Memories of Christmases Past

Christmas always stirs memories of past family celebrations of this holy day.  Many of you likely have the same experience, especially as we gain the retrospection of many seasons.  There is something magical about retelling of our personal stories of long ago Christmases.

My earliest recollections are of Christmas visits to my grandparents, Gussie and Fernan Roy, in tiny Iota, Louisiana. My Mom and Dad would shoehorn seven kids and presents into our station wagon for the drive.  Christmas music played on the car radio.  Dad refereed the jostling kids in back.

Entering my grandparents house was a treat for the senses.  The scent of a freshly cut Christmas tree. Big bright colored bulbs and icicles were eye candy.  The tantalizing aroma of freshly baked cookies and fudge. The coziness of their house, warmed by gas space heaters with flickering flames.

That first evening of our arrival, my grandmother would nestle by the heaters and spin mesmerizing tales in her unique Cajun accent as her gaggle of grandchildren doted on every word.  The stories were ordinary small town anecdotes but recited in a very extraordinary way.

The lilt in her voice, the twinkle in her eyes, the love shining through her narrative.  I will always treasure memories of those tales, rich in cultural context and oozing with local color.    That storytelling talent has been lost in the clutter of our digital age of 132 characters.

Apologies for the digression. Uncles, aunts and cousins would arrive the next day.  The atmosphere was joyous, heartwarming.  Peels of laughter, cheerful smiles and rabid discussions of college football.  A bouquet of aromas filled the house as dinner was served on an long wooden table.

If I close my eyes, I can hear the grownup chatter around the table and smell the scent of the abundant trove of food.  Most of you are conjuring up your own dinner memories.  Few people today prepare an entire feast for the holiday because life's pressure cooker allows little leftover time.

Another Roy family tradition was a Christmas Eve junket to view outdoor decorations in our neighborhood and adjoining areas.  Dad was tour director for his wide-eyed brood, who giggled at his often feisty commentary.  At the end of one of these guided excursions, he announced to laughter:

"Next year, we are going to make a big sign and stick it in the front yard.  There will be a bright spotlight on the sign, which will read: 'We think your Christmas decorations stink, too!"  You had to know my Dad to fully appreciate his Cajun brand of humor.

My best Christmas gift from Santa Claus?  That's an easy one.  The year--I think I was six or seven--I discovered a Lionel electric train under the tree on Christmas morning.  The engine puffed smoke and tooted its whistle.  I grew woozy just watching it chug around the oval track for hours at a time.

In fact, Mom decided the train possessed sleep aid properties.  She would prop my brother Bob, a toddler at the time, in a chair and ask me to crank up the train.  After a few laps, he was sound asleep.  I never understood why Big Pharma did not patent Lionel Trains as a sleep drug.

After 73 Christmas mornings, there is one that stands out above all others.  The year was 1977 and our youngest son Derek had only recently entered the world on a snowy December 6 in frigid St. Louis.  He arrived in the midst of one of the worst blizzards in the city's history.

It was the first Christmas with both our sons Dean, 18 months, and Derek.  I can still see Dianna, snuggled in a robe, huddled next to the Christmas tree, clutching Derek in her arms while Dean gazed down at his brother.  The tenderness of that one moment reminded me of the meaning of Christmas.

Like Mary, Dianna cradled a newborn babe on Christmas Day.  Our small house was not fit for a King, nor was that manger more than 2,000 years ago.  It didn't matter.  Like Mary and Joseph, we were overjoyed at the sight of our new son, swaddled in a blanket on a shivering morning.

When things get hectic during the holidays, my thoughts drift to that Christmas.  The vivid memories keep me grounded in what is really important at Christmas.  It is not about the tree, the presents or even the twinkling lights.  Christmas is about the birth of a Son who would change the world.

Jesus remains the best gift every Christmas.