It has been far too many years since the Christmas’s of old. Sandi’s father has been gone for twelve years, her mom for seven. They were the last Christmas’s that involved the older generation. My folks had reached the point where the trip from Oregon was too much and we both had jobs where we worked right up to if not Christmas.
My mom died four years ago and dad this past March. No one is left. Oh there are two of my dad’s brothers left, but I met one only a few times, and those times I don’t recall. The other uncle I have not seen in 31 years. I miss calling dad on his birthday, I miss calling him on Thanksgiving, and I will miss calling him on Christmas. Toward the end we couldn’t hear each other well, but we knew each was there, and in the end that is what counted. We knew.
Dad knew I was there the week he died. The first day he looked up and called me by name. I wish I could surprise him again like that. The flights were long but worth every second and every dollar it took to get there. Saying goodbye for what I knew was the last time was hard. I knew there would be no more calls, no more jumping on a plane to arrive unannounced.
Growing up, Easter, Thanksgiving and Christmas were a time for family. Easter and Thanksgiving was celebrated in one of two places, our home or at my grandparents on my mother’s side.
The smell of turkey and various pies filled the house. And if it was at my grandparent’s place there was the added smell of a roaring fire in the old farmhouse’s large fireplace. The fireplace was no modern gas fed, fake log, might warm the mantle bricks kind of fireplace. No sir, it was big with real oak burning with enough heat coming off it, that the old drafty house was warm and welcoming to all.
At night and old roll-a-bed was brought out and set up in front of the fireplace and my brother and I, and cousins would spread out on it or in sleeping bags on the floor and fall asleep listening to parents, grandparents, and aunts and uncles talking about when they were kids. I wish now I had thought to write them down or ask about them later. But we all thought (I means us kids) that there would be time later.
Christmas at home started at my Uncle Kenny and Aunt Gerry’s home in the Santa Monica area on Christmas Eve. Uncle Kenny was my Mom’s brother. The house was full of family and most of Aunt Gerry’s side was there too. For most of my Aunt’s side of the family it was the only time I got to see them. I wonder where they are now, and I search once in a while on Face Book. I miss those times and people. We hade a great time, one an all.
We would leave early Christmas morning and drive the forty or so miles home and either exchange gifts then or crash and do it proper in the morning. Then we would clean up and get ready for the Cossairt and Treadwell side to show up for Christmas dinner which, as I recall was served around 1pm.
Those are times I wish we could do again.
I left for the Air Force, and two years later so did my brother. My cousins moved out of state and sadly the generation that started this seemed to grow old over night and leaving the traditions to us. We failed them.
For short time Sandi’s parents were with us as was her brother and his kids, but the huge gathering of family numbering almost a hundred was a thing of the past.
Family, big, loud, boisterous, and fun. Life is indeed to short.
I miss my grandparents, but time as taken some little part of the sting. But this Christmas the sting is fresh, raw, new and painful. Dad, I miss those calls, the surprise trips out to see. You live on in our hearts, always.
Merry Christmas Dad.