The day was a bleak, cold one. Snow and cold weather had brought life to a standstill throughout most of the city the day before. I had an early afternoon appointment with my cardiologist at the hospital downtown, the one in which I was born so many years ago. By the time I left the appointment and made my way out of the hospital parking lot, I was starving. A holiday dinner was scheduled for later that evening, so I didn't want much lunch. As I drove west, making my way the few city blocks towards the home in which I had lived as a child, my mind was focused on trying to find a place to stop into for a quick bit of food to tide me over until dinner. There's no place to stop for lunch in this neighborhood, I thought.
Just then, I caught sight of the little coffee shop across the street from the corner of the block where my childhood home was located. The coffee shop is housed in the building that once housed a grocery store and the neighborhood drugstore. Hungry to the point of going into a state of hypoglycemic craziness, I parked my car on Boulder Street, my street, the place where I grew up, and made my way to the shop.
As I rushed from the car to the shop, my mind returned to all those times over half a century ago when I would stop on the corner across the street from where I now stood. My memory transported me to a time when my mother would entrust a quarter to me with the instructions that I was to go buy a loaf a bread. "Yes, you can keep the change and buy candy if you wish." I'd skip down the street, stop on the corner, look both ways, run across Boulder Street, and then Institute Street, and then skip up to the front door of the grocery.
I could almost see those long ago penny candy boxes lined up in front of the front counter where I would pay for the bread as I approached the door. The door was locked. It was dark inside. Pressing my nose against the window, I peered in and saw the shell of what once was the market of my youth. I remembered the meat counter at the back. That's where the check-out counter and the candy was, I thought as I noticed the worn floors I had walked across so many times so many years ago. Coffee bean bags and equipment for brewing coffee were strewn all over the small space. Was this store really that small?
Just as I turned to head back to the car, desperate to find another place for a quick snack, I realized there seemed to be life in the other side of the shop, the place where a drugstore once was located. I walked towards the door and realized the coffee shop was housed on that side of the building. Inside, the layout was all wrong. Tables and benches lined the wall where my cousin and I would once sit at the soda fountain to order our cherry cokes when we were cool thirteen year olds with enough money to buy a coke. On the opposite side of where the soda fountain once stood, was a bar where I could now order coffee and something to eat.
Soon, a bagel, a very good bagel, with cream cheese, and an excellent cafe latte brought my sugar levels back up to normal. Siting on the wooden bench in the bay window store front, I savored the moment.
Somehow, despite the cold weather, the dreary skies, the worries in my heart, and the feeling that this Christmas just wasn't going to be that merry, my spirits were lifted by being in that simple little coffee shop that was full of young people studying for finals.
I felt I was in the heart of "home" while I sat sipping my cafe latte. Grateful, for the time of rest, refreshment, and time for reflection on the happy, simple days spent in this little corner of my early world, I left the shop and headed back to my car.
These streets, these sidewalks, are as familiar to me as the back of my hand. I know where all the cracks are, and even the several types of concrete used to make these sidewalks are familiar. They haven't changed in all these year.
I look up at the trees that line the street. They seem to be standing guard as they protect all the memories once made under their leafy branches. Their aged, bare limbs seem all the more empty now that they no longer shelter my great grandparents, my grandparents, my aunts and uncles, my father from hot summer days.
Grandma's house is just down the street. I can't see her house, but it is there just steps away. How I wish I could walk down that street and walk in the door for a visit.
Trees stand guard on the way to Grandma's House
My roots run deep on this street.
My earliest days were spent here.
My first Christmas was here.
Daddy was just home from the army.
World War II had just ended.
Grandma's house provided the heart of Christmas for so many years.
 |
| My grandmother in front of a fireplace with a Van Briggle hearth - My grandmother holding me on her right and my cousin Donna on her left |
Christmas was no small undertaking in those days.
All the aunts, the uncles, the cousins would be at Grandma's at Christmas.
It had been that way since my earliest days.
Baking for Christmas began before Thanksgiving.
That is when Grandma made her wonderful fruitcake.
The panty, that cold room right off the kitchen,
the place where we as children could never enter,
the place that seemed like the inner sanctum of the home that was the heart of Christmas,
held shelves stacked high with metal tins full of
perfectly made candy:
peanut brittle,
divinity,
cherry drops,
fudge.
More tins held the most heavenly tasting spritz cookies.
Oh the joy I would feel
when she would enter the pantry after Christmas dinner
and load down the kitchen table with:
mincemeat pies,
pumpkin pies,
cookies,
and candy,
all made by her own hand.
Preparation for Christmas Day would have also included
days of polishing the silver.
Sometimes, we, the older cousins, had the task of going to Grandma's house a few days before Christmas to polish the silverware and the silver serving dishes.
We would very carefully take the china from the dining room buffet and set the table.
The table had to be properly set.
The salad plate, the water glasses, the silverware, the napkins, all had to be properly placed.
The silverware was measured with a finger to be an inch from the end of the table.
We always went to the church across the street for Christmas Eve services.
Always.
It was the family tradition for Christmas.
The story was always told of how my father as a young boy, dressed in his new flannel robe, which had been purchased for his part as one of the shepherds in the Christmas pageant,
had begged to stay home from church.
He said he was ill.
My grandmother was a strict disciplinarian.
He was told to get over to the church and fulfill his duty.
He did.
Halfway though the pageant, he vomited and had been rushed home across the street wearing soiled new robe.
Years later, my cousin, my sister, and I would be angels in that same Christmas pageant.
My home,
Grandma's home,
my elementary school,
the church,
the grocery store,
were all within a block of each other.
My world was small.
It was filled with rich relationships,
many funny stories,
great laughter,
long held traditions,
and
solid foundations for
faith
and family.
As I think on these things,
the memory of my mother's beautifully clear soprano voice fills my mind.
Christmas memories from this place would not be complete without the memory of her
dressed in her green silk dress,
the one she made from drapery fabric,
standing in the choir loft at church just as the Christmas program starts.
My mother, a tiny 4'll" dark haired woman is adorned in
crystal jewelry which sparkles as she sings.
I am in awe of her beauty.
I am proud of her and her beautiful voice.
With a lighted candle in my hand, I listen with tears rolling down my cheeks as she sings.
I will soon be lighting the Christmas candles nestled among the pine branches placed in front of the church windows.
Her voice rings out with the words of that beloved Christmas song.
Oh Holy Night! The stars are brightly shining.
It is the night of our dear Savior's birth.
***
Truly He taught us to love one another.
He law is love and His gospel is peace.
********
Today we sang those words of that much loved Christmas song in church.
O Holy Night!
Again, my mind went back to my mother.
I longed to be standing next to her in church listening to her sing that song of
praise and adoration
for her Savior,
Immanuel,
God with Us,
The One whose birth we celebrate on Christmas.
*********
This past week, as I walked back to my car after walking up to the long ago home of my father and his parents, those memories of days of long ago were again tucked away in my mind.
Grandma's house is still there,
but I can't walk up the path and step on to her porch and find her and grandpa sitting in the dining room reading.
She died on Christmas Eve over thirty years ago.
My father is also gone.
All the aunts and uncles are gone.
Only the memory of the
times we spent together,
those times filled with
such wonderful stories,
and
so much laughter
remain.
Mother is still with us.
Today, she and I talked of that Christmas when she sang her favorite Christmas song,
and mine.
She said she went to church today was able to sing in despite it being her one hundredth year after she celebrated her first Christmas.
I am now a grandmother.
My grandchildren will never have the rich memories of the Christmas traditions of family that I hold so dear.
We don't live near each other.
We seldom see each other at Christmas.
It breaks my heart each and every year not to be with my children and grandchildren.
*********
As I get in my car to leave the streets of my childhood,
I remember the prayer I had for this Christmas.
I prayed I would not be focused on the traditions and trappings of Christmas.
Certainly, those traditions are wonderful to create, to remember, and to celebrate,
but they really are not what Christmas is all about.
I prayed that I would not focus on the trappings of Christmas this year.
I prayed I would rejoice in the One whose birth we celebrate.
I prayed I would not miss the reason we have Christmas.
I prayed that each of my loved ones would know this truth this year:
Truly He taught us to love one another.
He law is love and His gospel is peace.
May your Christmas be filled with
hope,
joy,
love,
and
peace.
