Christmas Day ~ Rustic Russ and I worked hard all day to be ready to head out after an early critter feeding for a Christmas gathering at my brother Craig’s (and his wife Carla’s) home in Walloon Lake. A gathering of the Woodswoman side of the family.
A day of caring for the animals, snow removal and gathering wood for Rustic Russ.
A day of last minute wrapping of gifts, preparing goodies, and time in the dog yard for me ~ Woodswoman.
Although it was a day of the usual chores, we enjoyed getting ready for the gathering. As a treat, Rustic Russ brought Union, my prized lead dog, into the cabin for a day by the fire with our three house dogs. We fed some special pastry treats to our chickens. The day just felt special, as it should.
At 4:00 p.m., we headed north to our destination, loaded down with packages and goodies. Upon pulling in, we noticed my older brother, Kim, and his fiance’, Betty, had also arrived from Grand Rapids ~ a special surprise treat.
We gathered and ate, laughed and ate some more. Shared gifts and stories.
My golfer son, Mark, and his girlfriend Rojill, had flown in from California to be home for the holidays ~ both Petoskey natives.
My filmmaker son, Charlie, and his wife Kristina and my only grandson David, cancelled their flight from California due to David’s teething and eruption of molars. (They will be coming later in January…)
My mother, Jackie (Left in picture), ended up not arriving at the gathering either, due to health issues. And Carla’s mother, Bev (Right in picture), also didn’t make the short drive.
Niece Lauren was there, home from CMU, with long-time boyfriend Tyler, also a Petoskey native.
And, finally, my nephew Steve, who arrived back in the States on Christmas Eve from Israel, was spending the holiday with his cousin, Charlie and family in California before flying back to Hawaii for his next year’s commitment of missionary work.
Although the biggest jokester in our cast of characters was present; my brother Kim, there was a gap. A void. An emptiness.
It didn’t hit me until the ride home ~ tires humming ~ stale “Alvin and the Chipmonks” Christmas tune on the radio ~ Rustic Russ tapping a beat on the steering wheel.
Christmas wasn’t the same. It’s been happening steadily. It actually began in the fall of 1989 with the passing of my dear father, Chuck, within months of Christmas. No one could fill the void he left, even though my two brothers visually remind us of him from time to time.
Last year at Christmas it was only my mother, Jackie, my niece Lauren and RR and WW ~ a tiny group of four ~ as the others headed to California to celebrate on the West coast.
It’s official.
Our family is subdivided.
I wiped a tear away before Rustic Russ noticed in the dim light of the truck cab. Looking out the window into the snowy potato field passing by, I recalled my past years of Christmas.
I grew up in the 50’s when Christmas was magical. People celebrated, the town celebrated. People said Merry Christmas without threat of losing their job. (Click here ~ seriously.)
I recall red-patterned matching family pajama sets, posing around the gift-laden Christmas tree. The house was spotless and adorned to the max with decorations brought out year after year. And looking back, my mother was reminiscent of Jackie-O, pulling off a perfect Christmas gathering with grace. Gifts were plentiful and food was endless and oh-so-good.
This went on year after year, into the 60’s. Still magical. Until mid-1960 ~ the year I begged for cowboy boots. I was in the 6th grade and I had one item on my list, and it was those cowboy boots.
Back then, I would delight in taking the children’s (Toy) issue of the Sears & Roebuck catalog and putting a big X next to the gift I desired. Easy bake ovens, erector sets, mini drum sets, and such. By the time Christmas came, that book had shown its wear. However this year, I only desired ~ no, needed ~ no, demanded ~ one thing…cowboy boots.
Christmas morning came and after what seemed like an eternity, we began opening gifts. At our house, opening gifts meant one recipient at a time. Elected “Santa” passed out the gift, we watched the person open it, commented, perhaps passed it around for others to peruse, and then, we would go on to the next gift.
The gift I had my eye on finally made it through the rotation and ended up in my hands. It was a brightly wrapped box. I got the nod (and smile) from my Dad and began unwrapping, tearing the paper off with excited hands. My boots! I was sure of it. When I exposed the box I saw the word “shoe” and felt I was within seconds of my coveted find. However, when I flipped open the lid, all I saw was a white fabric carefully encased in tissue paper. I peeled back the tissue paper and carefully lifted the fabric from the box, puzzled.
It was a dress. A fancy white dress.
What cruel hoax was this? With disgust that sometimes accompanies 11 year-old Tomboys, I tossed the box aside. The magic had been broken. I was duped. Stiffed. Stymied. Denied my desire.
However, I survived. I ended up wearing that dress, more often than I would like to admit. I never did get my boots until I turned 18 and bought my first horse, and bought the boots to accompany the horse. However, even with that set back, all the Christmas’ following were magical.
I continued to carry the magic on to my children throughout the years.
Tonight, I was sad, and scared, knowing the magic could leave and never return. I can’t imagine a Christmas without that feeling. A peaceful, full feeling. A feeling of contentment.
Then I remembered little David. My only grandson.
It will be a tall order for his little shoulders, but I’m confident he can deliver…
A magical Christmas. A reminder of Christmas of the past.
Let’s hope next year will allow the family to be together. To be magical.
And for Christmas to remain magical, as it should.
Here’s hoping you and your family shared a very, merry Christmas. One of magic.
Woodswoman
