We all have stories in our lives that mark us. Recently a friend challenged a small group of us to recall, with as much detail as possible, a memory that left a lasting impact. It could be a story of blessing or one of harm. We came together and shared these moments of remembrance and we left with full hearts and encouragement to continue to mine our own stories with curiosity and compassion, as well as being reminded to offer that same curiosity and compassion to others and the stories of their lives. An invitation into to the sacred space of another is holy ground and one we should never take for granted.
I chose a Christmas memory from early childhood in response to the writing prompt. Since it has been a while since I have shared my own voice and heart on the blog, I decided to take this opportunity to invite you into one of the moments that marked me for the better. I hope it prompts you to engage a Christmas story of your own with curiosity and compassion and I would love to hear yours as well!
Christmas 1979
It was Christmas Eve and I was 9. I would be turning 10 on New Years Eve 1979. My mother went all out for big occasions and Christmas was her favorite.
2 magnificent trees; one was white flocked with fancy crystal ornaments, each strategically placed, while the other tree held a more haphazard placement of hodgepodge memories captured in an array of sizes and shapes, also called ornaments. Both of these trees feel like home, one reminds me of my mother, while the other brings back memories of a father who died too soon.
Her day gowns, gold slippers and coral lipstick with matching fingernails complimented the grandeur of the white flocked tree. His velour brown robe and nondescript house-shoes or a brown cardigan with khaki slacks accompanied the hodgepodge tree, at least in my memory.
Christmas Eve and Christmas morning held a wonder I anticipated all year and 1979 did not disappoint.
Shag carpet, our first remote control TV, a new microwave, Star Trek, Soul Train and Saturday morning cartoons were the backdrop for this Christmas. My dad dropped schnauzer hints for almost a year. I fell in love with those tiny, grey barkers simply by osmosis. It was no surprise that a miniature schnauzer was the first thing on my Christmas list, followed by everything I had circled in the Sears catalogue.
Stockings were hung, 2 sets. One set was fancy needle point and they hung in the formal living room above the fireplace. The other set was fuzzy, weird and wonderful and they hung on the upright piano in the den. I don’t remember Santa ever visiting the fancy ones but the fuzzy ones always showed up full of razzles, pop rocks, lickum sticks and bubble stickers. I’m smiling ear to ear and tasting sugar even as I write that. I also want to search out bubble stickers on Amazon, as a tangible reminder of a magical memory I never want to forget.
My dad’s office was warm and inviting. It held a green velvet couch, a red leather arm chair, a large mahogany desk, a needle point chair by the black, rotary dial telephone, full bookshelves with encyclopedias and National Geographic’s and a cabinet, housing the record player where Bing Crosby filled the air with “White Christmas”, “It’s Beginning to Look A lot Like Christmas’ and “I’ll Be Home for Christmas”, just to name a few.
December 24, 1979 marked me. My dad was home from work. He owned his own business as a traveling salesman in the furniture industry, Johnson Sale’s Company. He was gone a lot. But he wasn’t gone this day.
I assume all 3 of my older brothers were there but I don’t remember them that night. Dinner was over and the tradition of getting to open one present the night before Christmas was coming before bedtime. This year I did not get to pick which present I was going to open from among the beautifully wrapped gifts underneath the flocked fancy tree. Instead, an unwrapped and barely sealed radio box was handed to me. Mom and dad watched with great anticipation as I opened the weighty, moving, yes, moving ever so slightly, gift. As I pulled back the flap, much to my surprise, I saw a tiny, dark grey fur ball. Her little eyes peered up at me and her tongue was pink; she had puppy breath and she was mine; my dad had already named her Gretel, and that was fine by me.
Christmas morning Santa just happened to bring me my very own radio that looked exactly like the radio on the box my new best friend, Gretel, had jumped out of the night before. At 9, going on 10, my little brain thought that was the most magical coincidence.
The smell of breakfast casseroles, cheese grits, sweet rolls, coffee, Carltons, Marlboros, and mimosas filled the air mixed with Bing Crosby singing from the office. I recall lots of people, conversations, laughter, and some tension that I was too young to understand, nor did I care, but I remember the tight feeling tension leaves nonetheless.
Nothing was going to steal the joy of this Christmas morning because I had Gretel, a source of unconditional love and unending joy, a new best friend and secret keeper for the next 15 years, my consistent comfort and companion, even into marriage. Little did my husband know he was getting a 13 year old schnauzer when he got me. He loved that dog because that dog loved me. And Gretel loved Jay because he loved me.
I pause at this. It matters.
Over the years I saw Gretel and my dad share many a moment of camaraderie. I am thankful for those memories, as memory making with my dad was cut short when I was 21. I am pretty sure Gretel was my dad’s secret keeper too.
She also brought out the best in my mother. I got the privilege of watching my Gretel girl give birth to a litter of puppies in my parents bathroom under a red heat lamp and I saw a nurturing side of my mother with her long coral nails as she held those messy newborns in her fancy hands.
I have tasted, smelled and seen that the Lord is good in many ways through the years but one of the best beauty marks God ever gave me was in the form of a little, gray schnauzer, in a radio box on Christmas Eve of 1979.
