The Ghost Of Christmas Past

Growing up the only child of fully functional, smart, affectionate, reasonable, & loving family, with working professional parents was the worst preparation for adulthood. I missed the hard-knock lessons doled out by mean siblings & alcoholic & abusive mothers & fathers. Christmas may be the toughest lesson to learn. I was not just an only child, but 1 of only 2 grandchildren, with 3 sets of grandparents. I didn’t have an inkling that so many other kids had so much less on this holiday. My family tried different kinds of Christmas trees, as my mother changed her style through the years. We most often had a traditional tree with a mix of ornaments from years gone by, but once in the early 1960s, we had an aluminum tree with pink lights that sat on top of our baby grand piano, & I recall having mixed emotions about our experience with a flocked tree with bubble lights.

The 3 of us would go to church on Christmas Eve (where I was often a performer), & return home to open 1 gift. My parents didn’t try & snowball me with the Santa Clause myth, so leaving milk & cookies & a note for the jolly fat man was always done with a wink. A few special gifts would appear overnight, but most of what was under the tree had been there for a couple of weeks & it wasn’t difficult for me, at even 5 or 6 years old, to ascertain what packages were clothing, books, games or record albums. I am sure I was one of the few 10 year olds to had asked “Santa” for the just published book of collected Cole Porter lyrics. When I was 11 years old, my Aunt Sharon gave me a subscription to Variety & The New Yorker.

In our jammies on Christmas morning, we would take turns opening 1 gift at a time, with a small discussion on each item, & because there were so many gifts, this enterprise would take a big chunk of the morning. Besides books & records, I would often receive something so special that even I was knocked out of my senses. On my 12th Christmas, I received a new stereo system. When I was 15, my parents gave me a trip to Europe to be taken in the summer to come. When I was 16 I received a set of keys, in a small wrapped box, for a 1949 Jeep Willys Station Wagon (don’t be too impressed, they were sick of driving me & my string bass around to lessons & rehearsals). When I was 21, the keys in the small wrapped box were for a 1959  black T-Bird.

I have not spent a Christmas with my parents, healthy & sassy in their late 70s, since the Husband & I moved to Seattle in 1981, but every holiday would bring a big box of presents from my folks to the 2 of us & any combination of canines. For decades we noted that the gifts from my parents appeared to have been rounded up in 1 fell swoop during a trip to Costco. On 1 Christmas, the Husband & I thrilled to our gift of a do-it-yourself aromatherapy kit in the scent of rose! We asked our selves- “do the parents even know us?” We called it –The Miracle Of The Christmas Crap. Books, record albums, & automobiles were ghosts from my childhood. It wasn’t that we were not grateful. Really. The Husband & I were getting older & we desired less stuff, not more. I knew that my parents felt the same way. About 8 seasons ago, I told my parents that the Husband & I no longer gave each other gifts, & maybe they would enjoy the same luxury. My parents liked the idea & explained- “it was too late for this Christmas, the box had been sent… but starting next year, that would be the plan.” The Husband & I had a good chuckle when the box arrived, knowing it would be our last holiday to receive matching oven mitts & ice scrappers. As we opened our last Christmas packages from my dear parents, the big box revealed a charming mix of fun books, CDs, gift cards & vintage toys including my 1st Etch-a Sketch in 50 years! Just as we changed a long standing tradition, my parents came through with the best & most child-like Christmas gifts ever… minus the trip to Europe, of course.