As I sit here reminiscing about Christmases past over a cup of coffee with the tree lights and wreath providing illumination, I surprise myself feeling bittersweet pangs. Amidst the happy memories of family gatherings and joyful children, I find myself also missing the people that are gone and the times that sped so quickly by. So many Christmas days vie for remembrance, first with my brothers and parents as children, then as adults, then those hectic wonderful years with my own small children, and now they too are adults. My memories turn into a kaleidoscope of people and places, the years telescoping into a panoply of ever-shifting remembrances. Every year has its joys, and its sorrows, but perhaps the importance of Christmas is that it focuses heavily on the joys.
I twist the kaleidoscope, and memories of the parents' house in Hollandia come into view, their dreams on the lake perhaps not coming to fruition as they'd planned, but in retrospect I see that all the important aspects actually did, and somehow I think Mom knew this aspect better than Dad, and so she was always the happier one. The Christmas tree in the corner of the living room where it always was, probably placed there to put it as far as possible from the sparks of the fire place, and adorned with the re-used tinsel and aging garland (I guess it was new back then, once upon a time) and burning-hot incandescent bulbs. My brothers and I, as small children with our trucks and toys, then with another twist as growing boys with bikes and balls, but always the four of us and just the four of us with never an added guest. And once or twice a rare Christmas with snow on the ground, always hoped-for but rarely experienced.
Twist again and it's our huge tree in the Dover house, with too many presents as we went overboard in our happy celebration of our lives. Those were truly joyous years, with too little sleep and too much rushing around to get that must-have item, or to balance out the number and value of presents so no child was favored. That tree was a beast, with too many hours hanging thousands of lights, and now it lives in the attic as a daunting recollection. By then the brothers all had separate lives of their own, so that aspect rotated away and my own family took center stage, and happily so. And again there were one or two white Christmases, including one where I helped the older kids make a modest snowman.
Another turn and it's the harder years, where we strove mightily to maintain the joy at Christmas and freeze every happy minute, as I knew the years with Jason and aging parents were numbered and I perhaps tried too hard to capture the moments. But the happy memories abounded, with Christmas dinner at Henry's instead of the folks' house as they no longer had the energy to host the growing group, so it was a split affair with presents at our house then the broader family get-together. Though sometimes brothers were missing, it was always a large boisterous group with cousins and in-laws in varying proportions, and there was that one Christmas when everybody was in one place, all the brothers and spouses, and we fortunately took a family picture with all of us, not realizing it would be the last.
Another twist and our kids are teens and tweens, and we're juggling real cars as well as toy ones, and kids are running off for other engagements with friends and creating their own holiday memories. We deliberately decided not to be demanding parents that required all kids to make our holidays a priority, so eventually there were trips with friends, then older kids moving away. We lost Jason, and Mom and Dad, and suddenly Christmas was as much about remembrance as making new memories.
Slide another year or two and the number of presents under the tree were much fewer, as young adults desired fewer but more expensive items, and there were literally fewer people to with whom to celebrate. Now we're to the adult-children years, but before grand-children, and with COVID travel is less advised. Divorces split away some in-laws, and left new gaps and surely bittersweet memories in their wake, while new marriages bring a new dynamic as others come in. Most of the kids have moved away, alone or as couples, and I am satisfied by such as it is as it should be with kids finding their own lives. I am content that all the kids were home for Thanksgiving, and I've been fortunate enough to see all my brothers individually. It's certainly been quite a while since all four have been here at once, and the brief trip to Pennsylvania reminds me how much I enjoy having more of us together.
So here on a quiet Christmas morning, with no snow (at 70F+ it's not going to snow today!), looking at our small, simple tree and eternal wreath, I let the kaleidoscope spin, and I am flooded by a range of emotions -- both mine and those of others in the frame -- as the years, people, and emotions overlap in flowing juxtapositions. Surely some are not only Christmas moments, but these holiday frames stand out as bright, focused instances. I am glad I deliberately froze some such moments as they came along, knowing that years go fleeting by, and that the emotions attached to others help tag them into memories as well..
Surprisingly, I find the kaleidoscope also hints at future Christmases, some at our house and in other places, with other trees, and other fireplaces, and with grandchildren and others I do not yet know gleefully tearing wrapping paper. I sit at the edge and watch contentedly, for they do not know as I do that while the joy of Christmas sometimes involves presents, the happiness comes from togetherness and experiencing the joy of others that we love. There are also shadows there, hinting at future losses, and so I know I must live the joys in the moment, capturing them and adding them to the kaleidoscope for future years.
