Memories of childhood Christmases stir added emotions into the holiday mix.
So powerful are those mental files that a seasonal image such as an ornament, the playing of a particular Christmas song or the fragrance of something baking in the kitchen can trigger a flashback to Christmases past.
We remember getting certain toys or other gifts, and some stand taller than others.
When I was about 7 or 8 years old, I received a miniature green army tank.
That tank’s most technologically advanced feature was a flashing bulb at the end of its cannon which simulated firing. The largely plastic toy was clumsy in its movement and very noisy due to its mechanical components, but it also did a trick that mesmerized me. With its rubber tracks, that tank could move on practically any surface. If it ran into a wall, it would climb a few inches before flipping over, landing upright — most of the time.
Eventually, that little toy broke after taking one too many tumbles and, I imagine, was thrown into the trash — an unceremonious end for something that had brought so many hours of pleasure into my young life.
Then there was the racetrack I asked Santa to bring one year, just before Mom and Dad decided we would spend Christmas Eve and Christmas Day at the home of my grandparents in Cleveland, rather than at our house in Charleston as usual.
I remember how worried I was that Santa would not come because he would not be able to find me. He would expect me to be in Tallahatchie County, not Bolivar County, and would simply move on. I was relieved the next morning to learn that Mr. Claus was a pretty shrewd dude and was able to track me down — and that was long before the advent of GPS and all of today’s fancy navigational methods and devices.
That racetrack, which was spread out on my grandparents’ dining room table that bright Christmas morning, was a humdinger, even if the cars did constantly jump track or flip on those sharp turns. I got tons of enjoyment from it. Sadly, as happens, the whole works eventually died a slow, painful death, with sections of track going missing and cars losing their tires.
One of my first bicycles, if not my first, was a cool blue model with a padded white seat and a working-model headlight. As far as I was concerned, I had one of the nicest two-wheeled, kid-powered rides in the neighborhood.
Still, as great as that bike was, it was not, I would learn, built for hard-nosed competition. Not long after I succumbed to the temptation to join some of my block friends in a game of bicycle crash derby — inspired by a popular TV show of the age — I found that thin sheet metal fenders and tire spokes bend quite easily, chains do break and handlebars can get twisted out of shape. The headlight was one of the first casualties. That bike was never the same, but what a time we had!
One year in the mid-’70s, at the dawn of the home video game age, my Christmas gem was an electronic game system from Sears. Needless to say, it was simplistic by today’s standards. It featured Pong, a tennis game now considered a classic, as well as hockey, a tank battle and more. Never mind that the graphics were little more than blips on a screen and the controls were awkward. I had an arcade in my house!
I enjoyed the hard rock candy, assorted nuts and fruit that I would find in my big red, fuzzy stocking. I never cared much for the fuzzy stuff sticking to the rock candy, but I made do — picking off the fibers before tossing the cavity-causing confection into my mouth. What’s a little fuzz?
One Christmas morning, I had my stocking on the floor and my dad reached down for a piece of the candy. In a moment of childish selfishness, I resisted. He did not press the issue, and almost immediately I was sorry for having behaved that way. I then offered him candy, but he would not take it. I have never forgotten how ashamed I felt. For Dad, it was a teaching moment. For me, an impactful learning one.
I can recall the trepidation of another Christmas morning as I, a youth, eased from my bedroom, up the hallway and toward the living room where Santa always left the presents. My parents were still in bed, and I was afraid that I would bump into the Jolly Old Elf. If I did, what would happen? It was an eerie feeling, and I can recall that nervousness even now.
I am 58 years old, but those memories remain vivid. The mind is a big, strange place, with limitless storage capacity.
A few decades ago, my children observed Christmas and made what I hope are good memories of the season.
Now, Krista and I look on as our grandchildren — ages 5, 3 and 1 — get wide-eyed as they experience the sights and sounds of this magical time.
I hope they remember the excitement, the enchantment, the smiles, the laughs, the sweet fragrances, the spirit of family and friends gathering.
Their parents and grandparents will help them remember that the flashing bulbs, the brightly-decorated wrapping paper and the truckload of gifts are not all there is to Christmas. They are trappings.
Christmas is about the greatest gift: the birth of a savior, Jesus Christ, in the little town of Bethlehem. Jesus is the reason for the season, and there would be no Christmas without Christ.
May you make precious memories this Christmas.
