This Holiday Season

I don't have much spirit this year. Gone is the excitement of decorating the home inside and out; searching and purchasing a tree to put in that right spot in the sun room; wrapping gifts bought secretively. Perhaps the emptiness I feel is (1) having our own grown kids in scattered places, or (2) having a grandson only four months old, too young to share much with him.

Too much sickness has roamed our home. Too little time for me to write down everything that somersaults through my mind. Too much of  my life disappearing. I'm not the one ill, I"m the one desiring to accomplish so much more in the remaining short time. (I've asked for an extension of 40 years;that decision .)

I ventured out one day, camera in hand, to snap decorated mailboxes -- found only two examples. Our neighborhood has all their curbside mailboxes topped with pine bough/red ribbon. Outside the gates I found one mailbox beribboned as a package. Nothing more. In earlier years mailboxes were treated more affectionately as an extension of yard decorations. Perhaps there are others who are not exactly hot and heavy on decorating this year. Does money have anything to do with this lack of decoration? Nah, the houses are filled with over-60 years of age folks who, like  me, just don't care to go  to the trouble. Christmas has a different meaning, perhaps one that nearer what it should be.

The card this year we mailed  out has our 50 year old's age six depiction of Christmas. He didn't miss anything. Oh, to experience that innocence again!

Midnight service at my church will invigorate me and help me remember that after tearing through the wall of tinsel I'll remember this is the commemoration of the Birth and become invigorated again.Despite my lack of enthusiasm for lighting the tree and house, I  still have enough spirit to wish all of you the best for the season, a blessed new year, and peace to all mankind. Remember our men in service. AMEN.

Those Christmases Long Ago

In the worst of times during World War II with rationing of gas and food, my family joined others in the United States by inviting a serviceman to lunch on December 25. For each of three Christmases we gave a soldier a few hours of attention and a home-cooked meal.

In preparation for the lunch in December, we saved a teaspoon of sugar in a special jar throughout the year. This was for two desserts. Each month Mother bought one food item. The menu never changed: turkey(sometimes a chicken), dressing, cranberry sauce, English peas, candied sweet potatoes, and pickled peaches. Dessert was Mother’s coconut cake and a chocolate pie -— made from scratch, of course.

Beginning in 1943 my grade-school sister and I, a gangly 13-year-old, planned and executed the room and table decorations: old Christmas cards dangling off a string hung above the doorways, a fresh cedar wreath on the front door, a small pine tree covered with silver balls and ringlets of construction paper (tinsel was needed for the war effort). Mother’s only white tablecloth, starched for the occasion, displayed her best dishes.

Thirty minutes before noon Dad left for the train depot, a mere 15-minute walk.Trains passed through our city to and from Memphis and New Orleans and crowds of service personnel choked the one-story building standing at the west end of downtown.

Dad’s responsibility was to select our guest. After entering the stuffy waiting room filled with cigarette smoke and the din of voices, he’d lean against a large column where he had full view. His eyes scanned each GI. He told us later how difficult it was to pick one serviceman from the hundreds milling around.

“They looked so vulnerable, so young,” he said later. “I hated that we couldn’t offer food to all of them.” He told us he searched for the young man who looked the most scared and lonely.

“You in town for awhile?” he’d ask the stranger. “There’s a hot meal waiting at my house. Want to join me and the family?” He and the hungry GI walked slowly back to our house chatting. This was Dad’s son for the day.

At the doorway we sisters rushed to embrace the soldier like he was a returning brother, pressing a small gift into his hands. At the table he could hardly swallow a bite of food, as we peppered him with questions about his life,his family, his state. After dessert and coffee we said our goodbyes reluctantly and Dad returned to the depot with a contented soldier, his duffle bag slung over one shoulder and a package of food for his supper in his hand.

Whether these young men completed their tours of duty, or died on some lonely spot of foreign soil, we never knew. However, they're a part of our memories of that time.


We sisters 10 years later

December Surprises

The large pot of geraniums are flowering again. Multitudes of Bradford Pears, which dot downtown Madison and homes in the subdivisions, are showing their fall color of luscious crimson, other trees still have golden leaves waving in the slight breezes we occasionally have.

It's December and typical of most winters this time of the year. The temperature has risen from 50 degrees of last week to a promise of 80 degrees for today. Gives us plenty of reason to get out and see the seasonal decorations.

Not having a reason for decorating our home for children, we have to visit nearby Canton, setting for many of John Grisham's novels, for their "Sip 'N' Cider" contest as we visit stores to view their wares. Seems you visit the store, taste their favorite cider recipe, judge which store produces the best tastin' cider, listen to the music and watch the glitter of the lights.

Our local drama group will present "A Wonderful Life" for those who never get enough of that traditional story.

I just would like a cold, cold day for the 25th. Traditional songs and customs seem to disappear when the weather is warm. Yes, I like tradition and customs, but I know that I'm really celebrating a special birth. And that doesn't need good weather.