7 hours Ago By CHRISTINE CORBETT CONKLIN Yakima Magazine
As Christmas draws near, I keep seeing more and more things I know my little, 23-month old grandson really needs . A miniature fabric ark with six plush animals peeking out? Of course! A Fisher-Price record player? Yes, it’s important to develop an appreciation for music! A personalized Christmas book with teddy bear matching the one in the story? Absolutely! Yet, as I think back to Christmases past, it’s not so much the presents I remember, as the times spent with my family and the magic of Christmas at home. The smiles, the decorations, the delicious smells coming from the kitchen, the warmth and meaning of this special time of year.
As a child, Christmas season began when my parents bundled me in my winter coat and took me to see Santa Claus. It’s a tradition I continued with my own children when they were little. Again, I don’t remember what anyone asked for at the time, but I cherish the photos of me, my son and daughter, especially the ones with the dubious looks on our faces as we regarded Santa.
“Who the heck is this ?,” we seemed to be wondering. One year, my daughter, Erin, was having none of this sitting-in-Santa’s-lap business! Thus, our photos from that year feature me kneeling awkwardly next to Santa holding her in my arms, followed by shots of Santa graciously letting her sit in his chair while he knelt next to her. Erin wouldn’t sit on Santa’s lap, so Santa kindly let her sit alone in his chair for a photo.
In my own childhood, I recall walking past the doors of the darkened living room on Christmas Eve, slightly fascinated and slightly scared that Santa Claus might be in there somewhere by the tree and stockings. When my son, Patrick, was little, we read the story of “The Polar Express” one Christmas season, and, after he had gone to bed on Christmas Eve, jingled a single sleigh bell we had bought, to add some mystique to the night. The next morning, he found a sleigh bell in his stocking.
And then there was the day when I decided to confront my own doubts about Santa Claus. At age seven or so, I walked into the den of our home and asked my father whether the jolly old character really did exist. I think that he must have spent some time anticipating the question, because his answer was ingenious: “It’s no different this year than any other year!,” he said.
That left me to believe whatever I wished. We didn’t have elaborate Christmas decorations, as I was growing up, but we did have traditions that were followed to the letter every year. An old Nativity set was put in a place of honor.
A large Christmas tree was wrestled into the house and my parents’ different decorating styles had to be reconciled. He liked tinsel. She didn’t.
We always ended up with tinsel, but my Mother decided on the other household decorations. Every year, with pine needles scattered on the carpet and ornaments to put away, one of them would comment that maybe they’d “just get a small, table-top tree” next year! Benjamin, with Christine Corbett Conklin, adds joy to the Christmas season. As the years went on and I headed off across the State to college, home was still where I wanted to be for Christmas.
I remember magical train trips, traveling with my sister, Cathy, across the mountains to reach Yakima. Amidst the snow drifts, we could see twinkling Christmas lights in the distance, piercing the darkness and adding cheer to the random home or farm. Hugs awaited us at the train station, as Mother and Dad came to meet us.
My sister, who died some years ago, was very generous in gift-giving, and also very secretive about what she had bought! A busy schoolteacher, she didn’t have time to wrap her presents before she got home, so she put brown mailing paper around big boxes and carted everything to Yakima. Then, she would seal herself up in her bedroom for the wrapping. I delighted in knocking on her door and teasing that I “thought I might have left something in her room and just needed to come in for a minute.
” She would laugh and say, “No way!” A simple memory, but precious. Growing up, Christmas morning always meant Mass, amidst a big crowd of people, usually with standing room only for the latecomers. In more recent years, I rushed my kids to get to church early so we would find a place to sit, only to discover that the church was maybe half full.
My daughter would grin and say to me, “Sure glad we got here so early!” Benjamin’s stocking hangs with those of three generations of his family. After church, another Christmas morning tradition is for one of the young folks to place the baby Jesus figure in the Nativity scene, signaling the reason for the season. The rest of the day has always been family time, with my Mother (and now me) cooking.
As I lift the heavy turkey roasting pan and try to keep the hot things hot and the cold things cold, I can’t help but marvel at how my Mother always made it look so easy. And all the while wearing a dress and heels! A final Christmas tradition that has endured through the years is the reading of “Christmas With Grandma.” This book was a gift from my Mother to my daughter, Erin, many years ago.
We take turns reading aloud this story of a young boy who travels each winter with his parents to visit Grandma. This past year, my son, Patrick, read the book to little Benjamin. At the end of the story, we chime in on the familiar words, “So whenever my face feels the first flakes of snow, wherever I am, it’s to Grandma’s I go.
Where it’s always been Christmas, and always will be, for Christmas at Grandma’s is Christmas to me.” Home, faith and family: the traditions continue. And now, I am the grandma.
It’s time to start making memories for another generation!.
