Christmas Moments by Elizabeth Clements

In the hushed stillness of midnight when everyone should be fast asleep, I heard a faint rustle, like a cat high-stepping through piles of paper. More rustling sounds, furtive sliding…

          “What are you doing down there!” a male voice thundered.

          Someone shrieked. Strange noises clattered and thumped. Then silence.

          I shot up in bed, flung back the covers and dashed from my room where I had been recuperating from a cold and sore throat. The living room was dark except for the glow of colored lights twinkling in the Christmas tree. And there stood my dad, arms akimbo, trying to look stern as he gazed down at my mother, kneeling amidst the scattered gifts, much like a deer frozen in beaming headlights.

          Of course my mother couldn’t come up with an explanation. Dad and I both knew curiosity was the death of any patience on her part when it came to gifts for her. Earlier, Dad had given me money to buy Mom a present because he knew I would know what she’d like. I’d snuck it into the house, furtively wrapped it and hid it in my closet because I knew she could not wait until Christmas Eve. Suspense was killing her. She just had to find her gift.

          That Christmas, when I was seventeen, was the first time I realized she was very good at sliding a sharp knife through the tape, carefully unwrapping if a peek wasn’t enough, then just as carefully rewrapping all the folds and placing new tape precisely over the old tape. Apparently, she’d been doing it for years. Became quite accomplished at it. And continued to do so ever after.

Any parcel from my brother in Toronto was opened ahead of time. Gift exchanges with her friends were also opened on the spot or the moment her friend went home. I resorted to urging my brother to send the parcel c/o me, but he didn’t believe me <grin>. Hence, if it hadn’t been for the gifts we brought, my mother would have had nothing to open on Christmas Eve. Or on her birthday. Or Mother’s Day.

I’m just the opposite. I love the anticipation. Love shaking a gift. Could it be perfume? And I love having fun with the gifts. I’ll write cryptic message on the gift tag, to give a clue to the contents. I also save boxes throughout the year because square shapes are so much easier to wrap. One time one of my boys opened a box and tossed it aside without opening it. I reassured him that you can’t always judge a gift by its container. <grin>

My dad wasn’t big on Christmas decorating, so he often brought home the sorriest-looking tree in the lot, stuck it in an old steel tire rim and left it to me to create magic. Of course there was no water for the tree to absorb, so by New Year’s the needles were probably falling off. But oh, the lead tinsel from those days, how they made a tree glitter like magic. I miss the tinsel, in fact I saved it from year to year for a long time until one could only buy that fly-away stuff that if someone sneezed or opened a door causing a draft, it would fly off the tree.

And speaking of trees, here’s the first of three tales of Christmas trees. It was my first time picking out a tree. It had to be perfect, as all new brides anxiously want everything to be perfect. And the tree I found, was of course the biggest, after lifting and scrutinizing dozens of trees. It was a bushy, fragrant tree that almost scraped our apartment ceiling. We set it in the corner of the living room, had fun decorating, and when we were all done, we closed the folding door that separated our bedroom from the living room. Moments later, we heard an odd scraping sound and a whooshing thump. The tree had fainted.

Luckily, there was little damage, a few broken ornaments and pine needles. In no time everything was perfect again, we slid the door shut and went to bed. Moments later, again that odd scraping sound and whooshing thump. Yep, you guessed it. The tree had fainted a second time. We also figured out why. The sliding door probably nudged it.

This time Doug got a nail and hammer and string, tied a long cord around the trunk and nailed that tree to the wall. The tree never had another fainting spell.

When our second Christmas arrived, we were in Germany. We were able to go to a tree nursery, select the tree we wanted and then the attendant chopped it down for us and strapped it to our car. Back then, it was quite the custom to put a small tree on top of a table. I missed a full-size tree, so the next Christmas we had moved into an apartment building and had a tall tree. By the following Christmas we had switched apartments with another military family who wanted a second bedroom for their newborn. I was quite happy with the switch because we now had a second-floor unit with a long balcony. It was fun having a bigger living room and we went all out decorating with lights around the windows and balcony.

That evening we heard a bunch of voices drifting up from outdoors. We looked out the window and saw pedestrians standing and pointing at our apartment. More people gathered. Even cars stopped and people rolled down their windows and stared, pointing. Things may have changed since 1968, but at that time white lights were the only colors on trees or outdoors. Indoor trees were lit with candles in special holders and shouldn’t be left unattended. The German people had never seen colored lights, let alone on a Christmas tree.

The couple living in the apartment directly beside us had a young girl and boy, probably aged five and six. I’d hear them giggling in their bedroom which was on the other side of my kitchen wall. When they saw our tree for the first time they stood in awe at the wonder of colored lights. When we moved back to Canada, we gave them all our Christmas lights.

And now onto the tale of the third Christmas tree. Many, many years later, Doug and the three youngest boys, all older teens by now, went with their dad to Calgary early Sunday morning to bring Chris back home to stay. I decorated our beautiful big tree, and went to bed, unaware that Doug and the boys were stranded at a truck stop an hour’s drive away. They had left Calgary later than planned, and luckily made it to Brooks. The highway had been closed due to a fierce blizzard.  I went to work the next day as usual, so I missed the surprise that awaited Doug and the boys when they arrived home around eight in the morning. Chris was especially tired and went into the living room and discovered the tree had “fainted” on the carpet. Oh no! No one needed this mess after the harrowing night they’d spent without any sleep.

Doug and Chris righted the tree and seconds later it started falling again. Luckily, they caught it. While Doug held the tree, Chris went and rummaged in his toolbox, got out the drill and drilled through the tree stand attached to a square of plywood, and “nailed” that tree to the carpet. “Now, try and fall down, you s.o.b.” he muttered.

As extra insurance, a thick string was looped around the trunk and secured to the wall. To this day, that hook and string is still there to keep the tree from fainting. <grin> 

Do you remember when you or your children helped decorate the tree as high as they could reach (and then the perfectionist re-did the tree while the “elves” were sleeping?) Methinks I was guilty of the same…or was I just too tired to notice the imbalance?

I have a couple more anecdotes to share, that I hope will make you laugh, or at least smile? My family always opened gifts on Christmas Eve whereas Doug’s family opened gifts on Christmas morning. For several years, we opened gifts around midnight until we came back home from Germany. I always reserved one special gift for Doug for Christmas morning so he would have a special gift besides what was hung in his stocking.

One year I arranged with our neighbor to have a snow blower delivered from Sears and stored in his garage. Then he was to bring it over Christmas morning so Doug would have a surprise. I tried everything to get Doug to go outside. Finally he did, and nearly tripped over the dang thing when he opened the door. Dwayne had really planted it right by the door.

It never snowed that winter!

Now for a funny that still makes me smile as I type this—and it is something we’ve reminisced about around the dinner table when we were too stuffed with turkey and dressing to move for a while. In the fall of 1994 Dolly Parton released an autobiography. The bookstore had a special display of her book, complete with a life-size cardboard photo of herself. As I paid for my copy, I asked the clerk if I could have/buy the cut-out when the promotion was over. And shortly before Christmas the store called. I picked up “Dolly” and had Chris take “her” downstairs where he hid her in his closet until Christmas morning.

While I had Doug preoccupied with some task, maybe taking out the garbage—LOL, Chris put Dolly in the bathroom off our bedroom, and for some unknown reason, left the light on before closing the door. A while later, Doug went into the bedroom, saw the door was closed, and being the polite gentleman that he is, knocked on the door. Receiving no answer, he opened the door saw a woman standing there, muttered “Oh, excuse me,” and whipped the door shut.

The boys and I were just outside the bedroom door, holding our breaths and mirth. And then we heard the Lord’s name in an explosive burst when he re-opened the door. Doug is such a good sport and laughed right along with us, after he caught his breath. He’s a Dolly fan, too, hence the idea for my prank.

I hope this little glimpse in my world has left you smiling. That’s what Christmas is all about, love, laughter, family and friends and grateful to God and his Son for all our blessings. May your Christmas be filled with joy and light, and if you’re alone, re-visit your memories to coax a smile. Merry Christmas and have a wonderful new year.

Excerpt: Beneath A Horse-Thief Moon

Ten minutes later Chase couldn't wait any longer. He wanted Sara beside him. He hurriedly lit the dozens of candles he'd fastened to the fir boughs. “Sara? You ready to come out now? It's lonely out here without you.”

“I'm coming,” she replied, her voice muffled.

In two strides he was at the bedroom door and watched her struggle into a nightgown. “Let me help.”

From behind his back he produced a tissue-wrapped parcel tied with a green ribbon and dropped it into her lap.

“I couldn't wait any longer. Merry Christmas, Sara.”

She gazed at him, her mouth a perfect circle of surprise. “A present? For me?” she said in a hushed voice. “I've never had a Christmas present. Not even a doll.”

He ached for what she'd missed. “Next Christmas I'll buy you a dozen dolls.” He watched her untie the ribbon and fold back the tissue. Emerald satin shimmered in the candlelight. “Oh, my,” she breathed. A big, fat tear rolled down her cheek. “Oh, my.”

“Hey, you're not supposed to cry. I'll take it back.” He reached to take the parcel.

She grabbed it back. “It's the most beautiful gown I've ever seen. But it's far too fine for the likes of me.”

Chase heaved a sigh of relief. “No, it's you wearing it that makes it look fine.”

Sara cupped his face and kissed him. “You are the sweetest, most generous person I know. What did I ever do to deserve you?”

Chase shrugged, trying hard to hide his pleasure. “Let's get this on you. Hope it fits. I ordered it from Boston.”

He lifted her old nightgown from where it bunched around her shoulders and grinned at her nudity. “On second thought, I like you just the way you are.”

“Chase!” Sara ducked her head to hide her face.

With a laugh, Chase bunched up the green gown. “Raise your arms.”

She complied. Her eyes fluttered shut and a moan of pure pleasure escaped her lips when the material slid over her breasts. He helped her stand and slid the sleeves of the matching peignoir up her arms. A crush of green ruffles framed her face and floated in twin panels down her front.

Chase unraveled her braid and let it cascade in waves down her back and over her breasts. “You're so beautiful, Sara.” He adored her with his eyes, then lifted her into his arms.

“Chase, you're crushing my gown.”

“I like the feel of you in my arms.” Walking into the main room, he sat her down in the rocker he'd pulled close to the fire. Around her legs he wrapped Silver's old blue horse blanket.

“Oh, Chase, the tree is so beautiful. And smells like the forest is inside. I've never had a Christmas tree before.”

Although she said it without a trace of self-pity, a lump formed in his throat that this lovely, generous woman had been so deprived of even the most simple things in life that most people took for granted. “How come?”

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The Importance of Memories by Elizabeth Clements

 

The Importance of Memories  by Elizabeth Clements

For me, there has never been a year like 2020 that has had me drawing on memories for emotional comfort. So, when I’m feeling blue or lonely, or just plain out of sorts…I put on some cheerful music, make a cup of tea or cocoa and meander through my memories.

Here are some of my favorites pertaining to my favorite time of the year: Christmas. I never did count if I actually wrote 12 days of Christmas memories, but then who is actually counting? However, I’d love to count smiles. <grin>

By surrounding myself with things that make me happy helped me get through my first Christmas without my entire family gathered around the dinner table and by the tree, opening gifts. I played my Christmas play list with a collection of my favorite upbeat Christmas songs—one can even dance to while cooking or decorating the tree or sitting at the computer. Singing along really helps.

This is a funny but precious memory from about twenty years ago that always make us smile when we linger at the Christmas dinner, too full to move and clear the dishes, so we just reminisce. This is a tad long, but there is a punch line <very big grin>

It was a dark and stormy night.....yes, I know, the infamous story beginning....but it was dark and stormy—a blizzard actually. It was a Sunday before Christmas and school was out until after New Year’s. Doug and the three youngest boys had driven to Calgary to move Chris home and ended up stranded in Brooks overnight at the highway restaurant because the roads were closed due to the blizzard.

I passed the time finishing decorating the tree and finally at 2 a.m. with no one home yet, I went to bed. Doug didn't phone because he didn't want to wake me. At 5:15 a.m. I got up as I usually did and got ready to catch the bus to work, serenely unaware of what had happened both on the road and in the living room.

When Doug and all four boys arrived back home, overtired and bleary-eyed, Chris went into the living room to look at the tree. Surprise! It lay on the carpet. (Short little me obviously unbalanced the tree with too many decorations around the front and not enough in the back and the top branches, kinda like it looked when my guys were little and trimmed the tree). The tree  fell without me hearing it because by that time I’d gone to bed).

Chris righted the tree. It immediately began falling again. After the third attempt to keep the tree upright, Chris dug out his handy screwdriver and while Doug held the tree, he screwed the stand to the floor, right through the carpet and muttered, "Now try to fall down, you sonofabitch!" (forgive the language but it's too funny). It had been a very, very long Sunday, packing up his things and driving through the worsening blizzard, then stranded and out of patience. Then Chris must have cleaned up the few broken ornaments and sopped up the water that spilled from the tree holder.

It wasn’t the first time we’d done that, but it was a first for screwing it to the floor. I had visions of that circle of holes and the weight of the tree making the floor so weak the tree would fall into the basement. I think that hook is still on the wall for a rope. <grin>

Since I shared a Christmas tree memory above, I'll tell you about our very first Christmas tree experience as newlyweds. We went to the London Drugs parking lot just a few blocks from our apartment in Calgary and searched through dozens of trees. Luckily it wasn't freezing cold so one could actually see what a tree looked like. I have to admit Doug was very patient as I searched for the perfect tree. I'm sure the one I picked had to have been the bushiest tree on the lot, certainly different from the Charlie Brown type of trees my dad would bring home when I was growing up on the farm.

Doug and I had a one-bedroom apartment with a very long accordion sliding door separating the bedroom from the living room. The corner by the bedroom seemed the best place to set up the tree and what fun decorating it. When we went to bed, we always slid the door shut.

We heard a strange scraping sound like fingernails against a wall and then a thump. Doug went to look and found our tree on the carpet. He righted it while I swept up the broken ornaments because back then the ornaments were breakable, not plastic. Closed the door again. And yup, you guessed it.

The tree fell again. Doug realized it was too close to the sliding door and when he pulled it shut, it bumped the tree again. He moved it but by this time we were too spooked and tired to trust the tree would behave. So, to be on the safe side, Doug found some heavy string and tied the tree to a nail he pounded in the wall. And thus began the tradition of tying the tree to the wall. I don’t recall if the neighbors complained. <grin>

            Our second Christmas was celebrated in Germany where we went to the forest and picked out our tree. I think the attendant cut the tree down as we wouldn't have had a saw or axe and I don't remember Doug sawing it. That was a fun adventure.

It was only about 3 feet tall but very pretty and was set on a table, the usual German tradition. We must have either brought colored lights with us or bought them at the Canex as I’ve never liked white lights.

By the next Christmas, we had moved into an apartment and we strung lights all along the balcony as well as the big picture window. One evening we heard voices. We looked out to see people out on the sidewalk staring and pointing at our apartment. One simply did not see colored lights anywhere, just white lights, so we were a novelty for them.

I still remember the German neighbors who lived across the hall from us. They had a very young girl and boy, close in age, and when they saw our tree, their eyes were round as saucers. When we moved out four years later into a PMQ prior to going home the next summer, we gave them our colored lights.

This is a picture of our first artificial tree. I ordered it from Balsam Hill in 2009 when we had to switch to an artificial tree for physical reasons. After the hectic day of cooking is done, I love to stretch out on the sofa, carols playing on the stereo, gaze at the colored twinkling lights and feel peace seep into my tired body. Nick experimented with camera tricks and called this Tree on Acid.

I have another "first" Christmas memory to share. It was a dark and rainy night.....yes this time, no blizzard, just drizzle, which is what we usually got on Christmas when we lived in Germany. Doug was working, so I probably took a cab over to the Canex to do my Christmas grocery shopping.

With a grocery cart full of paper bags, I wanted to call a taxi, but the direct line for a cab was out of order. So, there I stood on the sidewalk, in the drizzle, wearing my warm Borg pile coat, praying for a cab. I had visions of the damp paper bags splitting open and my cans rolling down the street.

Back in the Dark Ages, there was no handy cell phone to text a cab or a friend for help. Finally, a soldier was able to get cabs for us both and I got my groceries home safely, intact. But I vowed I would never again go big grocery shopping unless I had a vehicle---a resolution I've kept to this day.

Also, that Christmas was my first experience baking a duck for Christmas. Mom always made it on the farm, but she never let me cook meat as it was too precious for a kid to ruin. <grin>

Thus, I never knew how greasy/oily ducks are and loaded with pin feathers. It took me ages to pluck out the pin feathers with a pair of tweezers. And there's not a whole lot of meat on them. Hence, I never made duck again, although I do like roasted duck meat.

            I had roasted my first turkey the year before, in Canada. Mom never made turkey, but in true Canadian fashion, I was making turkey dinner for my husband. Neither of us had cooked a turkey before, so I checked my home economics text I still had from school and faithfully followed the instructions to baste the turkey every 20 minutes. That li’l fell took a long time to bake because of course the oven lost a lot of heat while I/we basted and then had to reach the 350 degrees again. Probably by the time it did, it was time to baste again. Repeat. I wonder what time we eventually ate?

            It isn’t only children who can’t wait for Christmas to come. I think I was 16 or 17 one Christmas when I was sick in bed with a rare sore throat and a cold. The house was quiet when suddenly my dad bellowed, “What are you doing?” I heard my mother scream. He had caught her on her hands and knees searching through the presents under the tree. My dad had given me money to buy a gift for her from him and I had wrapped and hidden it well under the tree. If she found her gift she’d open it. Thereafter hers were kept hidden until Christmas Eve. I had my brother send his to me for safekeeping, as well. Gifts from her friends were all opened immediately. If it hadn’t been for me, she’d never have had anything to open on Christmas Eve.

            My boys tried to see what was in their presents. I’d find little tears at the corners. For years I double-wrapped everything first in newspaper, then wrap, and I used lots of that heavy-duty parcel tape. The Christmas wrap was too easily see-through, but newspaper, ah, yes, that worked very well. We laugh about that now. I think Chris will be doing that now, too, with his curious son.

To continue with my tales of Christmas past, there is one that still makes me laugh quietly to myself when I think of it, but it wasn’t funny at the time. For years we had Christmas at my parents until the twins were born. Their first Christmas going to my parents was a circus. Literally. Packing clothes, diapers, diaper pails and all the presents into the car and driving the hour to my hometown was such a hassle that I suggested it was easier for them to pack an overnight bag and come to our place.

We did that for a lot of years until one year my mom didn't want that drive anymore, even though Doug always went to get her and take her home so she wouldn't have to take the bus. Then it was packing up the van again with clothes (but no diaper pails anymore) <grin> and all the presents, plus a cooked turkey dinner with all the trimmings, which Doug and the boys put in the van and kept warm with sleeping bags tucked around the boxes. The gravy had to be reheated and probably the veggies, too.

So, the next Christmas I wasn't repeating that hassle again, and suggested we have KFC take-out at my mom's. I even phoned the outlet to check how late they were open. 7 p.m. they assured me. We got to KFC at 6:30ish. The door was locked! Yet we could see the employees at the counter, staring at us and not budging. I think I felt the heat fuming out of Doug's ears.

            We drove to our favorite Chinese restaurant. Closed. We drove to Safeway. Closed. IGA was also closed. Desperate now, I said, "Let's try McDonalds." Open. Whew! We were the last customers as they locked the door behind us at exactly 7p.m. I think all six of us went inside to order and help carry out the food. I ordered seven Big Mac dinners and extra fries and pop.        My mom had set the table with her beautiful Forget-me-not china.

I placed the Big Macs and fries on every plate.

My mother was not amused.

My husband was not amused.

He had looked forward to KFC all day.

Myself and the boys thought it was hilarious (even though I confess I never eat McDonalds burgers…but I used to like their McNuggets).

            The next Christmas I had a quiet chat with my mother and read her the riot act. We would again start having Christmas at my place. She made a comment about liking to sleep in her own bed. I looked her in the eye and gently but firmly said, "If you can go to Yuma with your cousin and his wife for ten days and sleep in an unfamiliar bed, then you can definitely sleep a night or two in a familiar bed at our place."

            Speechless, her eyes got big as marbles. Y'see, I had never stood up to her like that.

And thus Mom spent three nights away from her very comfortable bed. <grin>     

And Doug drove an hour to get her and then take her back home.

Ahhh, gotta love those fun memories of Christmas past.

A fun memory from 1995 still has me smiling because it involves Dolly Parton and Christmas morning. When she published her biography, our local Coles Bookstore had a life-size cardboard display of her in the store. I've always been a fan, so I had the audacity to ask the store manager if I could have that display when the promotion was over. The manager agreed, possibly because I bought the book as well as being a frequent customer.

Shortly before Christmas, Coles phoned and I picked up Dolly. I got Chris to sneak Dolly  downstairs and he hid her in his closet for me until Christmas Day morning. Then while Doug was having a shower, I had Chris bring her up and put her in the master bedroom bathroom. He left the light on and closed the door. I hovered out of sight while I waited for Doug to go in there.  

Doug opened the door, saw a woman standing there, blurted "Excuse, me" and slammed the door, thinking it was me (I wish I could look that good). Then it hit him. Uh...he kinda used the Lord's name in vain and something to the effect of why is Dolly Parton in our bathroom?

Oh, did the boys and I roar. The five-foot cut-out is life-size, including her usual four inch heels, so her face would have been close to chin-high on Doug. I still have Dolly somewhere in a closet.

I've always reserved one special gift for Doug to open on Christmas morning since my side of the family always opened ours on Christmas Eve and his the next morning.      One year back in the mid-80s when I was still a stay-at-home mom, I shoveled our very long driveway so Doug wouldn't have to do it when he came home from work. I ended up with bronchitis from breathing in all that cold air and vowed I'd never shovel snow again. (I have but only to clear a path on our back deck.)

The next Christmas I bought a snow blower and arranged with our good neighbor, Duane, to store it in his garage and bring it to our back door on Christmas morning, which he did.

Well, what a job to get Doug to go outside. Finally, he took the garbage out, opened the back door and nearly fell over the dang thing blocking the doorway. Lordy, we laughed and Doug grinned all over his face. That was a great surprise...and I must have jinxed old man winter because we had a brown winter for several years after that and he didn’t need to use the snowblower.

            Christmas fun isn’t reserved just for children. All these years later I still remember my fourth Christmas. All the family gathered at my great-aunt’s place for Christmas Eve. The last gift to be opened was for my great-uncle, a big, long intriguing package about the size of a vacuum cleaner box and it had a big bow. He unwrapped it only to find another present inside, wrapped and with a bow. Uh, I think everyone’s familiar with those wooden Russian cluster dolls that fit inside each other? Well, by the time he unwrapped the last layer, it was a slim, tiny box that held...a ball point pen. He was a very good sport.

This fun prank was repeated on myself a few times when I was growing up, and I’ve also done it to Doug and my boys. Nick was the most recent victim….a Tim Horton’s gift card hidden inside layers of boxes, gift  wrap and garlands. Nick, too, is such a good sport.

My last memory to share is actually a New Year’s memory. The recent first Saturday of the new year reminds me that I met my future husband on the first Saturday of January, 1964. Thanks to a search on Google, I now know that the day was January 4^th and that’s today.

Just one of those Karma moments, I guess. I had just come back to Calgary after New Year’s at home, when I answered the phone on the third floor landing of the YWCA where I lived at the time. I went in search of Christine. I couldn't find her so the charming voice on the other end of the phone began flirting with me, and thus began a very enjoyable and fun-filled year and...we've been happily-ever-after ever since.

Happy New Year everyone and I hope I made you smile or chuckle as I shared some of my favorite Christmas memories over the years.

I hope you’ll take a moment and share with me a favorite Christmas memory of yours.

 

Flashback Excerpt from Beneath A Horse Thief Moon 

On Christmas Eve the cabin glowed with candlelight and the dancing flames in the hearth. The fresh resin fragrance of the fir tree hung heavy in the air. Chase hurriedly lit the dozens of candles he'd fastened to the fir boughs. “Sara? You ready to come out now? It's lonely out here without you.”

“I'm coming,” she replied, her voice muffled.

In two strides he was at the bedroom door. From behind his back, he produced a tissue-wrapped parcel tied with a green ribbon and dropped it into her lap.

“I couldn't wait any longer. Merry Christmas, Sara.”

She gazed at him, her mouth a perfect circle of surprise. “A present? For me?” she said in a hushed voice. “I've never had a Christmas present.”

He gaped, the idea incomprehensible to him. “Not even a doll?”

She shook her head.

He ached for what she'd missed. “Next Christmas I'll buy you a dozen dolls.” He watched her untie the ribbon and fold back the tissue. Emerald satin shimmered in the candlelight. “Oh, my,” she breathed. A big, fat tear rolled down her cheek. “Oh, my.”

“Hey, you're not supposed to cry. I'll take it back.” He reached to take the parcel.

She grabbed it back. “It's the most beautiful gown I've ever seen. But it's far too fine for the likes of me.”

Chase heaved a sigh of relief that she liked his gift. “No, it's you wearing it that makes it look fine.”

Sara cupped his face and kissed him. “You are the sweetest, most generous person I know. What did I ever do to deserve you?”

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TRADITIONAL CHRISTMAS: JERKY, GROG & REINDEER DROPPINGS BY SHAYNA MATTHEWS

                                     
       TRADITIONAL CHRISTMAS: JERKY, GROG & REINDEER DROPPINGS,
                                                   BY SHAYNA MATTHEWS

There's nothing like the anticipation of Christmas morning to torment a child. I should know, my parents certainly got their jollies from dragging out Christmas morning. Up before dawn in my flannel nightgown, I was bouncing, eager to rip into that tree. Of course, I had to wait. Dad had to make his coffee, then drink a few cups, slowly, while Mom made iced cinnamon rolls. Now, any other day of the year cinnamon rolls are fine and dandy with me. Christmas morning, however, was a different story. Fifteen minutes for them to bake, then cool enough to eat? Come on, Mom! I amused myself by looking outside, anywhere but at the stack of presents under that twinkling tree! - Santa's reindeer made their presence known in our driveway every year. Having left a bag of corn for the reindeer, I found empty cobs with deer tracks, a few missed kernels, and reindeer poop (yes...reindeer poop!) in the gravel driveway. I suppose when reindeer eat that much corn, it's only natural to let nature take over before they fly to the next house!

My Dad explained to me that Santa gets mighty tired of milk and cookies all the time, he appreciates an especially festive offering on Christmas Eve. I always left smoked bologna and cheese, and a hefty jug of grog. Funny, Santa left me letters, but by the end of the letter, his spelling was practically unlegible! I don't know why he always told me that I was a good girl, but to eat my vegetables. Does Santa really care that much about vegetables? (The Easter Bunny always told me the same thing, but he eats carrots, not cheese, grog and bologna).

When my father had enjoyed two or three cups of steaming procrastination, and the cinnamon rolls were eaten (gobbled may be a more appropriate term) - it was finally time. First on the list was always the stocking. I don't know what it is about a sock stuffed with goodies, but it's among my favorite Christmas memories. (Aside from Santa's grog-induced letters).
There are many legends that arise from the tradition of the Christmas stocking. My favorite tells the tale of a once-wealthy merchant down on his luck, with three daughters of age to wed. Too poor to offer a dowry, but too proud to accept charity, the merchant despaired over his daughters' happiness. One Christmas Eve, the daughters, having come in cold and wet from their chores, hung their socks by the fire to dry. Little did they know, St. Nicholas heard about the merchant's predictament. That night he rode into town on a magnificent white steed, and tossed three golden balls down the chimney. Inexplicably, the golden orbs fell into each girl's sock. Christmas morning was met with much rejoicing. Each daughter married happily, and as the story spread, children began hanging their socks by the fireplace in hopes St. Nicholas and his white horse would ride by and bless them with gifts, too. The gold balls in the story were quickly replaced with traditional oranges. No one could replicate a golden ball for a gift, but the round fruit of the same color was always a welcome treat.
                                    
Our tree was always decorated with handmade ornaments, baked from a mixture of either clay or a type of cookie-like dough, rolled into shapes, painted and laquered. I still have the few surviving ornaments on my tree to this day. One year, I specifically recall our choice in garland. Barring the tinsel, we chose to string popcorn and cranberries, following another old tradition in decorating with what you had. Now, bear in mind, the tree was always standing in the corner of the main room, opposite my bedroom door. Awake that night, counting each dragging minute and listening for the sound of tinkling reindeer bells, I heard something unexpected. I could not figure what it could be, for I had not heard the sound before. It was, for lack of a better term, rather like a soft "chewing" coming from the corner of the next room. By morning, since I could not leave my room to investigate (everyone knows Santa won't leave the good stuff behind if you try to peek) my nerves were gnawed raw. Come to find out, my nerves weren't the only thing gnawed raw that Christmas Morning. There, perched in a branch of the tree, sat a fat mouse, feasting on popcorn and berries. That was the last time we tried that particular Christmas tradition.

Written by Shayna Matthews, author of "The Legend of Venture Canyon" and "A Spot in the Woods" from the anthology "Memories from Maple Street, U.S.A, Leaving Childhood Behind".

What of you? What are your favorite traditions? Or, perhaps you make your own family traditions to follow?