Gray Memories

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.