Christmas of 1968
There are those memories that are so clear and exceptional we feel we are being taken back in time to behold them. Some can be odd. I can feel the rumble of the Volkswagen, feel the air through the windows cracked open, hear my son in the backseat talking when a crow kamikazed my window as we sped over a crest in the Smoky Mountains. I watched horrified through the rearview mirror to see if he had miraculously survived. In another, I was clearly depressed wading in the flooded spring grass, feet frozen, sun shining way too brightly, after begging my mom to let us wear our peddle-pushers and go barefoot. She'd said, no. Today, I’m remembering a trip to buy Christmas presents for my parents and sister, in 1968.
One gray St. Louis day in the late afternoon, my mom drove my sister and me to Hampton Village. I loved that place, markets cheer me up. We went to a gift shop there that sold toys, books, and greeting cards. It was near the Penney’s end, not the Kresge’s end. I recall the scented candles, and falling in love with them. They permeated the air. I’d never smelled such strong amalgamation of scents. Compared to today's candles, the mix of pine, clove, cranberry, and orange, and strictly seasonal, it was a simple pleasure. I'd love orange and cinnamon combined, from that day. Kim and I and smelled each and every one, deciding finally upon a frosted glass votive candle with a cranberry scent. It sat on a base with artificial holly all around it and we were sure our parents would love it, too.
Looking through the small toy selection, I bought a kaleidoscope for my sister, an ultimate dud but the packaging was beautiful. I imagined us sharing it and admiring the pretty designs of that psychedelic cylinder. At that time and for a long time I was easily swayed by presentation and a not completely altruistic gift giver. My mom ushered us each separately to the cash register where we paid for our gifts and the clerk wrapped them up tightly in paper and bagged them. We looked at each other with delighted eyes as we made our way to the car, conspiratory glances at our mom and each other. We sat in the backseat and tried so hard not to give any clues as to what we had bought for the other. Any time my mother heard paper rustling she’d tell us not to show each other what we’d bought. Didn’t we want to surprise each other? But by the time we got home, I knew my sister had bought me a book, I could tell by the shape of the bag. This was a mystery I couldn’t wait to solve.
Looking through the small toy selection, I bought a kaleidoscope for my sister, an ultimate dud but the packaging was beautiful. I imagined us sharing it and admiring the pretty designs of that psychedelic cylinder. At that time and for a long time I was easily swayed by presentation and a not completely altruistic gift giver. My mom ushered us each separately to the cash register where we paid for our gifts and the clerk wrapped them up tightly in paper and bagged them. We looked at each other with delighted eyes as we made our way to the car, conspiratory glances at our mom and each other. We sat in the backseat and tried so hard not to give any clues as to what we had bought for the other. Any time my mother heard paper rustling she’d tell us not to show each other what we’d bought. Didn’t we want to surprise each other? But by the time we got home, I knew my sister had bought me a book, I could tell by the shape of the bag. This was a mystery I couldn’t wait to solve.
I was an avid Nancy Drew lover, dreaming that I had a family that would trust me enough to let me wander off and solve crimes in my little blue roadster once I reached 16. For a while now, each week I’d get a quarter allowance and take it to Rosemary Mammola’s big sister and she’d let me buy one of her many 1940’s Nancy Drew novels, with the faded indigo binding, and I'd run home and begin devouring it immediately. Finally, I’d bought all she had. Previous to this time, I’d get my sister to play episodes from The Avengers, Mission Impossible, or Girl from Uncle with me, or we’d pretend to be little witches from the Dorrie books. I wondered what that book might be that my sister had just bought for me?
I think this may be the year my mom stopped using the multicolored lights and went with just green and blue. Green and blue silk balls and lights. We were mad at her, my sister and I! Please, next year, go back to our magical Christmas tree with our grandmother’s painted and glittered pinecone birds, we begged. Our stockings bought at Walgreen’s in Greenville, a treasured remembrance of the place we came from, please can’t we have a tree like we always had at Nanny and Daddy Tux’s? It was bad enough that they didn’t sell cedar trees like my grandmother always had. She was modernizing things, our mother. We had made cookies, we had sung carols, heard the Carol of the Bells and felt entranced. We had gotten our tree at Ted Drewes, a new tradition, we were watching the Grinch for the second time, we were spellbound by the magic of the season. A tangerine in the stocking toe, peeled and eaten on those mornings, caused a small spark of joy to traverse synapses, forever equating a tangerine with happiness. Little orange suns.
I think this may be the year my mom stopped using the multicolored lights and went with just green and blue. Green and blue silk balls and lights. We were mad at her, my sister and I! Please, next year, go back to our magical Christmas tree with our grandmother’s painted and glittered pinecone birds, we begged. Our stockings bought at Walgreen’s in Greenville, a treasured remembrance of the place we came from, please can’t we have a tree like we always had at Nanny and Daddy Tux’s? It was bad enough that they didn’t sell cedar trees like my grandmother always had. She was modernizing things, our mother. We had made cookies, we had sung carols, heard the Carol of the Bells and felt entranced. We had gotten our tree at Ted Drewes, a new tradition, we were watching the Grinch for the second time, we were spellbound by the magic of the season. A tangerine in the stocking toe, peeled and eaten on those mornings, caused a small spark of joy to traverse synapses, forever equating a tangerine with happiness. Little orange suns.
What was in that bag my sister clutched? A Cherry Ames book. I loved the cover, adored it. And dove right into the story. But this would be the first and last Cherry book I would ever read. By the time I’d finished it Cherry Ames made me feel cynical. She was supposed to be spunky, but where was the thrill? Maybe if she’d been involved in research I might have been hooked. Nancy was hiding in haunted houses and narrowly escaping death. Cherry was forever drinking a glass of milk to keep those cheeks of hers rosy. I hated milk and was made to drink it. Sorry, Cherry, I tried. I kept that book for many, many years because my sister found a book that she thought I’d love as much as she knew I loved Nancy Drew. The anticipation is the magic of Christmas. And the love and thoughtfulness of its gift-givers.
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