Christmases Past
Both my parents grew up during the Depression. My mother was the eldest of four children and her family had an easier time of it during that time than my father, who was the eldest child in a tenant farmer family of eight children. Today, I thought I'd share with you how they each celebrated Christmas during their childhoods.
My father never got much for Christmas, as his family was poor and there were so many kids. The family never had a Christmas tree, but each child got a stocking that they would hang on the fireplace mantel on Christmas Eve each year. He never got much: some oranges and bananas, nuts, a new pair of mittens or a winter scarf, and the like. But he was surrounding by a loving family and didn't know any different, so he was happy.
My mother did better at Christmas time, though it was still humble by today's standards. Her family had a lighted tree each year and they exchanged gifts. My grandfather, who was a welder, made two outdoor electric candles from iron pipes some time during my mother's childhood. They were about four feet tall each, painted red, and each had a flame-shaped light bulb at top. They would be placed on either side of the front door each year for the Christmas season. These candles survived my grandfather and graced our front porch each year during my childhood and even into my son's childhood. It was a nice little reminder of the grandfather I was never lucky enough to meet. Unfortunately, after my father died, they disappeared, and I'm guessing that my ex-stepmother just threw them out, not knowing their sentimental value.
During World War II, Americans were under a rationing system for certain goods made out of materials that were essential to the war effort. Shoes were an item that fell under rationing. I remember my mother told me that each person was allowed two new pairs of shoes per year. One year, her grandmother gave my mother her shoe ration card as a Christmas present, as she was an old lady and had plenty of shoes and didn't need a new pair. My mother, on the other hand, was a teenager who loved getting new shoes, and she was very appreciative of my great-grandmother's gift to her.
As for me, I'm very glad to have been a kid in the 1960s and 70s, as I made out like a bandit each year.
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I am a child of the '40s and my earliest memories of Christmas centered on the feast of the Epiphany on Jan. 6, which was when the three Magi were said to have brought gifts to the baby Jesus. In Puerto Rico, we didn't know from Santa at the time; all our gifts were brought by the Three Kings. Each of us kids had a favorite King; mine was Melchior.
I have another lasting memory, which I'd like to share, from a column I wrote recently:
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I have a lot of wonderful memories of Christmas when I was a kid, holidays full of bright lights, gifts and delicious meals. But there is one Christmas memory that surfaces every year around this time and it has nothing to do with shiny bikes, Lincoln Logs or big Christmas meals.
We lived in New Jersey at the time. My two older sisters were in their young teens and my brother was a youngster. I was teetering somewhere in the middle.
Our parents knew all the things we wanted for Christmas and we were great at ensuring that our wishes were being met, carefully sleuthing out their best gift hiding places.
This particular year, though, we discovered two big, mysterious gift-wrapped boxes tucked into my parents’ closet. Wow! Our parents had cooked up a surprise for us, we told each other. Christmas couldn’t come fast enough that year.
Every day, we speculated about the boxes. Was there one of those new portable hi-fi’s for us? Maybe a TV just for us kids. Boldly, we asked our parents about the boxes. They looked at each other and smiled. They revealed nothing.
Fast-forward to Christmas Eve. My dad, who was a shipping manager for a potato chip manufacturer, came home early that day, bringing my mom her annual bottle of anisette, which she sipped only on special occasions. They went into the bedroom and closed the door. We could hear them speaking softly. But best of all, we could hear the sound of the boxes being moved from the closet.
My father came out and announced we were taking a Christmas Eve drive. Huh? We never went anywhere on Christmas Eve. The big boxes were going with us, too.
We packed ourselves into our car and off we went, turning down streets we’d never seen before. We pulled up in front of a big, somber-looking building with a black wrought iron fence.
Did somebody die, I wondered. Dad and I retrieved the big boxes. Suddenly, our big hopes for that Christmas surprise were dimming. We hauled the boxes inside the wrought-iron gate and placed them in front of the big door on the porch. My dad rang the doorbell and we left, never looking back, never stopping to see who answered the door.
On the way home he told us that the boxes were full of treats. The place we’d been to was a Catholic home for poor kids run by nuns, he said. The ride home turned quiet, until Mom explained that doing something good for someone else at Christmas was the best gift of all.
You know what? She was right. To this day, more than 50 years later, I still haven’t forgotten that Christmas. "