A Christmas Of My Childhood

This Christmas story helped me remember what it was like to be a young child anticipating Christmas Day. Hope you enjoy it as much as I did.

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VICKERS/A Christmas of my childhood
By OVID VICKERS

There were signs of the approaching Christmas season. At school, teachers began filling bulletin boards with pictures of deer standing in snow-covered forests or of three men on camels riding under a star.

Letters to Santa appeared in the newspapers, and children turned down pages in the toy section of the Sears and Roebuck catalog. On the second Saturday in December, when Mama made the grocery list, she added the extra items needed to bake a fruitcake. Raisins, currants, dried figs, and a bag of almonds were on the list along with candied cherries, pineapple, citron and orange peel.

About ten days before Christmas, we sat up late one night and picked out a cup of black walnuts and about a quart of pecans. Cake-baking day would be tomorrow!

After breakfast, Mama got out two small dish pans, one for mixing and one for baking. Into the mixing pan went eggs, flour, sugar and milk. Then it was time to add the fruit, nuts and raisins. The dried figs, shipped from some exotic city like Baghdad or Beirut, were added along with a cup of slow flowing, deep brown molasses.

The baking pan, a dishpan lined with greased brown paper, was now filled with cake batter. After what seemed half a day, Mama removed the cake from the Home Comfort oven and inserted broom straws in the center to test the cake's doneness. When no dough stuck to the straws, the cake was lifted from the oven, left to cool, and stored in a wooden cheese box to "mellow." If time didn't mellow the cake, the blackberry wine Mama poured over it certainly did.

On Christmas Day, we cut the cake. This cake was not only a delight to eat; it was a pleasure to contemplate. The bits of candied fruit in the slices showed like red, yellow and green gemstones; and as the slices were cut, the odor of spices filled the air.

After the fruit cake, jam cake, and coconut cake had been baked, it was time to find and cut a Christmas tree. Papa hitched up the wagon, and Mama, Sister, and I rode over to Mr. Holman Hemphill's place. Mr. Hemphill had some pretty cedar trees, and Papa had made arrangements for us to cut one. Our Christmas tree, in years before, had been pine, and this would be our first cedar.

When we went through a wooded area, Mama stopped the wagon and cut some branches from a holly tree. I threw a stick up into an old oak tree, and Sister gathered an armful of mistletoe as it fell to the ground. After we had loaded the tree, beautifully shaped and deep green, we visited for a spell with Mrs. Hemphill, warmed by her fire, and started home.

By the time we reached the bridge which spanned a creek in the woods, the sun was low and little pencils of brightness filtered through the cypress branches to glisten on the dark water beneath the bridge. Some birds flew over, and a chill wind rattled the dry leaves blowing across the road. I pulled by knitted cap down over my ears, thrust my hands deeper into my pockets and tried to ignore the cold. There was much to anticipate. Mama had told us we could decorate the tree after supper.

When the supper dishes were washed and put away, down came the box of decorations from high on a closest shelf. There were some decorations we had used for as long as I could remember, but they were still wondrous things to behold. A long string of silver beads and shining ornaments in the shape of birds, bugles, stars and snowflakes,, collected over many years, were unwrapped and hung on the tree with great care. Homemade decorations, including ropes of strung popcorn, garlands made from multi-colored construction paper, and sycamore balls covered with silver paper from inside Lucky Strike cigarette packs, joined the purchased ornaments to make our tree a really special one.

When the white cardboard star was placed on top of the tree, we put extra lightwood splinters on the fire, and with great satisfaction, sat and admired our decorated tree. Against the plain unpainted pine wall of the "front room," the tree was a jewel, each ornament catching and reflecting the blue and red flames of the firelight.

When a few more Christmases had passed, I would grow up, go away to school, and begin attending Christmas festivities in a fraternity house, in the homes of friends and finally with my own children.

Christmas still is my favorite season. Regardless of where I am or what I am doing, when the town strings the first rope of colored lights across the streets, when the postman delivers the first Yuletide greeting and when the first notes of "Away in A Manger" are sung, a key turns to unlock that secret corner of my mind where I keep stored forever the memories of that Christmas when I was ten years old.