Christmas at the blue house
Christmas comes around, and without fail I am flooded with memories of my childhood home, affectionately now known as the blue house. Built by my Dad's bare hands, it sits a bit off the beaten path in the country, nestled snugly in the woods. Most of my formative years were spent here, from age five to sixteen, til we moved to the lake.
The house stayed in the family, though. My Meemaw Margaret lived there until she graduated to Heaven this past summer, and now my cousin Tabitha lives there with her family. And so I have the beautiful privilege of being able to go back from time to time.
Even though we all know it's never the same.
My childhood was just magical. And never more so than at Christmastime. When I close my eyes, I can see and hear and smell and taste so much of our Christmases there.
Mom would wrap greenery around our number-four-shaped mailbox post and put a big festive bow on the side. It was the most beautiful mailbox post ever. Then, at least for a few Christmases, we put lights on the front porch. All gathered outside in a "I hope nobody I know drives by and sees me standing in the yard staring at the house in my pajamas" sort of way, waiting for Dad to light it up. It was spectacular, and we oohed and aahed every time we saw it.
Then inside the house, decorated to be worthy of a magazine spread. Electric candles in every single window, regardless of the fact that we were in the middle of the woods. Music boxes, my favorite of which is now sitting on my dresser. Dining room table with green placemats and real napkins stuffed into the holes of small ceramic trees. Fake mistletoe hung on the entryway light, though somewhere in my memory I remember us looking for real mistletoe one year.
I pause here to interject that the boys call it "mister-toe". End pause.
Greenery on the stair rail. Santa Clauses of countless materials and styles all over the place, as Mom had started collecting them, and this was our favorite thing to give her as a gift. Little teddy bear potholders in the kitchen, emblazoned with the word Noel. The big ceramic Christmas tree, lit from inside, with light pieces that you had to put in yourself. I demanded to have one of these when I got married and moved away, and mine now stands proudly on my piano.
Mom's snow village, where I secretly wanted to live and skate on the little glass pond. Mantel done up spectacularly with a gorgeous Nativity scene in the center. And how exciting it was when I got to set up the reindeer and bear stocking hooks and then hang our stockings on them. There was a sign that went over our french doors in the living room that said "Season's Greetings". Loved it.
And oh, the tree. Pretty sure most years, if not all, we had a real tree. Poor Dad, struggling to get it in the door. Poor Mom, in all of the spare time she had as a mother of two (please don't miss the sarcasm) working tirelessly to put on the white lights. Whitney and I got to help ornamentize with our precious Hallmark keepsake ornaments we collected through the years, then Mom was back again, with the pearl garland. Beautiful white angel on top. Christmas tree perfection.
Not to mention the smell. Can not beat the smell of a Christmas tree. Unless, of course, it's accompanied by the smell of a wood stove. I remember being fascinated that Dad could toss the logs in without burning himself, and knew just what to do with those little mesh slider things to keep us comfy. To this day, the smell of burning wood takes me instantly back to that living room.
Then you smell what is going on in the kitchen, and life could not get any better. I remember not being much taller than the counter, looking up at my mom dipping peanut butter balls into chocolate. Those and the fudge and the blessed times we did white chocolate covered pretzels. Pumpkin bread, sugar cookies with red and green sugars in all sorts of Christmasy shapes. And how beautiful the washing machine looked with all of those Christmas tins filled with these goodies on top of it. (We kept the goodies in the laundry room because it was cold there. I think.)
And while all of these sights and smells and tastes overwhelm the senses, I hear the music. The vinyl records came out in force, especially the Gatlin Brothers and Alvin and the Chipmunks. Pretty sure we had a single of "Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer". Then the cassettes of the late 80s, with Kenny and Dolly, Nat King Cole, Vince Gill, Amy Grant, even old Kenny G and Michael Bolton. These were the sounds of our season, and I'll claim them even today. Kenny and Dolly is in my car CD player right now!
We always had a very bustling Christmas Eve and day, with lots of family to see. But on Christmas Eve, we'd all snuggle up before bed and Dad would read the Christmas story from Luke 2. I can still hear him read it in my memory. We'd leave out cookies and milk for Santa, plus a few carrots for the reindeer. Then head up to bed, where I would lay awake fretting over not being able to go to sleep for being so excited.
Then the next morning, often before sunrise, the merriment began. It was beneath our picture-perfect Christmas tree, that timeless music playing, that I added to my collection of Baby-Sitters Club and Sweet Valley High books. Scored several board games, lots of pairs of earrings and hair accessories, super-cool matching sweatsuits, Barbie stuff, Beach Boys tapes, a leather jacket, and that blessed year that I got my first and only Caboodle. Childhood magic, I tell you.
Even back then, though, I so enjoyed watching my family open their gifts as well. Whitney got some awesome-sauce toys that I could only hope she'd let me play with too. Those sweet gifts for Mom that Dad had let me help shop for. And Dad and his annual supply of tools and clothes. It was the warmest feeling to see the smiles on their faces. Still is.
Christmas will never be what it once was. Stress or fatigue or finances or overcommitment or the heavy wisdom that the world outside my little bubble is hurting. But there is still magic. The story of Jesus' birth, and the reason for Him coming for me, hits me harder every year. I can hardly contain the joy. Or the tears.
I love giving, as much as we possibly can, especially to people who will never know where it came from.
Being together with family. Our little Christmas morning breakfast with everyone there means more to me than any gift ever could.
And of course, a lot of the magic revolves around the boys. Knowing what gifts will make them smile, teaching them about the real reason for Christmas, working together to make treats and homemade gifts for their teachers, creating new traditions and keeping old ones alive, and telling them stories about the magic of Christmas when I was a kid.
The same magic I hope they feel now. And will one day look back on with immeasurable joy and gratitude.
Just like I do.
The house stayed in the family, though. My Meemaw Margaret lived there until she graduated to Heaven this past summer, and now my cousin Tabitha lives there with her family. And so I have the beautiful privilege of being able to go back from time to time.
Even though we all know it's never the same.
My childhood was just magical. And never more so than at Christmastime. When I close my eyes, I can see and hear and smell and taste so much of our Christmases there.
Mom would wrap greenery around our number-four-shaped mailbox post and put a big festive bow on the side. It was the most beautiful mailbox post ever. Then, at least for a few Christmases, we put lights on the front porch. All gathered outside in a "I hope nobody I know drives by and sees me standing in the yard staring at the house in my pajamas" sort of way, waiting for Dad to light it up. It was spectacular, and we oohed and aahed every time we saw it.
Then inside the house, decorated to be worthy of a magazine spread. Electric candles in every single window, regardless of the fact that we were in the middle of the woods. Music boxes, my favorite of which is now sitting on my dresser. Dining room table with green placemats and real napkins stuffed into the holes of small ceramic trees. Fake mistletoe hung on the entryway light, though somewhere in my memory I remember us looking for real mistletoe one year.
I pause here to interject that the boys call it "mister-toe". End pause.
Greenery on the stair rail. Santa Clauses of countless materials and styles all over the place, as Mom had started collecting them, and this was our favorite thing to give her as a gift. Little teddy bear potholders in the kitchen, emblazoned with the word Noel. The big ceramic Christmas tree, lit from inside, with light pieces that you had to put in yourself. I demanded to have one of these when I got married and moved away, and mine now stands proudly on my piano.
Mom's snow village, where I secretly wanted to live and skate on the little glass pond. Mantel done up spectacularly with a gorgeous Nativity scene in the center. And how exciting it was when I got to set up the reindeer and bear stocking hooks and then hang our stockings on them. There was a sign that went over our french doors in the living room that said "Season's Greetings". Loved it.
And oh, the tree. Pretty sure most years, if not all, we had a real tree. Poor Dad, struggling to get it in the door. Poor Mom, in all of the spare time she had as a mother of two (please don't miss the sarcasm) working tirelessly to put on the white lights. Whitney and I got to help ornamentize with our precious Hallmark keepsake ornaments we collected through the years, then Mom was back again, with the pearl garland. Beautiful white angel on top. Christmas tree perfection.
Not to mention the smell. Can not beat the smell of a Christmas tree. Unless, of course, it's accompanied by the smell of a wood stove. I remember being fascinated that Dad could toss the logs in without burning himself, and knew just what to do with those little mesh slider things to keep us comfy. To this day, the smell of burning wood takes me instantly back to that living room.
Then you smell what is going on in the kitchen, and life could not get any better. I remember not being much taller than the counter, looking up at my mom dipping peanut butter balls into chocolate. Those and the fudge and the blessed times we did white chocolate covered pretzels. Pumpkin bread, sugar cookies with red and green sugars in all sorts of Christmasy shapes. And how beautiful the washing machine looked with all of those Christmas tins filled with these goodies on top of it. (We kept the goodies in the laundry room because it was cold there. I think.)
And while all of these sights and smells and tastes overwhelm the senses, I hear the music. The vinyl records came out in force, especially the Gatlin Brothers and Alvin and the Chipmunks. Pretty sure we had a single of "Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer". Then the cassettes of the late 80s, with Kenny and Dolly, Nat King Cole, Vince Gill, Amy Grant, even old Kenny G and Michael Bolton. These were the sounds of our season, and I'll claim them even today. Kenny and Dolly is in my car CD player right now!
We always had a very bustling Christmas Eve and day, with lots of family to see. But on Christmas Eve, we'd all snuggle up before bed and Dad would read the Christmas story from Luke 2. I can still hear him read it in my memory. We'd leave out cookies and milk for Santa, plus a few carrots for the reindeer. Then head up to bed, where I would lay awake fretting over not being able to go to sleep for being so excited.
Then the next morning, often before sunrise, the merriment began. It was beneath our picture-perfect Christmas tree, that timeless music playing, that I added to my collection of Baby-Sitters Club and Sweet Valley High books. Scored several board games, lots of pairs of earrings and hair accessories, super-cool matching sweatsuits, Barbie stuff, Beach Boys tapes, a leather jacket, and that blessed year that I got my first and only Caboodle. Childhood magic, I tell you.
Even back then, though, I so enjoyed watching my family open their gifts as well. Whitney got some awesome-sauce toys that I could only hope she'd let me play with too. Those sweet gifts for Mom that Dad had let me help shop for. And Dad and his annual supply of tools and clothes. It was the warmest feeling to see the smiles on their faces. Still is.
Christmas will never be what it once was. Stress or fatigue or finances or overcommitment or the heavy wisdom that the world outside my little bubble is hurting. But there is still magic. The story of Jesus' birth, and the reason for Him coming for me, hits me harder every year. I can hardly contain the joy. Or the tears.
I love giving, as much as we possibly can, especially to people who will never know where it came from.
Being together with family. Our little Christmas morning breakfast with everyone there means more to me than any gift ever could.
And of course, a lot of the magic revolves around the boys. Knowing what gifts will make them smile, teaching them about the real reason for Christmas, working together to make treats and homemade gifts for their teachers, creating new traditions and keeping old ones alive, and telling them stories about the magic of Christmas when I was a kid.
The same magic I hope they feel now. And will one day look back on with immeasurable joy and gratitude.
Just like I do.
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