Though summer turns to winter
And the present disappears
The laughter we were glad to share
Will echo through the years
When other nights and other days
May find us gone our separate ways
We will have these moments to remember
The Four Lads — 1955 — the year I started college.
Here I am, back home Knightstown, decorating the “Charlie Brown” Christmas tree that Daddy dragged home or at the Alhambra Theater where the merchants treated us to free westerns . . . .
The family gathers, and sometimes the adults make hurried retreats to the bathroom to laugh when they open the presents from the Jones kids . . . The Christmas of my freshman year in college Mother gave me a red sweater from Mary Leisure’s that I longed for and that she could ill afford. I shall never forget that sweater . . .
Newly-wed Bill and I worry: “Will he choose a pretty tree?” “Will she decorate it nicely or slapdash?” Not to worry! He always chooses gorgeous trees, and I am persnickety about decorating . . .
Bill’s mother stands behind me, cigarette dangling, showing me how to make little mince pies and decorate Santas . . . My mother loudly sings carols to drown out the whimpering of Vicki’s Christmas puppy hidden in the basement . . . Later we attend the service at Irvington Methodist . . .
Christmas morning: Eldest first, we process down the stairs of the old house on Ritter, through the kitchen where the table is set for breakfast with Mother’s cranberry ware, on through the dining room where candlelight is reflected on gleaming silver and glass dishes laden with delectables of every sort, and finally into the living room lit by the tree’s lights and fireplace . . .
And then came the Grandboys . . . Being a grandparent is so special because grandparents are the fun patrol. Now those little rascals have suddenly — too soon, too soon! — become grown men and gone out to establish their own lives.
And now? Just as always, the tree is laden with cherished ornaments; the nativity scene that my parents gave me when I was twelve is on top of the organ; and everywhere I see crafts made by Vicki, nieces and friends. The presents for the family are wrapped; Toot’s pulled pork has been cooked; and the festive dining table awaits the feast at our family gathering . . .
I am you; and you are me. Beneath the surface, we are all the same. Friend Jana is preparing for a full house when family members arrive from Denver and Minnesota. The sameness of tradition appeals to something deep within us.
On Christmas day, as they have always done, they will all go down to her aunt Naomi’s home in southern Indiana.
My eldest nephew, John Jones, described a wedding anniversary that his family celebrated with a wiener roast: “The warmth, the companionship, the chatter and laughter. So many yesterdays rushed forward to gather today to their bosom and flood my senses . . . Contentment. That is what I felt, contentment. Like an old, heavy quilt wrapped around my soul to keep me warm. I was surrounded by my beloved wife, our children, grandchildren and other family members who formed the heavy quilt that was bound by yarn woven of my memories . . . “
All of us love Tolkien’s stories, so we went to see The Hobbit. As I looked around me in, I realized that I was there with the people whom I love most. I, too, revisited the yesterdays and was swept up in an ineffable contentment that will warm my spirit during the wintertime of my years. Life just doesn’t get any better than that!
And now Bill and I enjoy quiet dinners near our glorious tree, and on Christmas the two of us shall have the usual feast. wclarke@comcast.net