Simplyred

As the eldest (and, for a while, the only) son, one of his jobs was to escort his father to the urban version of felling the family Christmas tree—picking one out at the empty lot next to the hardware store.  This trek often occurred on Christmas Eve, the strategy being sellers would gladly take what the modest family budget could afford, rather than chip the tree for garden clippings.  Heavily clothed, off they’d set, with a quarter in his father’s pocket.

Yes, a quarter.  And no, that wasn’t a strategy.  That was the reality.

You can likely see where this is heading, but not the reason.  The boy grows up, takes a desk job, and while he isn’t exactly dripping in cash, Christmas becomes a big deal—not to make up for the meager Christmases he knew, but to give his memories of great childhood Christmases a little greater manifestation.  The first of many Christmas Eves as a father found him ushering his first-born to an early bedtime, affirming there would be no Santa until he was asleep.  In this case, he really wasn’t kidding, since he would put up and decorate the tree after his son was asleep on Christmas Eve. 

How did the Father of the Year Committee overlook this guy?

The arrival of other children, and perhaps some years of reflection, led him to abandon this practice when the younger tots were about seven.  The other elements of a great Christmas didn’t change—dinner that was a Thanksgiving repeat, but somehow more delicious, since November had primed our palates; outdoor lights across the front porch the size of small lemons, where the failure of one bulb brought the whole string black, and the playing of Christmas music, featuring Now is the Caroling Season by Fred Waring and the Pennsylvanians (an album, I was told, that cost $11 in the 1950s).

About the time the Christmas Eve tree launch was abandoned, Dad found a new Christmas tradition to wrap himself in.  The jacket’s corduroy cloth subdued the candy apple red’s full impact, with the black piping around the lapels lending a distinction of festivity.  Add a festive bow tie (Christmas was a dressy event for us), and that was Dad, in every Christmas photograph from then until forever.

Fast forward, and it’s the first Christmas at my in-laws.  My wife loves me, but it would be fair to say her decision to marry was not based on my fashion sense.  That deficit was nicely erased that Christmas, when my in-laws gave me not one, but two camel hair sports jackets and accompaniments. I swear I could see my wife’s shoulders drop two feet after I opened those gifts.

As wonderful a demonstration of generosity this was, my clothing issues were not the sartorial highlight of Christmas day.  That accolade went to, and always went to, my father-in-law, who welcomed the festivities in a red turtleneck and Tartan slacks, with a matching Tartan vest.  There were many signs our two families had similar outlooks and tastes on life, but this sealed the deal.  That, and my mother-in-law’s gingerbread, with hot lemon sauce that would make the most dishonest of men confess their real name.

I don’t know what happened to Dad’s Christmas jacket once he was gone, and even though it would likely fit me, it’s all for the best.  Memories sometimes hoist people higher than life did.  My memories of the jacket rightly remind me of a reserved man who came to life just a little bit more at Christmas.  And if one shouldn’t do that then, when?

Shepherd

Sleep on the ground
Wander deep into brambles
For strays
Awaken to sounds
You don’t understand
Eat campfire food
Long after the romance is gone
And retchings?
You can’t even imagine.
But it gave them the chance
To hear the glad sound
And fall on their knees
In witness of the truth.

So sit by your Christmas fire
With your warm mug of calming.
Take a moment.
Reconsider.
You really are
A shepherd too.
But you know the end of your story
And that changes your telling of it
If you want it to.
Lucky you.
Blessed you.

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