One advantage of being a senior is not having to compete in the Christmas crush. Neighbors don’t expect you to climb up on your roof and string yards of lights. Family members don’t expect a windfall of gifts. and if they do, they’re barking up the wrong tree. Been there, done that.
The towering balsam that once scraped our ceiling is now a 2-foot Stop & Shop mini-evergreen. Thus my husband was forced to bid adieu to his grandmother’s ancient, frayed tree lights. Not only dangerous, they were a sorry sight. Mice, or time, had eaten away at the material coating the wire. When he turned on the switch, sparks flew all around, including on our (late) basset hound, Gaylord Farquhar. With the room plunged into darkness, we didn’t realize the dog’s fur was smoking, but we smelled it. Someone grabbed the water pitcher under the tree and emptied it on Gaylord. Peace was restored and Grandmother’s lights were retired.
I’m no Grinch — family will get gifts, yet many will include socks. That’s what my siblings and I got for Christmas and it didn’t destroy us. “Very practical,” my frugal Finnish mother would say as we opened our presents (always wrapped in standard white tissue paper minus the ribbon). I’m no authority on early childhood development, but I know one thing: Kids don’t like “practical.”
Not only were the socks boring, they were wrapped individually in order to create a more bountiful spread under the tree. The tree in question was decorated with white styrofoam balls stuck with a sequin or two and a bent pipe cleaner for hanging. It wasn’t until I grew up and left home that I realized you could buy ornaments.
To be fair, along with the socks, I did get a pogo stick one year. I was thrilled. In fact, I sometimes wonder if this generation of kids is familiar with pogo sticks. Most likely they’re not. Otherwise, I’d see children hopping along the sidewalk — wearing helmets, no doubt.
Back then, growing up in Gloucester in the ‘50s and early ‘60s, Santa Claus was a rare sight. My siblings and I visited Brown’s Department Store, the Main Street landmark, in order to view him. Clutching our lists in sweaty palms, we stood in line, awestruck at the spectacle of Santa Claus, ensconced on an oversized wooden throne.
He was the real deal, nothing like today’s polyester-suited Santas who appear everywhere, including car dealerships. I think the rarity of Santas back then was due to the fact his suits were handmade, not mass-produced. This, after all, was before the proliferation of synthetic fabrics. While today you can buy versions of a Santa suit at Walgreen’s, they were custom-made back then. In fact, you’d be more apt to see someone wearing a Pope’s mitre (the pointy white hat) than a Santa hat.
This exclusivity was why the annual Santa visit was so daunting. You had one opportunity to get it right. Cry, and you’d lose your chance; one of his elves would push you along, yelling, “Next!” Meanwhile, the line snaked out the door. If you froze, you’d have to wait a whole year to appear before him again.
And though my siblings and I were frightened, we were not discouraged. We managed to reel off our lists. Santa always nodded, saying something approving, like “OK” or “yeah.” With sighs of relief we left the store: Mission accomplished. Yet who can explain why, year after year, Santa delivered socks? It was his memory, my mother claimed. Santa simply had too much on his mind.
Sharon Love Cook of Beverly Farms is the author of the Granite Cove Mysteries and the recent “Talking to the Moon” as well as VP of Friends of Beverly Animals, FOBA. Contact her at sharonlovecook@comcast.net.