As we enter the wee hours of Christmas Eve, my mind can’t help but conjure images of Christmases long past. I mean, they certainly don’t feel so long ago, but alas, calendars don’t lie.
We used to have a family tradition of going to a movie on Christmas Eve. The theater would typically be empty, so it was like getting our own V.I.P. showing of “Home Alone” or “Ernest Saves Something.” We would then go visit my grandmother, who gave my sister and I each one present to open. I can still picture the little Christmas tree with all of its bright colors that sat on a table next to the couch.
Eventually, it was time to go home, and get ready for that famous “You-Know-Who.”
“Oh no, it’s storming! Will Santa and the reindeer be okay?” I remember being worried that particular year, but I also had faith, because nothing in the ‘verse could possibly diminish Santa’s vast stores of magic. Plus, you know, there’s literally an entire song about Rudolph in precisely that very predicament, and it turned out okay, so I wasn’t too worried.
Even thinking about sleep on Christmas Eve was laughable in those days. I recall my sister and I trying to force ourselves to unconsciousness, yet unable to achieve a single wink due to the ever-mounting excitement of the morning to come. (Sugar plum visions never even got the chance to dance in the Graves house. Just like Goodpasture’s prom, come to think of it.) I can see, using the undiminished eyes of my memory, the glow of our outdoor Christmas decorations reflected off the television screen in Steph’s room. I would stare at it for hours upon hours, wondering how much longer I had to wait.
After an agonizing night of eternal torment and so...much...waiting..., the “first wave” of presents finally appeared. SANTA CAME! Good ‘ole reliable, that guy. Let’s go wake up mom and dad! I mean, it’s only 4:30 in the morning; LET’S GET THIS PARTY STARTED, YO! Ugh, why are they so slow to get up?!
Finally, dad—blinking bleary, sleep-deprived eyes—would get the camcorder set up on a tripod and a trusty point and shoot, and he was ready to capture some memories At the mark, get set, GO!, we would eagerly tear in to the seemingly mountains of wrapping paper beneath the twinkling lights of the Christmas tree. After the morning tornado settled down somewhat, our parents would suppress a few yawns, bid us a “Merry Christmas,” then zombie shuffle back to their bedroom, whilst we played with the latest acquisitions to our ever-growing “stuff collection.” (Incidentally, present-day me wonders where I ever got so much energy on so little sleep.)
Later in the day, we would all pile in to the car and drive over to my other grandparents’ house, where an entirely new slew of gifts would await my eager little paws. I can still smell the delicious fragrance wafting out of the kitchen, and hear the crackle of the fire in the fireplace. After all of these years, I can hear my grandmother humming in her reclining chair; a constant, trustworthy soundtrack to so many of my earliest childhood memories.
I miss being a kid. I miss feeling that level of excitement about, well...anything. I miss many of my old family members, who despite being quite alive in my memories, have long since passed on. In the case of my sister and my cousin especially, they went well before their time. But, such things are not ours to decide, much as I often wish otherwise.
What I wouldn’t give to wait up all night with my sister just one more time, or talk with my cousin for hours over the phone about the latest video game. I’d pay a handsome admission just to hear that humming again, even if in those days, I might have paid her to stop.
Again, such things are not ours to decide. The only thing we can do is to cherish the moments laid before us. And while my personal story has lost a few characters over the years, I’ve gained quite a few as well. I now have an entire flock of young nieces and nephews. I get to witness that old magic shining in their eyes every Christmas, and that brings me a measure of joy—even if it doesn’t bring me a Xbox.
Maybe, someday, they’ll look back and have fond memories of me. That, I think, would make quite an endearing legacy.
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