Merry Christmas, Mom!
It’s your Sonny, writing to thank you for all those childhood Christmases back in Kingsville, Texas. Your joy still rings in my memory – all those Carols that you sang with such enthusiasm, little Walter and I following along. I remember your sudden tears at the beauty of some passages; today I weep along with you. A precious lesson: You taught me it was okay to cry at music, and I still do.
Do churches still hold little pageants? Mary and Joseph and an angel or two? And the Magi making their way down the aisles. I liked the Christmas hymns better when you sang them yourself. Our Presbyterian Church in Kingsville included Santa Claus – bet that doesn’t happen today.
Santa Claus wasn’t gonna come down out chimney – it was just a stove-pipe connected to that potbellied stove. I remember the sweet smell of mesquite burning there. Santa would have to come in the front door. And you locked that door! I was alarmed.
There wasn’t a conifer growing anyplace in Kingsville. Christmas trees showed up in a parking lot, remember? We all helped hang baubles once the lights were strung. Throwing icicles onto the tree evolved into an art, now long lost. I’d never seen a real icicle anyway.
Christmas morning, with all those presents for Walter and me. How did you do it, Depression’s hand heavy across the land? Then off to Grandfather Baird’s house. Not over the river and through the woods; we didn’t have those. Down the calieche road, that’s how we went, remember? The Bairds remembered the Plantation Christmas, gathered around the huge claw-foot table, your presents under the tablecloth at your seat. Grandfather Baird at the head of the table with a huge pile under the cloth – he’d augmented it with bricks.
And Christmas evening at Grandmother Crossley’s, whose traditions were more Presbyterian and western. Gifts of salted pecans. T-bone steaks for dinner. Her carefully-crafted tree, where you needed coordination between lights and ornaments, no color clashes, please. Then Lionel Barrymore on the radio, WOAI in San Antonio, reading “A Christmas Carol.”
Mom, thanks for teaching me a cheerful Christmas season. I know now that you worried about your parents who had no income, your brother Mitchell and his drinking, those dubious prospects during the Great Depression. Thanks for giving me and my brother a childhood of love, free from cares. A joyful Christmas.
Missing you,
Your Sonny.
Thank you for the memories...
Posted by: augie | December 04, 2019 at 02:11 AM
Beautiful, Dac. I remember tossing those icicles, too, with my sister. My mother's birthday comes up on Dec. 6. She's been gone since 2008 in body, but remains with us in many fond memories. Maybe I should write her a letter. I like the idea.
Posted by: John R Lindermuth | December 03, 2019 at 05:52 PM
Enjoyed your letter to your Mom.
Such wonderful memories..yep, throwing icicles on the tree is a lost art. Our family always went out to the ceader breaks to find the right tree and have a picnic a few days before Christmas...
May you and your family have a blessed Christmas....
Posted by: Ruth Holt | December 03, 2019 at 05:42 PM
Beautiful memories are real treasures, and can make any day more welcome. I'm sure you have done your part to carry on these Christmas traditions down through the years. Merry Christmas!
Posted by: Carolyn Embach | December 03, 2019 at 04:57 PM