The magic began around Thanksgiving when we looked for the first snowfall that would last, rather than the half-hearted squalls that flirted with winter. Snow lent fairy-dust glitter to a season of anticipation and excitement.
Immediately after Thanksgiving, the town would put up the life-size crèche on the Village Green and the lush green wreaths with big, bright red bows that adorned the lamp posts through town. They’d also adorn the tall, sweeping pine tree on the Green with colored lights and on the first Saturday in December there would be a tree lighting ceremony, hot chocolate, cookies, and lots of singing. I loved to sing.
In those days, I was in a hurry to grow up so that I could join the fun of caroling door to door. At nine, I was a bit young. But I reveled in the thrill of hearing carols sung outside our door. It was always a thrill to open the door to the joyous tones of carols sung in four-part harmony. Music was always a feature of Christmas. Whether it was carols, secular Christmas songs, The Nutcracker, or classical, music always played a major role.
School continued, unfettered by the accumulating snow. I loved school and I loved Mrs. Edding, my fourth grade teacher. She loved owls…and banging on the front of her desk with a ruler to get the boys’ attention. Most of my closest friends were in the multi-age class, but because I “needed structure,” I was placed in a traditional class setting with other fourth grade kids—almost all of whom I’d known since nursery school, but none I felt particularly close to. I saw my best friends at recess when our schedules aligned.
The merry-go-round was our favorite: we’d talk a little, laugh a lot, and then spin the merry-go-round as fast as we could, hanging on for dear life with both hands and preferably a leg or two wrapped around one of the many metal bars. Snow nullified the treads on our boots and transformed the textured, metal floor into a slick, glossy surface. Our smooth, swishy-sounding snow pants offered no grip, neither did our woolen mittens, so hanging on was a full-contact sport.
Outside of school, my friends and I elevated the art of snow forts. Rather than a mound to throw snowballs from, we built caves to crawl into. My front yard became a blueprint where my friends and I built low walls and mapped out a house. We were bundled so tightly that the ability to bend arms and legs were hampered: we resembled thick stick figures rather than children at play. Woe betide anyone who laughed too hard because the need to pee would quickly overtake the agility to extract oneself from the fetters of snow pants, coat, and boots.
Christmas was always a mixture of secular and sacred. My family were Episcopalians and we went to church every Sunday. Advent only served to heighten our excitement—four weeks of anticipation, building slowly, day by day, a month that seemed never ending. Mum would bring out the Advent wreath with its four purple candles and set it on the dining table. One purple candle was lit for each Sunday in Advent. In the center was the brass, Swedish angel chimes. I loved the soft glow of its tiny candles and the gentle, rhythmic tinging of its chimes.
We had electric candles in the front picture windows and the Christmas tree in the corner of the living room, at the opposite end of the fireplace. But on the mantle, was our crèche. Setting up the crèche with Dad was always a treat. Our crèche was not a complete set and was creatively supplemented with figures my folks had come across.
We had Mary and the three wise men, but baby Jesus had come from some other set because he was more than half her size. The wise men had gifts in hand and were followed by three camels they had used to cross the desert, following the star—a huge, shiny, silver star that had once been a tree ornament. We had sheep, cows, and a couple of monkeys, one of which always rode a camel and the other, with his arm raised, followed behind berating his camel for making him walk. This parade of mammals was complete with a zookeeper holding a rake and frozen mid-stoke—well, someone had to clean up the dung. But the kicker was Joseph.
Joseph looked like an old sea captain. He was dressed in black with a Greek fisherman-style cap and a yellow neckerchief. He was molded in a sitting position, which is why Mary, Big Jesus, the sheep, and cows were all on a make-shift stage, so that Joseph could sit on the edge, down stage right. Joseph, with pipe in hand, was obviously deep in conversation. But with whom? In our family, it was obvious: Joseph was talking to a panda.
Christmas at church wasn’t just for adults. Almost all the children were in the pageant. Frannie Faulks, bless her, took on the duties of herding kids, ages three to 15, into a loose performance of the Christmas story. The quality of our performances varied, given our ages and each actor’s proclivity to exuberance or stage fright. I longed to play Mary, but alas, at age nine I was still an angel with a lopsided halo on a stick and wings of wire and gauze. My role was simple. Enter from stage right and stand there until the end, when we sang Silent Night. I thought we were being serious, but with the younger angels romping all over the set and the little ones who wept, upstaging shepherds, wise men, and Mary, the audience couldn’t keep silent with their fits of laughter.
Dark, December nights were filled with awe and wonder, especially on nights with a full moon. The Wilcoxs lived next door. They had three girls, Kathy, Lori, and Beth, who was just a baby. I was close friends with Lori. Mr. Wilcox had a snowmobile and had fitted a wagon sled to ride behind. In that wagon sled, he fit four girls: Kathy, Lori, me, and my sister, Heather. We four clambered in, muffled in snowsuits, mitts, scarves, and hats and then we were covered with blankets.
When we were finally settled, Mr. Wilcox would drive his snowmobile with us in tow across the length of his backyard to where the little patch of wetlands had frozen over, through Mr. Trask’s cow field, and onto the golf course where the snow was fresh, save for a few packed trails left by snowmobiles. The rush of ice-cold wind stung our cheeks and lips and often stole our breath, but the stars shone as brilliantly in the sky as diamonds glittered in the moonlit snow. Those nights were cold, but soft, and gave me a moment to feel the fullness of winter’s glory before the excitement and anticipation of Santa’s visit reclaimed my attention.
After those nighttime excursions, we’d enter the house with rosy cheeks and laughter and were often greeted with mugs of hot chocolate. Together with Mum, Heather and I would open another door on the advent calendar Mother had made. On those nights, Christmas was a feeling and in stolen, quiet moments, it was the wonder of stars and moonlight on snow—being surrounded by twinkling, diamonds above and across untouched blankets of white.
Finally, the day would arrive—Christmas Eve. After an entire month or more of anticipation, music, Christmas television specials, and presents accumulating under the tree, Heather and I were squirming. We were ushered off to bed and somehow managed to fall asleep despite the sugar high of dessert and the excitement of Christmas morning. I left Santa a note that night. I placed it right beside his milk and cookies (curiously egg-free, he must have an egg allergy like Dad). I flat out asked Santa if he was real.
After Heather and I fell asleep, my folks would leave for church—they were in the choir and sang at the service of lessons and carols at ten and then the midnight service, which began at 11. After the midnight service, there was often a party—a small gathering of church members, mostly choir members, but not all. After the party, however, was Mum’s time to wrap presents. Heather and I were blissfully unaware of being alone in the house, of the after-hours party, and of Mum’s clandestine wrapping, which would often take her close to dawn—exactly when Heather and I woke up. We were too excited to sleep longer and, having gone to bed around 8, we were slept out.
But there were rules: we all had to go downstairs together, and Heather and I couldn’t wake our parents until the sun was up. The latter was debated every Christmas morning for we were often awake at first light and, in Central New York, the sun doesn’t always pour gloriously (or obviously) through the windows. Heather and I shared a room and for years we had whispered conversations about whether it was light enough. When we deemed it was, we shot out of bed, crossed the hall, flung open our parents’ bedroom door, jumped on the bed, and wished them, “Merry Christmas!” louder and most certainly sooner than they’d have liked. We then had to wait an eternity for our parents to get out of bed, go to the bathroom, brush their teeth, get their robes, and find their slippers before we could make our way downstairs. Then, we had to wait for their coffee to brew before we opened the door to the living room.
After that, it was barely controlled pandemonium as Heather and I dumped out our stockings. We had the usual favorites: a “book” of Lifesavers and Cherry Blossom candies—a Canadian chocolate we adored. Then, it was on to the brightly wrapped boxes that awaited us under the tinseled tree with its blinking, colored lights. Dad would play a record of carols or sacred Christmas music on the stereo—background music—as we kids tore into the presents Santa had left us.
I checked on the letter I’d written Santa. The cookies were half eaten and there was a little milk left in the glass. My letter still lay beside the plate. But he’d left me a note, written on my letter. In red ink, he’d written, “Ho, ho, ho.” These three words did little to reassure me: It was Mum’s handwriting. Santa remained suspect, but he’d given me some lovely gifts and the never-ending joy of a childhood Christmas.
© 2024 Caitlyn Frost. All rights reserved.