By Suzanna Leigh
In Oatman, Arizona, the gold-mining ghost town where we were living when the boys were small, there were no malls, no blaring of tired old Christmas Carols, no Salvation Army Santa’s jingling bells on the street corners. Actually, there were no street corners to speak of, unless you count where the pot-holed and pitted road going up to Rockhound Hill met Old Hiway 66. There were very few families in this town of mostly snowbirds.
We made Christmas anyway.
Old Joe, with his long white beard and dressed in red, paraded into town riding the vintage fire truck, bells ringing and sirens screaming. All the families – three families with children and most of the adults in town – followed him into the old community hall. Of course, there was a big tree, decorated with lights and tinsel, standing over a pile of gifts for every child. Nine children took turns sitting on Joe’s lap while he handed out gifts.
After the community gathering, we had a feast for our friends in the old miner’s shack where we lived. Kinder-pa – my children’s father – baked the turkey, while our friend Deli played “Lady of Spain” on his accordion.
We have a tradition of making Christmas in our family, sometimes because we couldn’t afford to buy it, and sometimes just because we enjoy making decorations, baking treats, or buying gifts from local artists. Decorating gingerbread cookies together with an insane amount of colored frosting, we made memories.
“When we recall Christmas past, we usually find that the simplest things, not the great occasions, give off the greatest glow of happiness.” – Bob Hope
This year, I asked my grown sons what they remembered about past Christmases. Here are some things we remembered together:
Digging through the box of eclectic Christmas ornaments to hang on the tree at Gramma’s house; you never knew what you might find! There were silk birds from China, angels made one year from scraps of stained glass, and “God’s Eyes” made from colorful yarn wrapped around twigs. There were sea shells made into ornaments from a trip to the coast around Christmas-time, some of last year’s candy canes gone soft, and even a very stale gingerbread man that got hung on the tree and forgotten.
We remembered the smell of peppermint, especially the slightly pepperminty frosting glue we tried to fasten our gingerbread houses together with. We tried a different recipe every year and it never worked. The houses were fun to make and to eat, but they didn’t stay together; the roofs had a tendency to slide off and the walls slanted every which-a-way.
Stale popcorn strung together with dried cranberries, made into garlands for the tree. The garlands were never very long; it was hard to poke a needle through those little cranberries, and the popcorn kept breaking!
The fresh evergreen smell from the tree and wreath on the door. Sweeping up fir needles.
The smell of cloves as we stuck whole cloves into oranges or into the orange-glazed ham.
Sleeping on trundle beds in Gramma’s basement on Christmas Eve. Opening up one gift on Christmas Eve because we just couldn’t wait until morning.
The sound of crinkling paper as we all sat around on Christmas morning, opening presents (some of them wrapped in the Sunday funnies) and stepping on discarded wrapping paper no one had picked up yet. Oh, the glorious mess!
Every year I ask myself, what does Christmas mean to me this year? What is the meaning deeper than the commercialism or even the religious overtones? Celebrating at the time of Winter Solstice with songs, gifts, candles, parties, and evergreen boughs predates Christianity. Does that make it a pagan celebration? I think our need to light up the dark cold days of winter with a celebration of light and hope is part of our DNA.
For me, this year Christmas is about making memories with loved ones and cherishing the memories we share. How about you? What does Christmas mean to you this year? I would love your comments on my “Drinking Color” substack article, “Making Christmas,” or you can email me at leigh.suzanna@gmail.com.
