A Christmas Memory

On Monday, I went to my Toastmasters club's Christmas party. Only a few people showed, which was alright since everyone was asked to share a Christmas memory. All the stories were very good, even the sad one, because all the Toastmasters are practiced speakers. I, on the other hand, have been trying to come up with a Christmas story to share with readers for several weeks and have been drawing a blank, so I had a lot of trouble coming up with something to tell the group. Somehow, though, I was able to dredge up something when put on the spot and I thought I would share it with you.

I was born to two university students (my dad was getting his Ph.D. and my mom was studying for her Bachelor's Degree), so money was very tight when I was little. In fact, my mom tells a story of how they were so poor they

could

not afford

a Christmas tree

and she wound up dragging

one out of the trash for us from

students who had thrown it out before

going home for the holidays. For presents

that year, Mom drew pictures on card stock

of what she would liked to have given us but could

not afford. She hung those cards on the Christmas tree

as dual-purpose

ornaments and

gifts. --x--x--x

 

When my dad got his post-doctoral fellowship, my parents had more money and things got better. We moved from the University apartments into a duplex in a new town and could afford luxuries like a Christmas tree and presents. Also, right around that time, my mother's uncle began visiting us during the holidays (a tradition which continued well beyond our stay in that area, all the way through the Christmas before his passing). Our home was located just about midway between his work in New York and his house in North Carolina. A teacher and a bachelor, he would stop in for a few holiday vacation days on his way between work and his house.

 

That was when my little brother and I began to learn how to exercise patience, because we needed to do so while waiting for Uncle Oliver to wake up on Christmas morning. It seemed to take  f-o-r-e-v-e-r  for the old man to get out of bed. Then, when he finally was up, he refused to come downstairs until he was fully dressed, including tie and hat... and not only that, but my mom became a born-again Christian right around that time so, even though Uncle Oliver was up and out of his bedroom, we THEN had to go to CHURCH before our gifts could be opened. Aaarrghh!

 

Christmas morning was definitely a form of child torture.

 

But...

 

Later in the evening, when dinner was eaten and the food was put away, Uncle Oliver, who was a teacher with a Master's degree in music, would sit down at the piano. Everyone would then gather around him to sing, and our whole house would fill with music.

 

And that, dear readers, is my memory of Christmas for the majority of my childhood (and early adult) years. May your holidays this year be filled with loved ones and memories just as fond. Merry Christmas.