the parents we did, of fires in the hearth, and of incredible food prepared by my mom for her small army.

Memories are better defined thinking back to my college years. When I was a sophomore, I moved off campus to an apartment that would become known as the “Sex Palace”,the same way a large man is given the nickname “Tiny”. It was there that I erected the first Christmas tree that I would call my own. It was a scrawny pine tree sapling adorned with handmade ornaments, topped with a picture of Cap’n Crunch’s Crunchberry Beast. It was that same Christmas that I returned to Orangeburg for the holidays and got the idea to do a photo series on the season. I made a corrugated cardboard sign bearing a large arrow and the word tree. I then drove to all my friend’s houses and asked them if I could take a picture of them with their families holding my sign pointing it in the direction of the Handal family tree. I wish I had kept those pictures, but somewhere back the line I wrongly decided that the mature thing was to toss those memories in favor of an image of who I should be and what I should carry with me. But nothing can take away from me the memory of the smiling faces on photo stock of the Wilsons, Lovejoys, Barkers, Campbells, Whitakers, Fogles, and others.

Many Christmases have come and gone since then. Not all of them happy, but they produced far more smiles than tears. This upcoming one will be significantly lessened by the recent loss of Dennis (more family than friend) and the sorrow that the love of his life, Marc, will be going through as part of himself is forever gone. This creates a void in the soul of our Christmas that cannot be filled and that we will always carry around.

This is where out of self-preservation I selfishly invoke Christmas magic, and yes I believe in it. I believe in the myriad small miracles that happen at Christmas that bring smiles to our faces and ingrain memories to keep those smiles in reserve for whenever they are most needed.

This has been a year for which only the biggest smile can help, so I look within to my favorite Christmas. It was the Christmas of 1998, and our daughter Haley was pregnant and living at home with us. She was round and seven+ months along. She had been miserable with a winter cold that she could not shake because of the limited medicine that her pregnancy would allow. The house was filled with relatives in for the holidays, and things were buzzing with activity by all of us on the day of our annual Christmas open house.

There was something else going on as well. Since fall, we had been working on turning our sagging detached two car garage into a cottage for Haley and the bundle of joy that would be our grandson in fewer than two months. We did this to provide her with her own life, privacy, and a safety net. By the day of our party, it was structurally complete but as yet undecorated.

My amazing wife who is a force of nature, had her heart set on the house being finished for Haley by the night of the party. This added to the work and stress to the day, but if Jean-Marie thought it could be done, I knew it could be. As Jean-Marie dedicated herself body and soul to the cottage, I was tasked with supporting her and directing the party preparations. At one point, my brother-in-law Matt (one of Jean-Marie’s brothers) took me aside and asked me with an air of frustration if Jean-Marie was aware that in a few hours eighty people would be descending on the house and there was a lot left to do. I simply told him that Jean-Marie would not be doing this and leaving the final party prep to us if she didn’t think it was doable.

A great deal of work in a little bit of time ensued attended by my running interference and supplying manual labor for my spouse. Shortly before the party, things were all in place, and we were showered, dressed, and ready. Before the guests arrived, Jean-Marie and I lit the luminarias leading behind our house to the cottage, and led Haley (with her eyes shut) to her new home. Once inside, we told her to open her eyes. As she did, Christmas for my wife and I collapsed in that one moment to our daughter, her unbelieving look on her face, and the tears of joy streaming from her eyes. Moments like that remind me that almost anything is possible, and the happiness of those I love is the greatest gift I can ever receive.