CHRISTMAS MEMORIES 1974

WINSDAY WISDOM Session 46

Christmas time can create or invoke precious memories. I can still hear my dad repeatedly singing “White Christmas” to my new baby brother. I even remarked that I thought the little bundle who interrupted my monopoly on Christmas gifts might be getting tired of hearing that song.

This Christmas Memory was written in 1974 by my mom as therapy for a lonely heart. I share it with you to spark good Christmas memories for your heart in times of loneliness or family chaos.

CHRISTMAS MEMORIES   l974

Christmas commercialized?  Never!  Never!  Never!  Some may call it that; but God forbid that my husband, children, future grandchildren, and I lose the heritage so lovingly passed on by Mom and Dad.

My earliest memories of Christmas were in a large rambling two-story white house sitting on a small hillside about threequarters of a mile from Peabody Mining Camp called Superior Smokeless Coal and Mining Company, Mine #29.  The post office was named Tahona.

We grew up on this small farm at the edge of town with the idea that we were someone special.  No, we weren’t taught snobbery.  We were taught to use the God-given intelligence and physical stature to get ahead in life through education and hard work. 

Never were we taught that anyone owed us anything but an opportunity.  Neither were we ever told this would make us lots of money.  Money was seldom the central issue. 

There seemed to be enough for our necessities, some for our dreams, and a little for the frivolous things in our lives.  Dad worked seven days a week to provide this setting while Mom worked seven days a week guiding us to goal-setting that we hardly realized were being set.

Consequently, uppermost in the plans for the future were more and more education and work experiences.  Even the trials of World War II did not deter these plans.  Strange ideals coming from a coal mining family of self-educated parents.  Few such ideas floated around the environment where almost every other house made home brew and sold it to the next house. 

I guess our house was the buyer–just Dad.  Dad, tired and weary of a l2 to l5 hour shift at the Tipple, relaxed with a bottle or few before winding his way home to face the trials of six kids and an over-worked Mom.  Let it be known that Dad did the drinking for the whole family and before he got home. 

Mom kept many of these secrets hidden from us. If Dad were caught on Christmas Eve drinking from a peculiar-shaped bottle with a peculiar aroma, we were hastily informed it was Dad’s cough medicine.  That satisfied me.  I wanted Dad  healthy for the big Christmas celebration. 

As I have already said, Mom kept many secrets (just like the Christmas secrets) which made life good to us.  We grew up feeling that there was a special magic in the Floyd family blood. 

Grandparents were never a big part of our Christmas.  Grandma and Grandpa Floyd were not around for these celebrations because they had gone on before I can remember.  Grandpa and Grandma Morrison shared many holiday seasons with us.  Somehow, they were not the doting grandparents who heaped gifts upon us or held us in their laps and hugged us tightly.  There was more of a standoffish respect, especially on my part. 

Therefore, I feel the magic must have begun with the mingling of Mom’s and Dad’s blood.  I still feel there was a magic not fully understood, but deeply beloved about our home the year around– but building to a crescendo around Christmas time.    

Commercialized?  Yes, Dad bought three tricycles one Christmas because we had not learned that we were not an only child.  Then he had to buy two saddles for the older boys. (I know now these purchases were dearest to his hearts–later he bought all grandchildren cowboy boots–boys and girls. He liked this sort of thing.) 

I think perhaps even Big Sister got a bedroom suite for her room.  Peabody must have had a good year and gave a large bonus that year.

Now, I am more inclined to feel that this, too, was one of those guarded secrets of doing without for a year for one big splurge at Christmas for those you love. This practice continued through Mom’s lifetime. She could not manage money. She had to spend it on someone else. 

I’ve inherited the urge to spend more than I can afford at Christmas.  But I’m willing to work the rest of the year to pay for the joys of giving at Christmas.  This I inherited from Mom.  

Santa was very real to us Floyd Kids–much longer than those who lived in the camp and knew the ways of the world. My elder brothers and sisters were not the kind to belittle such beliefs. It was such a good thing to hold on to that even they were reluctant to let Mom and Dad know their doubts. 

This dedication fostered a special belief in my little brother and me.  

Finally, the day arrived that I could no longer resist asking Mom if there really was a Santa Claus. Now much has been said about the New York Times’ answer to Virginia, but I’m here to tell you that their answer to Virginia was no more legendary or effective as Mom’s answer to me. 

When she finished explaining the magic and spirit of Christmas because of the Christ Child’s putting so much love into this world, the magic Santa was greater than all real Santas who had hither fore peeped through the dining room window to see if all good little boys and girls were in bed. 

No sadness or depression filled my heart. The magic of love had filled the Santa image, and Christmas went on as usual with all the happiness, unselfishness, and love it was meant to have. 

This was the love that prompted Mom to share with the bell ringers on the streets or the paper boy who trudged through the snow to bring news from worldwide. Dad shared his tender love for under-privileged children less fortunate than his own. He would pay their way into movies so they wouldn’t have to miss life’s little goodies.

During the hustle and bustle before Christmas , one Sunday morning, Mom’s oft overworked and strained heart gave way.  All the loving family rushed to her bedside. 

Using her last ounce of strength and devotion, she spoke to each one individually to let each know that she knew we were once more gathered together. Then she slipped into eternity. 

The sorrow and lack of readiness for life without Mom flooded our souls. Although the circle had been broken, thoughts turned immediately to Dad. 

Christmas must go on as usual. It had always been special. Mom would not want it otherwise. No sorrow for the grandchildren.

Finally, as we found courage to enter the once-a-year (Christmas Season) used bedroom, we found gifts sorted and waiting to be wrapped. No, we had no written instructions. Mom was never that organized. 

But somehow, we knew which gift belonged to which child, in-law, or grandchild because of the special love for each of those individuals. There was always enough to go around no matter how large the family grew.

Never had Mom finished her shopping so early. Perhaps as she grew older, she felt she needed more time to get ready for the mob’s invasion. But to get us by our first Christmas without her in body, I like to think that Mom was prepared to provide her special type of Christmas spirit for us as we lovingly opened those gifts on that special Christmas Eve.     

My loved ones, times will change whether we want it to or not. Conditions necessitated our moving the Christmas Eve Party to my house after a year or two when the strain became too great for Dad. 

How we enjoyed the phone calls from those who were unable to attend these get-to-gathers! Now Dad, too, has gone on to meet Mom and have even greater celebrations, but Christmas Eve parties continued.

This Christmas will only memories and mailed gifts bind the remnants of this magical family? No, that is not true.

Santa may not be peeping through the dining room window at brats too excited to go to bed or parents too tired to carry sleepy-eyed toddlers up the stairway so Santa’s finishing touches could be placed under the tree.

But you may rest assured that magic of love will be prevalent in each of the six houses as the Floyd Clan gathers in each respective home for this Season’s celebration.

Love and the proud heritage of having the “blood” will live on through tales told to each generation of what Christmas really means. 

L-O-V-E–for God and man. 

With this thought in our hearts, no way can Christmas be commercialized.  A special mission we Floyd Kids and descendants have on earth is to keep this travesty from happening.

**Written l2/l7/74 as therapy for a lonely heart by Bea Floyd Blankenship.

Merry Christmas and may the Lord bless you with lots of love to share with others.

LOVE FIRST. LOVE MOST.

Create some memories!