Good Olde Christmas Memories
PHOTO: Stark Covered Bridge in Stark, NH. Photo courtesy of Robert Clifford. To see more of Rob’s terrific work go to Robert Clifford Photography at RobertClifford.com
It has been an unusual year for sure, and it looks like a different than normal Christmas season this year as well. So we thought we’d bring some Christmas cheer with a classic Christmas story by one of our favorite writers here at the Weirs Times. Ed Allard wrote the “Around The Cracker Barrel” column from 1992 until his passing in 2000. We miss Ed, but his humor lives on. Enjoy this column from December 22, 1994. -ed.
by Ed Allard
Weirs Times Columnist 1992-2000
I woke up in a cold sweat the other night, right on the threshold of a panic attack. In my nightmare I had dreamed that it was Christmas Eve and I had not mailed out my Christmas cards. I get these same nightmares every year just a couple of weeks before the holidays.
Once my jitters start to calm down and I get back to normal -normal for me, that is – I scrabble through my desk for my address list and start burning the midnight oil.
In a matter of hours my tongue has a quarter-inch coating of postage stamp glue and I am squirming with writer’s cramp. Even an infusion of Jim Beam doesn’t seem to help, nor does the news from the Scrooges of the Postal Department cheerfully announcing that the price of stamps will be going up come January. My heart goes out to them.
Christmas has changed since I was a little tad who believed in Santa Claus and had sleepless December nights because I was worried about that list of good and bad little boys. I wondered how smart the old boy was and how much I could hide. By mid-December I was polishing my tarnished halo to a sparkling gleam and mother kept asking me if I felt alright.
This year I was still picking leftover turkey out of my teeth when the stores let loose with a barrage of Christmas advertising that startled me out of my post-Thanksgiving lethargy.
Harried clerks were stringing up banners that proclaimed, “Merry Christmas”, “Joy To The World” and “Batteries Not Included.” My mailman dumped an avalanche of Christmas brochures and catalogs through my mail slot. Credit card companies trumpeted: “Charge now and suffer later.”
Somehow it seems a long way from the quiet serenity of a village stable where a newborn baby cried softly and its adoring parents comforted it with love and tenderness. I have a feeling that the song sung by the angels was sweeter than the bombardment of Christmas carols and that our sparkling Christmas lights were outshone by a star that blazed in the east.
Christmas is a time of memories and I cherish those that I have collected over the years. It is a time of remembering old times, old places, old friends and old pleasures. I remember, but I’ll save that one for another time.
Mistletoes sales soar this time of year. Although it is a parasite that clings to hardwood trees, spinsters and old maids speak kindly of it and are apt to block doorways where it is hung. Matilda Yizzle said that getting kissed under the mistletoe was more of a thrill than riding a roller coaster. The little green weed with its holiday berries has been known to have a terminal effect on office Christmas parties.
Christmas was father’s favorite time of year and, although money was always scarce, he always invited our relatives to come and share Christmas dinner and the tree with us. There were 7-20-4 cigars for Gramp; Evening in Paris perfumes for Gram and Aunt Esther; ties for Uncle Fred and socks and mittens for assorted relatives. And always, tucked away somewhere on the tree, there was a book for me. I remember Aunt Esther trying to sneak peeks at the name tags and Gram daringly trying to smoke a cigarette because Auntie had a sip of father’s Old Turkey.
It would be nice to hear their voices and laughter again. I am grateful for the memories.
I remember a Christmas when my small son watched me place a glass of milk and a saucer of cookies under the tree for Santa and how his eyes opened wide with wonder when he came down on Christmas morning and he spotted the empty glass and the cookie crumbs. It is a pleasant memory.
There are other memories that linger. Perhaps they are better forgotten, but they are remembered.
There was a year when Aunt Emma invited us all to their farm for Christmas Eve and talked Uncle Fred into climbing up on the roof to jangle sleigh bells down the chimney. He began his celebration early and by evening had developed a breath that could have blown up Bunker Hill if someone had lit a match.
Aunt Emma tried to dissuade him, but he willed his eye into focus and assured her that he could get up on the roof and jingle bells with no problem. As he started to climb the ladder Aunt Emma crossed her fingers and went back inside.
Uncle Fred made the ridge pole okay and bent over to dangle the bells down the fireplace chimney. He later blamed it on a slight attack of vertigo which was apt to bother him at times.
Whatever it was, he reeled, lost his balance and went sliding down the roof, arms whirling like windmill sails, bells jingling and clanking as he brayed like a moose sitting on a thistle. He soared over the eaves like a wounded penguin and plopped into a deep pile of snow beside the door.
When the men folks stopped laughing, they dug him out and lugged him into the house where Aunt Emma waited. Her glare would have frozen hoot water. She looked at Uncle Fred as he dug snow out of his ears with a probing finger and began to giggle. It was contagious. The women shrieked and the men began to guffaw and slap Uncle Fred on the back.
It was Christmas; a time to love and forgive. It was a time to remember, although Uncle Fred tried his darndest to forget.
