There were three memorable childhood Christmases that I
remember vividly. Each were different, and each were special in their own way.
My earliest Christmas memory was when I was about five or
six years old. For years my father hadn’t had a good job, and money was very
scarce, but that year my dad had gotten a good job at Hill Air Force Base. So,
money seemed to be secure!
We drove to Monroe, Utah where my paternal grandmother lived
to have Christmas with her. It was the one of the few times we hadn’t had
Christmas at home, so I was especially excited.
My grandmother’s home
was very simple and basic; there was a stove in the kitchen which was used for
heating and cooking, and a large pot-bellied stove in the living room. But we
never felt the cold as we rejoiced in a family Christmas. My dad took my older
brothers up into the mountains to cut down a Christmas tree and we decorated it
with lights and icicles.
My mother was 1st generation Danish (her parents
had been born in Denmark), and Danes always opened their Christmas presents on
Christmas Eve. My dad wouldn’t go along with that, but he did allow us to open
one present on Christmas Eve.
My deceased grandfather had always enjoyed playing Santa
Claus, and visiting the houses,
That whole Christmas, from being at Grandmother Hansen’s, to
my dad and brothers cutting down a real tree, to an authentic visit from Santa was
memorable, but to receive such an expensive and special gift—a doll named after
the “Little Women” character just as I was, was unforgettable.
The next Christmas I remember, I was about 10 years old. We
lived in a large house on Pages Lane in Bountiful, and I remember the beautiful
bubbling candle lights on the Christmas tree. They seemed magical to me.
I knew all about Santa Claus, so did my younger sister,
Coleen; she also knew that our tradition of opening one gift at Christmas was
going to help us see what Santa had brought us, before morning.
Because of our Danish
heritage, we could open one gift on Christmas Eve and my Coleen, pointed out to
me the gift I should open. When I opened it, I discovered a rudimentary
knowledge box game with questions and a probe on a wire. There were question
pages you’d put on the box and if you put the probe on the right answer, the
big light on the box would light up. (I had one like that for my own children
and my oldest son dissected it to see how it worked.) If you put the probe on
the right hole, it completed an elementary circuit, which turned on the light!
We waited until early morning (we may have slept a little,
but not much), and then we snuck from our room into the living room. There were
no lights on the Christmas tree, and the house was very dark, until we put the
probe in the right hole (we couldn’t see the questions, so it was trial and
error). Then the light glowed, and we could see what was under the tree. I don’t
remember what I got for Christmas, all I remembered was us going around and
looking at all the unwrapped presents under the tree. We didn’t touch anything,
even the gifts we’d be getting, and we went back to bed (probably not to sleep)
until it was light, and we could get out of bed. The reward wasn’t the gifts,
but out-foxing our parents to see what we’d get before morning.
The last Christmas in that house on Pages Lane was special
because my mother was expecting a “Christmas Baby,” and she had it two days
before Christmas. I don’t remember what I got that year for Christmas. What I
was excited about was that at 13 years old I was old enough to go to the
hospital on Christmas morning and carry home the new baby.
There is a story that my youngest brother had gotten into
his water color paints and eaten them, turning his mouth all colors and
worrying everyone that he might be poisoned. But I don’t remember that either—I
just remember the wonder of a REAL Christmas baby.
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