T'was the Christmas House

If you had walked into my childhood home during the month of December, you might have asked if Mr. and Mrs. Claus resided there.  You would have seen a fourteen foot tree in multicolor-glory packed with unique ornaments, a variety of nativity scenes, nutcrackers, toy soldiers and sparkly surprises on nearly every surface of every room.  The surprise of mistletoe hanging above the toilet might have triggered you to lock the bathroom door, just in case.  The miniature toy train chugged to holiday tunes while itty-bitty ice skaters twirled on the frozen lake.  When gazing out toward the view of the bay, you would spy a life-size Santa clinging to the boathouse chimney.

Mom worked on the sparkly details, while Dad took the job of lighting up the house, both inside and out.

My favorite job as his helper was to go through all of the light strings for the tree, inspecting every bulb and replacing as needed.  In those days you could revive a dead string with the repositioning of a wire, planting a fresh bulb, or by splicing a new plug onto the cord.  Nowadays I grumble as my early-learned skills are ineffective on the throw-away cheap light strings manufactured to be replaced, not repaired.  I relish the memories of the hours spent picking through the bag of bulbs and the nuggets of wisdom I received from my Pa.

Once he had the ropes of incandescent outdoor bulbs placed along the gutters and around the front door, my sisters and I would make toast by smooshing crust-less white bread into “dough” to wrap around a relatively clean colored bulb.  The heat of those old-fashioned C9 bulbs cooked the bread into a crispy little shell in a matter of minutes.  Making them was the point, but we ate the warm, sometimes gritty treats too.

When I was really little, Dad spent the late weekends of November chopping yule logs for every friend and aquaintance for miles around.  Glitter was added to spark colorful flames, along with the traditional berries and greens.  Come Christmas Eve we would drive around the neighborhood and plop the decorated hunks of wood on porches with a hearty “Merry Christmas!!”

Every fall our entire family became a Christmas Card Workshop.  You see, my dad is an artist and has painted beautiful things his whole life.  For a few weeks each year we would spend our Saturday and Sunday afternoons painting individual, original Christmas cards for everyone we ever knew.  Dad pulled out his water color tubes and pallets and we learned about color mixing and how water interacted with the pigment.  We had some examples to follow, but we were free to embrace our own creative impulses.  We painted and sent at least a hundred, if not more, very original and often extremely rustic cards every year.  After we child-labor elves grew older and busier, Dad printed his original cards at the family print shop and hand painted each card before Mom added a personal note and affixed the festive stamp.  I have saved them all.

Dad’s holiday music library is unrivaled.  From Johnny Cash to Elvis to Vince Guaraldi to the Nutcracker Suite, we had all the genres covered.  Not to mention Alice’s Restaurant was considered a MUST LISTEN during this time of year.  Holiday music would play for hours on end with never a repeated song.

Every single year, from the first of six children to the last of many, many grandchildren, Dad spent the last minutes of every Christmas Eve sitting beneath the sparkling tree surrounded by young’uns while reading aloud from The Night Before Christmas by Clement C Moore.  As he closed the tattered hard-bound book, we were enchanted, excited and ready to run off to bed in anticipation of Christmas magic.

This Christmas, as the more recent years have foreshadowed, our Papa is slipping far into dementia.  When I am able to make the trek over the mountains for a visit, otherwise quiet he announces, “That girl is here again!”  At other times he asks Mom repeatedly, “When was Christmas this year?” noticing the decorated tree and colorful lights surrounding the house, but not sure if the holiday is coming or going.  He then retires to his room to watch Jeopardy and fall into the comfortable, yet confusing routine of his new life.

He may not engage in the season like he used to, but the holiday magic he created for decades has passed on to a few generations of Stones and to others beyond our family.  Each December when the task awaits, I always look into my inner Puk (his family nickname) when I decorate and embrace the beauty and music of the season.  I am so grateful for that.

This winter I can’t help but feel the great weight of melancholy, as I no longer know how to connect with my incredible father whose gifts have gone silent - or so it seems.  I will do my best to carry on his lessons, and to continue to pass them on to my family.

Happy Christmas to All…and to all a Good Night!