“Are you the spirit whose coming was foretold to me?
I am.
Who and what are you?
I am the Ghost of Christmas Past.
Long past?
No, your past.”
— Charles Dickens, “A Christmas Carol.”
Having just returned from London and walked in Dickens’ footsteps, I revisited one of my favorite Christmas stories. Reading the story at 18 and reading it at 55 brings an entirely different perspective to the story. At 18, December arrives and you look forward to what’s going to be under the Christmas tree. At 55, you’re glad you’re still healthy enough to put up decorations.
Dickens’ story provides a great perspective on evaluating your life in the autumn of your years. I’m also a December baby, so Christmas has always been a huge event for me. Throw in growing up in an Italian-Catholic family and being an altar boy and you get a Christmas season on overload.
But reflecting on past Christmas seasons, I’m struck by what really matters: the memories. I can tell you it was really cool to get a pinball machine one year, but most of my memories involve experiences, sights or smells that usher in the holiday season.
I might be a “liberal elite” in most respects, but when it comes to Christmas, I stand thoroughly on the side of tradition.
I remember as a kid going to see pre-Christmas Day live Nativity scenes, but now the only one in the area is in Coweta County. What’s up with that, ultra-religious Fayette? Each year, I lovingly place my parents’ hand-fired and painted Nativity set on the mantel and memories come flooding back.
The smell of Italian Christmas cookies baking in the house, and the sight of my dad making sure all the decorations are in place before my Dec. 12 birthday are just two of the vivid images that make this a special season.
The smell of incense reminds me of many midnight masses where I carried the thurible and thought I would pass out before the services were finished.
In thinking about this season, there are three distinct Christmases that always come to mind.
In the late ’70s, we were living in northwest Florida after my retired military dad decided it was time to leave the cold confines of Colorado and head for warmth. He tied a snow shovel to the back of our vehicle and said when we got somewhere where nobody knew what the shovel was used for, that we had arrived at our new home.
For a 9-year old kid, the move was traumatic, to say the least. I was used to being surrounded by cousins and snow for the holiday, but suddenly we were surrounded by no family and white sand, which I first thought was snow.
The move was far worse on my mother. She traveled around with my dad during his military days, but it was always known that our family would retire to Denver so she could be close to her family.
The culture change was jarring, to say the least, and she threw herself into the new church we started attending.
One warm mid-December day, my dad decided we needed to go to Colorado for Christmas. My dad was also quite an accomplished artist, and also had the artistic characteristic of doing things on the fly … hence the move 1,500 miles to a place where you knew no one.
When he decided, all the airlines were booked and Amtrak was not practical, nor was driving through snow country in mid-December. The only option left was … Greyhound. So off this tiny family left on a voyage west.
As your probably know, bus stations are usually not located in the most appealing locations in a city. In the ‘70s, they were all scenes out of “Midnight Cowboy.” We got to see skid rows from New Orleans to Amarillo, Tex.
Finally, the bus pulled into Denver and we were greeted by my grandparents, who escorted us back to their home. The next few days were filled with snow, relatives, laughter and celebration.
On Christmas Eve, we went to my aunt’s house and celebrated the Night of the Seven Fishes. Old-school Italians don’t eat meat on Christmas Eve, so we feasted on expensive bounties of the sea. I can’t tell you what I got for Christmas that year, but the memory of family, many who are now long gone, burns as bright as a C9 Christmas bulb.
Moving into the ‘80s, I now lived in Newnan, as a recent Auburn graduate with a wife, Cheryl, and a new home. My parents were in town for the holiday and Cheryl’s family was due to visit on Christmas day. It was one of the coldest holiday seasons I had experienced in the South, and Coweta County suffered a hard freeze.
What I didn’t realize was that our home had pipes in the ceiling that had frozen solid. Suddenly, on Christmas Eve, the pipes burst, and the walls literally started crying unfrozen tears. The water was immediately turned off, but there was still the holiday meal to prepare.
On Christmas, Cheryl’s parents brought five-gallon buckets of water for the essential uses and we ate on paper plates. Again, I can’t tell you what I got as a present, but the memory of surviving it as a family endures.
In the ‘90s, I decided to revive the tradition of going to Midnight Mass, but I wanted to go to a big Catholic Church for all the pomp and circumstance, so we headed to the Cathedral of Christ the King in Atlanta.
When we arrived at the church, there was literally no room at the inn, so we walked across Peachtree Street to the Episcopal Cathedral of St. Phillip.
We settled into our seats just as the large procession of priests and other clergy were starting down the aisle. Suddenly, in the row in front of us, a man started convulsing and ultimately passed out. His distraught daughter started screaming, and an ambulance was called. We followed the ambulance to Piedmont Hospital, and shortly after midnight, as church bells pealed around the city, the man died from a heart attack.
One of our friends went to the man’s funeral and said his daughter expressed overwhelming gratitude for us being there with her on the darkest night of her life. Another Christmas filled with reflection, not on presents, but on how precious each day is in our lives.
Our contemporary Christmas eves are now spent often with friends who have nowhere else to go, at a nice restaurant, then out for cocktails and church at Cheryl’s Methodist home. Christmas Day is devoted to her family. And Charlie Brown, that’s what Christmas means to me.
While I’m not a parent, I have to thank my parents for giving me the ability to look past the superficiality of the holiday and instead focus on experiences.
Everyone gets caught up in trying to find the perfect present and making sure their kids have a perfect Christmas. But in my life, the best presents aren’t found under the tree, but by what surrounds the tree.
“Teach your children well,
Their father’s hell did slowly go by,
And feed them on your dreams
The one they pick, the one you’ll know by.
Don’t you ever ask them why, if they told you, you will cry,
So just look at them and sigh
And know they love you.”
— Crosby, Stills and Nash.
[John Thompson has reported news in Fayette, Coweta and metro Atlanta counties since the late 1980s.]
