A Christmas Memory

A Childhood Christmas Memory

         On Christmas morning, after much prodding of our still sleeping parents, my sister and I would rush downstairs to see what Santa brought. There was enough excitement in the air to electrify New York City. My mother was always right behind us, mostly to make sure we didn't tear into the gifts until everyone was there. It was a family tradition that we open our packages together. This meant waiting for Pop.

         My father would get out of bed and go into the bathroom, just like it was any normal day. Didn’t he understand? This was no normal day. This was Christmas! To my sister and I it seemed like it took an eternity. He would not emerge until he was clean-shaven, teeth brushed, and hair (what little he had left) combed. While the rest of us were clad in bathrobe, pajamas and slippers he would arrive fully dressed, ready to greet the day. The waiting drove us to distraction. What was hidden in all those wonderful packages under the tree?

         When Pop, finally, and I do mean fin-al-ly, came downstairs, we would all gather around the Christmas tree. It was my job to plug in the lights while my sister put some Christmas music on the record player. Yes, it was before CD’s, before DVD’s and almost before cassette players. My mother would hand out the presents, one by one. My sister and I would tear through the wrapping paper just as fast as we could, anxious to see what was inside. Pop would sit there, quietly watching, ignoring the packages piling up at his feet, until we begged him to open his gifts also.

         With a quiet grin he'd reach into his pocket and take out a small penknife that he kept sharpened to a razor's edge. He always carried that penknife with him, no matter what. (He still does at age eighty-nine) It sat inside his pocket next to a small adjustable wrench, a jeweler’s loop and several pieces of hard candy. He'd choose a present, pick it up and study it, admiring the colorful wrapping paper. He’d read the gift tag that had been attached, and carefully remove the bow, tag, and ribbon. These he would set beside his chair. Then he would slit the cellophane tape that held the wrapping paper together. He was careful to make sure he cut all the places that had been taped. He’d take the paper from the present, fold it, and place it on the floor alongside the bow, ribbon and tag. He would inspect the gift and with a shy smile and that Dutchman's twinkle in his eye he would thank the person who gave it to him. And so it went on, every gift was treated with the same respect. It simply drove us insane!!!!

         Over the years, I have often wondered why he opened his presents the way he did. Why did he sit and wait until all of us had finished opening ours? He still does this. I have come to a couple of conclusions.

         I know from talking to my aunts, uncles and my dad that they didn't have it very easy when they were growing up. With five children and the not so steady income that my grandfather provided by being a farmer, coal miner and carpenter it was often difficult to make ends meet. It was a big deal at Christmas to get something like an orange, or a pair of gloves, or a scarf; things that most of us take for granted today. I always thought he just wanted to make his Christmas last as long as he possibly could. It was his way of enjoying the Christmas he never had as a child.

         As I got older, married and had a family of my own, I realized there was another reason. I can easily remember the first Christmas morning I watched, really watched, my children open gifts. My sleeping wife and I had been roused from our beds by the excitement of our two sons whom I’m sure never slept a wink the night before. I dressed and joined my waiting family around the Christmas tree. As my wife distributed the presents, I watched as the wrapping paper flew and the giggles and excitement at what Santa had left filled the room. Then it hit me.

         Pop had just as much fun watching us open our gifts as he did his own. He didn't want to miss a single moment and neither did I. He wanted that memory etched in his mind forever. Maybe it did help to soften the memories of his childhood Christmases, but there was more. It lightened his heart to watch his children having so much fun. The laughter and the glee told him there was hope for the future. It was the ultimate Christmas present a parent could ever receive and my sister and I had not even known we were giving it to him. The sense of peace, joy and laughter, with the carols playing softly on the stereo brought, I’m sure, wings to his soul, just as it does to mine these many years later.

         It took all those years for me to learn there is something very special about watching excited, laughing children opening presents on Christmas morning. Yes, it gives wings to your soul; much needed wings in this day and age. Too soon, children grow up, move away, and start families of their own. Too soon, we are left with only the memory of those smiling, laughing faces.

         Some Christmases we are lucky enough to spend with my parents, and some, we are not. But I can tell you this. Each and every Christmas morning, as my family is gathered around the Christmas tree, opening presents, I think of my childhood Christmas memories and I watch my children filled with laughter and glee. And when all the presents have been distributed by my patient and understanding wife, and when the children cannot stand the suspense any longer, I reach into my pocket for a small penknife…