When we were little, we always lined up youngest to
oldest to go into the front room to see what Santa brought on Christmas
morn. The night before, we carefully
laid our clothes in proper sequence on the back of a chair for rapid dressing near the old wood burning stove. We were
required to be fully dressed before lining up.
I remember the harness garter belts that went up over our shoulders and hooked
at the waist that the children wore in those days to hold up the despised heavy
cotton long stockings. It didn’t matter
how carefully the garter belt was placed on the chair the night before, on
Christmas morning it was invariably and hopelessly twisted as we
shiveringly—half from cold and half from excitement—tried to untangle it.
Childhood Christmases were never a
disappointment: Not through the Great
Depression, not through the War—although I vaguely do remember wondering how
thrilled Daddy was with the dustpan he got one year, his only gift. He seemed happy enough. We were happy just to have him home for
Christmas. The next Christmas he wasn’t
with us as he stayed out on the Arizona Strip with the sheep all winter long;
the next Christmas, the same. Then that
May he was killed in a fall while tending his sheep in the Orderville Gulch,
part of the Zion Narrows. He was home
for Christmas no more.
Still Mama maintained the spirit of Christmas in our
home. We stood firmly by our
traditions. We always went to the
Primary program on Christmas Eve at the church.
Afterwards, we went home and had our own program around the Christmas
tree with a crackling fire providing warmth.
We read poetry and stories from the Ideals Magazine; we read the Christmas
Story from the Bible; the older ones played instruments and we sang Christmas
carols. The room was always full because
we were eight children strong; and we felt peace and love and contentment as
well as excitement.
Even after I was married and we moved to Salt Lake
City, I loved and cherished Christmas. I
liked everything about it. I liked to
stand at the window on the 16th floor of the Walker Bank Building
(the highest building in town in those days) where I worked for U. S. Steel,
and watch the hustle and bustle on the busy city streets. As the fluffy snowflakes gently fell on the
festivities below and the Christmas music caroled the shoppers along, I felt a
keen excitement based on experience and expectation. Our little tree on my Cedar chest in our
one-room apartment in Stadium Village was just as elegant to me as was our
eight-foot high tree glistening with angel hair and icicles in my childhood
home in Orderville.
Gradually, however, as the years trickled by—perhaps
it was because no children came to us—my excitement ebbed. Sometimes I would get a flash but it seemed
that more and more I was feeling let down and left out at Christmastime. People in cities didn’t visit one another all
day Christmas day as we did when I was growing up. At least, no one visited us. We had never been accustomed to lavish gifts
and we neither could afford nor desired them now.
Even when we finally had two babies, sadly I could
not recapture Christmas. It was
lost. I hoped the children were
excited. While it was rewarding to shop
and plan and dream for their surprises, I still felt a little removed, a little
disappointed, a little rueful.
We moved away from the subdivisions of suburban life
when our daughter, Jeanne, was three and Brent, our first-born, was six years
old. Here in our “cottage” (someday to
be our garage but that doesn’t sound very romantic) securely tucked away from
the mainstream of life, I couldn’t help but feel in awe at the wonders of the
winterscene. The Hollow’s snow laden
trees shielded us from light and life of the outside world. Surely here I could reassess my relationships
and values and again feel the spirit of the season. However, since we had no chimney for Santa to
come down, we decided to go to Grandma’s house for Christmas that year. The children were reluctant; they had never
been away from home for Christmas but we assured them that Santa would surely
find us at Grandma’s house as he had been there many times before. So it was that in 1969, we traveled back to
the home of my childhood where everyone visited everyone else on Christmas
day. It made memories; it brought back
memories; but it did not rekindle that elusive tingle of excitement I had
gradually lost.
The next Christmas we went back to Orderville to be
with Mama, Uncle Ed, and Verla. By this
time, it had become a tradition and the next year when we couldn’t go down the
children were disappointed. On Christmas
Eve, 1971, to our humble abode, we thankfully brought home from the hospital a
beautiful baby boy, all snuggled in a Christmas stocking.
As Brent and Jeanne gleefully opened their gifts on
Christmas morn, I sat in the old blue chair, holding and nursing our newborn
son, feeling a perfect peace. Love,
contentment and joy, as well as excitement, permeated my soul—truly a
consummation of all that Christmas had ever meant to me. Truly my happiest Christmas ever. Christmas
1971
à
May a baby come to thee,
And lie beneath your Christmas tree,
In a cradle set with pine
Be a perfect present thine. . .
And, when the blessed day is done,
Birthday of God’s only son,
May your heart a cradle be
Needing not a Christmas tree,
For in your arms a babe will stay –
Every hour a Christmas day! --Author Unknown
Sent by Mama when Brooke Duffin Pugh was born on
December 21, 1971.
Three years later when Amy Lyn was born on December
30, 1974, I wrote our own version of the poem:
Two new babies came to us
And lie amongst the Christmas muss.
Also, one in March and two in May
Made each of those a Blessed Day.
For in all the world there’s nothing so sweet
As five little kids to make our family complete.
Even nighttime competition is keen
for tiny
Amy Lyn.
I’m sure those three think for parents
to sleep a
night through a sin!
One night Travis will spend throwing up;
then Brooke
to potty must go –
That’s hard with ghosts in the bathroom.
Next we
soak an infected toe.
Of course, the two big ones are helpful
as only
children can be:
Hanging up dirty clothes, throwing
down clean
clothes for me.
They glue on the carpet, kick doors shut,
need rides
for 6 AM basketball.
“Mama, I
forgot my lunch tickets;
also my library books all.”
“Can you come
and pick up
my baritone and me?”
“Can Valori
sleep over?”
“I need $10 for Scout fee.”
“It’s not my
dog.” “I fed
the chickens yesterday.”
“I can’t set
the table, I gotta
made sure my piano’s OK.”
“Am I late
home from school?
How’d it get to be seven?”
“When I’m
nine, I’m going
to stay up until eleven.”
Grandma thinks we’re a house
of
confusion and fuss,
Make no mistake; we’re glad
the
children came to us.
For in our house our babes will stay
Making
every hour a Christmas Day!
Our two Christmas Babies:
Brooke Duffin born December 21, 1971
Amy Lyn born December 30, 1974
Then on a birthday/Christmas card we sent to Brooke
in 1991 when he was on a mission in Germany, we wrote:
You were the baby who came to stay
Making every hour a Christmas Day!
Serious and silent, smart and mild,
I sometimes wonder, were you ever a child?
Your spirit is expansive, wise beyond years;
You steadied our ship when we shed our tears.
Twenty years since we heard that knock
And brought you home in a Christmas sock;
Now miles away, you’re the one
Proclaiming the message of God’s only son.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY!
MERRY CHRISTMAS!
WE LOVE YOU!
MEMORIES OF CHRISTMAS 1990: Brooke, Eddy, and Amy
taking off in a snowstorm on Christmas Eve to house-and-dog sit in Salt Lake
for his horn teacher, leaving the four of us—the original family—home together
for the first time in nineteen years and for the last time before our first one
was to be sealed to her eternal mate in four days.
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