As I turn out our lights which were twinkling from the tree we dressed so well, a nostalgic feeling fills the air, as smells of Christmas are coming. I turn toward the sofa so that I can absorb every moment while sipping on a cup of hot coffee and completing the finishing touches on Abram’s new sock hat. There are no sounds, just total silence except for the crackling of the wood stove in the kitchen that keeps the house warm.
When morning breaks the children will put on their coats and race outside to take care of the animals and bring in wood for the stove quickly so that they can go play. School is out for winter. Not many will be traveling the roads. They say we will get snow before long. You can feel something is brewing.
As I sit and contemplate the next day, I can’t help but to remember when Mom and Dad were still around before there was electricity. Back to the late 1890s, which was a time when the world felt so large to me. I saw opportunity knocking at every door. Everyone looked ahead to the future. Little did we know a world war would take many of us away never to return.
In our wooden house, we had creaky floors, a basement, and an attic for extra room for all of us. My family would gather around the fireplace to enjoy the crackling of the fire and many stories of the past. Oil lamps would flicker on the mantle, which enabled us to make shadow figures on the walls. One could smell the freshly cut tree, which was dressed with homemade ornaments that we made—scraps of fabric, dried fruit, and twinkling glass baubles that caught the firelight just so.
Mom would be in the kitchen preparing our holiday meal. She would sing old hymns and reminisce about her childhood and what she wanted for our future. Dad, in his warm winter boots, would be in his chair, lovingly carving wooden toys for us. Each of us would watch his skilled hands form something special for all of us.
When Christmas Eve arrived, we would bundle up in our warmest coats and go outside to observe the moon and the snow-filled hills while we entered the barn to make sure all the animals were safe and fed for the cold winter night. The snow glistened in the moonlight as we enjoyed each other’s company. The brisk winter breeze would send chills down our spines. We would bristle it off as we ran to go inside.
We’d return indoors, with rosy cheeks and gloved hands which were still numb from the cold, where mom would give us a bit of hot cider. We would gather by the fire, huddled so close to defrost from the cold outside. One of would kick another and act it was someone else. Another would try to hog the whole fire, and we would all scream, “Hey! Why don’t you share?”
Now, sitting in front of our Christmas tree in the silence of my thoughts, I realize the beauty of what we had in the simplest of moments. How we shared what was most important. I yearned in the is moment for the simplicity of life back then, where families spent cherish time together instead of racing off to something new. We truly had a better life even without all the modern conveniences. Neighbor helped neighbor and cared for one another. It wasn’t a passing moment. It was a way of life.
With a smile, I set down my cup and glance at the tree, its lights twinkling like the stars that once guided the holy family on their way to Bethlehem. I carry these memories with me as my husband and I raise our children. I hope they will look back on their childhood Christmases with the same love and care that I have for my own and look toward their futures with excitement and awe.
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