Christmas Memories

I am a collector of memories.

It seems that every year at this time, as I unpack and display my cherished Christmas decorations and treasures, I also unpack a lifetime of Christmas memories as well. Memories of Christmases from my childhood, memories of my mother baking and preparing for the holiday season, and memories of the wonder of my own children when they were little. There is a sweet melancholy in the remembering.

Some of my most endearing memories involve Christmas Eve. For as long as I can remember, Christmas Eve has always been my favourite day of the year, especially when I was a young girl. The day has always held an excitement and promise that comes with the sweet anticipation of Christmas. As much as I would look forward to the thrill of Christmas morning, I never wanted Christmas Eve to end.

In the weeks leading up to Christmas, my mother would shop and wrap gifts for many young nieces and nephews. Come Christmas Eve, it was my father’s job to deliver them. He would pack my brothers and I into the family car, along with all the brightly wrapped gifts, and off we would set on our journey, just like St. Nicholas. I don’t remember my mother joining us very often. Looking back now, I realize she was probably enjoying the peace and tranquility of a quiet house before the hustle and bustle of Christmas Day.

We would have at least a half dozen stops to make on our travels. At each each house, we would visit with aunts, uncles and cousins. The adults would sit around the kitchen table, talking and sharing the odd drink of spirits. I remember the thrill of being led into the family room by my cousins to admire their Christmas tree. Every light and decoration seemed a little more magical on Christmas Eve.

By the time our last visit was complete, it would be dark, and we would all pile back into the car for the drive home in the peaceful darkness. There always seemed to be silent stillness to the evening, as if even the animals and trees were holding their breath in anticipation. If you were lucky, there would be some snowflakes in the air as we made our way home. I felt like an a space traveller as the snowflakes flew by the windshield like stars in the night sky.

Back at home, a few extra strands of tinsel were added to the tree for good measure and my stocking was hung on a nail on the wooden window ledge in the living room. A plate was piled high with my mother’s homemade molasses cookies and a glass of cold milk in the old mustard glass was placed out for Santa. My mother and oldest brother would head off to midnight mass, as I tossed and turned, waiting for Christmas to come.

It is hard to recapture that magical feeling from my childhood and I often find myself lonesome for those childhood days. As an adult, that magic has been replaced with the contentment of having both of my children home for Christmas or the sweet satisfaction of being able to celebrate another holiday with my father. However, every once in a while, if I am lucky, I get that familiar flutter, as the Christmas spirit from my childhood finds me once more, and I find myself listening for sleigh bells in the sky.