Christmas Nostalgia : Sunday, Dec. 08, 2002 @ 4:23 pm

My grandparents used to own a farm house in the Maine woods, and that's where we'd spend our Christmases. We'd drive there on the twenty-third of December, through the thick woods and past old time general stores with smoke coming from their chimneys and a few broken shutters dangling precariously from their hinges.
The farmhouse was 45 minutes from anywhere, nestled in a clearing, was a large, rambling white farm house. The door always had a wreath on it, with a bright red ribbon. There'd be so much snow that as a child I'd walk through a clearing that had been shoveled and have both sides go up to my neck. Inside was warm and almost always smelled like home cooking. The floor boards creaked with old age - the oldest part of the house was from 1801. That evening would be spent talking and laughing, sipping hot coco by the fire and eating Grandmother's trademark cookies.
The next day would consist of hours on end of a child's winter wonderland. There were not one but two giant hills on their lands, and plenty of sleds for the entire family to be out on the hills bundled up to keep to biting cold out. There was a pond by the barn that froze over every winter, Grandaddy used to shovel it off for us so we could take our skates and practice figure eights on the bumpy ice.

That night, the three of us - my brother, my sister and I - would be under the thick blankets of our beds, staring at the ceiling and straining to hear the sound of hoofprints on the roof. Often, the grandfather clock downstairs would strike eleven or tweleve before sleep overtook excitement. We'd wake up at six, creep out of our rooms and sit on the steps downstairs, just waiting. There was a rule that you couldn't leave the stairs until the adults did. We'd sit there impaitently until six thirty or seven, when my parents would sigh, give in, and come downstairs.

Christmas seemed magical back then. Leaving the cookies for Santa Claus, waking up in the morning and finding wrapped goodies labeled (suspiciously in my mother's handwriting) with your name.
In fourth grade, I stopped beliving in Santa Claus. I realized that the handwriting was, infact, my mother's. Such a horrible realization. I wish I could go on beliving in Santa Claus, to recapture some of that magical childish mystery.

When I was 12, my grandparents sold their farm house and moved to a small city on the coast of Maine. I hit the era of junior high that everyone hates. That time where you're gaining twenty pounds, getting acne, and feeling out of place. I was really depressed then and Christmases didn't help. I used to spend most of Christmas in my room, reading one book or another.
In recent Christmases, I have realized that my family, which seemed so perfect and happy when I was child, really did nothing but argue. They're all Republicans and they'll sit down to a nice Christmas meal and argue for four hours on things they agree with. Then, after Christmas, we'd drive back to Northern Maine and have another Christmas that consisted of my family arguing and my father talking about how I ruined his Christmas.
My ideal Christmas would be spent with my friends, who are often more family to me then the people I live with. I did spend Christmas Eve with Colby last year, which was wonderful.
I know that Santa Claus wasn't what Christmas is supposed to be about, but that's what I miss most about Christmas. Not just Santa Claus really, but the innocent part of Christmas. Before I realized that all Christmas is is a chance for your family to get together, argue, and guilt trip you into attending mass. They'll say Christmas is about Christ, but I think the spirt, the entire point of Christmas is much older then that. The spirit of giving, of love. Giving someone something that you know they love and watching their face light up when they see it. Just being with the people you love, telling them that you love them, spending time with them.

-sighs- I'm sorry for this entry, I was just feeling nostalgic for old times of innocence and impaitent for a time when Christmas will mean more then bickering, if it ever will.

Happy Holidays. If you're reading this, I love you. Stay safe.
/A
music: Vivaldi - Summer

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