A foggy
Christmas Eve to a pitch Christmas morning lead to no bright dawn
today. I remember, when I was six or seven, in first grade, I woke
and took a peek downstairs. A toy land of a ranch for Jane West
sprung up on one side of the tall Christmas tree, built I heard in my
adult years, by my big brother and his friend. I got a watch that
Christmas, too, and even though I couldn't tell time, I remember a
hand being on the seven. Don't ask me why. The living room spilled
over with gifts, wrapped and unwrapped.
No one
else aroused, as my siblings were teenagers. My parents, I learned
later had just tucked the turkey in the oven at six thirty for our
noon meal. They collapsed in bed. After my peek, I couldn't contain
myself and ran to their room, oh, so dark on an early winter day. My
words tumbled out of my mouth as I told them all Santa had left for
me, even down to the watch that I couldn't tell time.
They
listened without complaint or grumble. They bolstered my belief. That
helped later when my faith grew. I believed in the lavishness of God.
They help me work for what I wanted to achieve. I never doubted
myself as a child, teen or young adult.
Today, I
worked a Christmas morning. The fog thick as my bah humbug covered
the earth. I could see the sun outlined behind the laden air. I knew
this feeling would go like that sun would break up the water
molecules graying the earth. Yet, I slumped in my soul and fought the
blues as I drove in the car.
I pushed
the address in the GPS. I thought I was heading farther south until I
saw where I was to turn. Oh, that Mitchell Road, not the one in New
Castle, I glimpsed. I drove through my home town, where no relative
lives any more. I have friends here still and the morning brightened.
After my
admission, where I was most welcomed because she could be home, I
stood for a minute on the porch in the country. Water glistened on
the bare branches in the brightening sun, still valiantly burning
through the fog, the light in a thousand sparkles instead of one
strong force.
I didn't
go the way the GPS would have me go. I turned it off and drove
down Mitchell Road past where the trailer park where I baby sat as a teenager, a house I would have loved
to buy as a young adult, friends' houses and roads off this one. I love our hills,
being on top of them, gazing at the Shenango Valley. I love driving
down the hill into my home town.
More
friends' homes, decorated Christmas famously in the lightening sun
lined Main Street. My old home with windows dark and siding gray,
waits for the love it once had. No one is there. My old home is
empty and I want to love it once more. I heard the promise and I know
these things take time. I can't live there. But if I lean close, I
can hear the voices of Christmas morning and smell the turkey
roasting, maybe a fragrant candle mingling with all those great
aromas of pies, bean green casserole and baked corn. I hear the
voices of delight from the kids and parents, as we all open gifts. A
Christmas parade or football on the only TV, in competition with the
radio in the kitchen playing Christmas specials completes the morning
sounds.
My road
out of town to the next patient was one way to my grandmother's. She
didn't drive and more often than not, my dad had the task of getting
her for the holidays. I often rode along, happy to see her and Bitsy
with a red bow. The terrier, the same age as I, I sometimes walked
when we had a green Christmas.
Today, I
see one child on a side walk of the neighboring town. I glance up the
street and a brother is on a skate board. I think how when the
weather was warm like today, I rode a new bike to my best friend's in
the afternoon. I had never visited a friend on Christmas Day before.
Christmas Day was always a day for family.
I come
home early afternoon, today, in the full sunshine. My admission
visits done, but paperwork awaits. As I'm eating leftovers for lunch,
my daughter from Texas calls. We had a family group text of good
wishes and “Happy New Year...in jail.” from the Christmas movie,
It's a Wonderful Life. I'm glad to talk to her. I hear her
husband in the background, chatting with his family. They had brunch
on the picnic tables pulled together with coworkers at the RV resort.
It is sunny, but not as warm as predicted there. I enjoy our sun and
bright blue skies out my window, as I listen to my baby's voice.
I take a
nap after, smelling ham today and baked beans. I fell into a deep
sleep and surprised it was only a few minutes. Naps can be like that.
I'm awake long enough to relish the sun shine.
We've
eaten an early dinner and I am writing. I know this is what I am to
do. The sun sets a few minutes later than a few days ago. The days
lengthen. At five, I hear the local church bells. I didn't have that
growing up. No hymns, just the ringing in of eight am, noon and six
at the Good Shepherd.
My
memories don't feel so gray, now. I miss my family, but I'm grateful
for my childhood. Sure, there were moments, but none too bad.
Expectations not met at times caused some blues. As my husband
says,”It never was what we remember.” But the memories comfort as
we make new ones.
A few years before the Christmas I recalled today. I was in preschool- 1965.
