I saw some pictures this evening. My brother had been down to supervise some maintenance work on our family cabin, and he put up several shots to show the condition the place is in. It needed a new roof, and some significant repairs to the kitchen. His photos made me so happy, even the ones that showed the big mess the roofers made, and the junk on the porch. So much of my life took place in that cabin, and I don't want to forget any of it. I loved the memories the images brought back, of parties with family and friend-- Easter sunrise services, Fourth of July picnics, my mother and stepfather's wedding reception. Some of the memories were harder to handle-- arguments I had with my man when I was staying there and he wasn't, the last gathering with my great-aunt when her dementia made it hard for her to recognize me and my children, the condition the cabin was in after we rented it out to the son of a family friend who might have been cooking meth when he dragged the burning couch outside and reduced it to springs and ash. I take the good with the bad, and choose to be pleased that I can remember so much about it at all. It is difficult to maintain a property like that when there are no full-time residents either in it or near enough to it to keep a close eye on it. I always imagined I would live there in my golden years, but that dream has faded as bits of my family's past have been sold off or lost. This is all that is left in that area, and it is unlikely that it will remain with us forever. These pictures may be all I have in a few short years.
The part of Christmas I like best, during those years that I feel it at all, is the feeling of wonderment the whole season evokes in a child. Everything is magic, from flying reindeer and gifts that appear while you sleep, to the cold windowpanes that fog up when you stare out at night, looking at your neighbors' lights and wishing you could see snow start to fall. Pajamas feel better during the week of Christmas. Hot chocolate tastes better that week. And the sound of a jingle bell makes your heart beat faster and floods your soul with dreams. Those days between the last day of school and Christmas Eve take forever, but when your cousins or grandparents are with you, the extended time is welcomed. The anticipation is more than half of the fun. When you are no longer the child, but instead are the parent, the holidays may bring extra stress, more cooking, cleaning, dealing with the daily habits of others. But planning surprises for everyone, especially your own children, makes up for the stress. I loved getting fanciful with the stories I told my children, my misdirection to throw them off the scent of whatever we had planned, or just silly tales to make holiday memories. For instance, there might have been the suggestion that Santa Claus takes bribes, and that was why toys in Grandpa's neighborhood were always bigger and better than the times we were at our own house. (Since we also swore the Tooth Fairy set prices based on the way ivory was trading in the commodities market, it was consistent with our pattern.)
Someday, after I have stopped pretending I'm not going gray, we will be the grandparents hosting Christmas at our house. I wonder what stories we will tell then, tales of magic and intrigue, to throw off clever guesses to our Santa surprises. I want to make their memories of holidays and gatherings as strong as mine are for my own special places.
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