Almost every year, folks talk about starting “new” traditions. The term always bugs me a little – a “new” tradition is like the first annual anything. By its nature, a tradition has gone on for a while; maybe only a few years, maybe for generations, maybe so long that its very origins are as misty as one’s breath on a cold Christmas Eve night.
But I won’t burrow into semantics about things that are harmless, nor am I one to steal someone else’s joy, especially at this time of year.
We have more than our fair share of traditions in our family. With both parents gone on to Heaven on both sides, the thread that held the family quilt together has become frayed, but it’s still warm, comforting and ever-present. Our Christmas gathering will likely be comprised of two graying couples and a pair of sophisticated, beautiful young ladies with boyfriends, instead of the squealing little girls who once interrupted my naps, but that’s okay. The traditions are still there, even if they are nothing but memories we share over coffee after a meal in a restaurant that was chosen because it’s halfway between both families.
Some will still be observed, however.
Take the angel whose story I share each year: Miss Rhonda will hang it on our tree signifying that the decorating is done, just as my mother, Miss Lois, did for so many years. On Miss Lois’ last Christmas, Rhonda had to help Mother hang it, but more than 20 years after that evening, the angel still means the same, whether our tree is a skinny bay sapling, a pine destined to be culled or a perfectly formed cedar that needed a home.
There’s a huge black button tied with an ancient piece of ribbon from my grandmother; she had thousands upon thousands of buttons, since she was a lifelong seamstress. Supposedly I was fascinated by that button and Grandmother gave it to me when I was perhaps four or maybe five. There’s a gaudy lightbulb dipped in paint and glitter, too, another relic of a time when I believed in Santa Claus, instead of resembling him.
There are other mandatory decorations as well, likely even more since we inherited things long forgotten on the loss of my mother-in-law last year. Rhonda’s brother and his family are not that interested in dusty old things. It isn’t malicious, you understand, and I can kind of see where they come from: they have a family of their own, and are creating their own traditions. The things that mattered to Miss Rhonda’s family joined the things that mattered to mine and became our own traditions, as it should be. Our tree is always a glorious chaos of old and new, and we wouldn’t have it any other way.
We have other traditions as well: turtles and pigs for my brother’s collection, fishing gear for my bride, likely another pocketknife for me. We’ll probably watch “It’s a Wonderful Life” on Christmas Eve, and one of the Christmas movies in the morning. Rhonda will most likely make pancakes for breakfast Christmas morning, even though Brother Mike and I don’t eat competitively like we did 40-plus years ago.
When we have dinner, we’ll have a toast with cranberry and ginger ale, and I’ll pretend to toss the antique glass over my shoulder as my father did, and my wife will hold her breath as my mother did, worried that this will be the year a 150-year-old glass slips. I wonder sometimes if my great-grandfather caused my great-grandmother to have the same concern over those selfsame glasses, back when candles lit the Christmas tree in a big bay window that faced green fields broken by a sleepy road, a window that now looks out over four lanes of busy traffic.
At some point there’s a better than average chance we’ll read the Nativity story from Luke; gone are the days when my father read “Yes Virginia” from a tattered newspaper clipping that was tucked away a century ago in some of Aunt Eleanor’s things. I don’t read it like Papa did, and that fragile clipping has long since been tucked away “somewhere safe,” which is code for it is protected but no one knows exactly where. That clipping has been in our family since before Papa became a newspaperman, but he always published it every year, as I have, as does every newspaper worthy of the name.
No one could ever figure out why Aunt Ellie kept the clipping; the news story on the back was incomplete and unlike the dozens of others, it had nothing to do with our family or my great-grandfather’s various interests, such as the boy’s chorus and the organization that kept young men “out of mischief” by providing good examples. Apparently young women didn’t need assistance keeping out of mischief in metropolitan Washington, D.C. in the late 18- and early 1900’s.
The Old Man always wrote a brief accompanying editorial to go with Yes, Virginia when we ran Francis P. Church’s original classic in a newspaper. I intend to read it to our chosen grandgirl, the Dandelion Queen, somewhere along the line this season. She’s nine now, a year older than Virginia O’Hanlon when she wrote her famous letter to a newspaper. The Queen is highly skeptical of the whole concept of a secretive benevolent giftgiver, but she understands that Christmas is much more than just a man in a red suit giving gifts. She knows the true meaning, and knows the earthly stuff is all just man’s creation, but most importantly she understands the spirit of love and mystery and generosity Church conveyed in his writing so long ago. He never denied the true meaning of the holiday; instead, he just implored us all to hold on to some of the joy and faith of a child, and to love each other.
Will reading Virginia’s letter and Church’s response become a tradition? I can’t say. We live in a strange new world, where people move and families are constantly evolving. In my heart I hope I’ll get to do so this year, and I pray that someday I’ll get to do the same for her baby sister, who’s too young to understand Christmas yet.
But as long as there is Christmas, there will be traditions in our family, as I hope there are in yours.
Hold on to those traditions, folks. Regardless of what the commercials and flashing lights say is most important, no matter what the critics and historic revisionists claim, regardless of what the latest coolest must-have gift is: Christmas is about the birth of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, born to bear the sins of all mankind, that none would be condemned, but that all would have everlasting life.
That is more than a tradition.
That’s the true reason for this beautiful season. Never forget it.
We hope that you and your family have a wonderful, blessed and Merry Christmas.
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