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For shalmestere
Dec. 16th, 2009 09:22 pmWho asked for posts about happy holiday memories.
As I think about this, I realize just how insane-in-a-good-way my parents were when we were little. Except for an Advent calendar and maybe some candles and a centerpiece, we didn't decorate for Christmas. We would hang our stockings (mantel if the house had one, stair railing if not) and be packed off to bed on Christmas Eve with stern injunctions that Santa would not visit sneaking, spying children who did not go immediately to sleep. (I do recall waking in the middle of the night on at least one occasion at a rather loud thump followed by a muffled expletive or two, which convinced me that Himself had dropped something rather large and heavy while trying to get it out of the chimney.)
The three of us would blast out of bed on Christmas Day like maniacs and lay siege to my bleary parents - because, again, we were not allowed to go downstairs without them. Lo and behold, there was a fully decorated, lit, live tree, what always looked like an ocean of packages, the wind-up creche that played Silent Night while the shepherds and Maji rotated slowly around the plastic Holy Family, and the Italian Infant carved from flesh colored wax, hanging on the wall within a Della Robbia-like wreath of artificial fruit. Clearly, these operations involved acquiring a tree and hiding it in a neighbor's garage until the appropriate moment, not to mention dealing with the gift cache. When we got to an age to start trying to find things before the big day, we never, ever did.
As I think about this, I realize just how insane-in-a-good-way my parents were when we were little. Except for an Advent calendar and maybe some candles and a centerpiece, we didn't decorate for Christmas. We would hang our stockings (mantel if the house had one, stair railing if not) and be packed off to bed on Christmas Eve with stern injunctions that Santa would not visit sneaking, spying children who did not go immediately to sleep. (I do recall waking in the middle of the night on at least one occasion at a rather loud thump followed by a muffled expletive or two, which convinced me that Himself had dropped something rather large and heavy while trying to get it out of the chimney.)
The three of us would blast out of bed on Christmas Day like maniacs and lay siege to my bleary parents - because, again, we were not allowed to go downstairs without them. Lo and behold, there was a fully decorated, lit, live tree, what always looked like an ocean of packages, the wind-up creche that played Silent Night while the shepherds and Maji rotated slowly around the plastic Holy Family, and the Italian Infant carved from flesh colored wax, hanging on the wall within a Della Robbia-like wreath of artificial fruit. Clearly, these operations involved acquiring a tree and hiding it in a neighbor's garage until the appropriate moment, not to mention dealing with the gift cache. When we got to an age to start trying to find things before the big day, we never, ever did.
