.jpg)
Christmas Eve was rich with anticipation. Snacks were made, the tree was lit, Christmas music played softly in the background. We sat in the living room, my Mom, Dad, siblings and I, around the lit tree, plates of food on the table in front of us. (The one night a year we were allowed to eat in the pretty living room!) We talked, reminisced, anticipated. As the clock moved toward our bedtime we made our way to the kitchen where a small plate was placed on the counter. My brother, sister and I carefully covered the plate with two cookies–the big guy didn’t need too many, we knew, he had a lot of homes to visit during the night. Next to the plate, a small glass of milk was poured, cookies without milk would be an insult to the hard-working man. Before retiring to bed, my sister was lifted in front of the refrigerator by my dad’s strong hands. Holding a cotton ball with just a few dots of glue, my sister placed the last portion of Santa’s beard on our paper Christmas countdown–Day 25.
Tomorrow would be Christmas.
My brother, sister and I raced upstairs–the anticipation almost unbearable. I remember laying in bed and opening the blinds that faced the front of our house. Most years, I stared at the street light that stood tall just outside our house and watched the snow dance in it’s light. Every year, without fail, the sound came–the ringing of bells. It was faint at first–bells seemingly far away. Soon, though, the sounds became stronger, louder. My heart raced each and every time–he was out there. Santa had come! Eventually, the ringing was so loud I was certain Santa was right outside my window–but I didn’t dare look.
I fought sleep. Wanted to wait the night out. I wanted to see Christmas Eve turn to Christmas Day. Exhaustion always won, though. Sleep always came.
*******
In the morning, we knew the rules. No leaving our room before we heard a knock on our doors and the sound of White Christmas playing loudly from the stereo downstairs. Rule number 1: No one goes down a stair before Dad.
The knock came and my dad led us our of our rooms, one by one–my brother, my sister and I. Mom was already downstairs–turning on the Christmas lights, confirming that Santa had, if fact, visited last night. We followed my Dad to the top of the stairs, willing him to hurry. He was in no hurry, though. These trips down our fourteen steps on Christmas morning often took more than 5 minutes. My dad liked to sit on the top stair and tell us a stories of Christmases long ago, stories of his own childhood, or stories of the dreams he’d had the night before. Year after year it went like this, two steps down, one step up, three steps down, two steps us. Often, he got “tired” walking down those stairs, simply needed to sit and rest. Breathe. While he told his stories, took his breath, we fought to get by him, to hurry him along, to rush the process, to see, did Santa come last night!?!
Rules are rules, though–the kids shall not pass the father. The kids shall wait. How many times have we heard White Christmas?!
*******
When we finally took that fourteenth step, my brother, sister and I raced to the living room, anticipation hitting its peak. We surveyed packages under the tree and squealed in delight at the magic of it all. After surveying the tree, we raced to the kitchen to see what had happened overnight. Every year without fail we found only a few crumbs left on the plate we’d left and a ring of milk in the bottom of the glass we’d left in the kitchen.
Year after year it was the same. Year after year it was magical.
******
These traditions remained the entire time we lived at home–long after we were let in on the secret of Santa. The antique bells were still shaken under our windows by my Dad’s hands. The trip down the stairs still took far too long. The anticipation was still there. Bing Crosby still sang White Christmas ever so loudly. As the years moved on and “teen” followed our age and my parents had to drag us out of bed–the traditions remained.
For me, Christmas will be just that–the bells, the stairs, the stories, the anticipation, White Christmas.
Christmas will always feel magical.
******
We all have different Christmas stories–no doubt as many stories as there are people in the world. Whatever your stories were, whatever your stories are–I hope you are making memories. I hope you are remembering the good that once was and writing new, beautiful stories with your littles, your spouses, your loved ones. Whatever stories are you living, I hope that somewhere in the middle of it, you feel a bit of magic and a sense of love so deep that it takes your breath away.
Merry Christmas, Friends.
