Cherish the Thought
Illlustrations by Harry Blair
’Tis the season for making memories. That act of remembering gives us pause. It makes us laugh. Sometimes it makes us cry. What follows are a few precious moments. If nothing else, each and every one of these recollections is a reminder to us all to hold those most dear as closely as we can.
Let There Be Light
December 1971 was cold and wintry. But then, it was always frigid in my small Midwestern hometown that time of year. Light poles on the main street were festooned with glowing decorations, the ground was blanketed in white, and a humongous fir tree was in its usual place on the square.
Christmas trees were a big deal in our town. August Imgard, a German immigrant and local resident until his death in 1904, brought the first Christmas tree to America. He held that distinction for nearly a century until he was demoted like Pluto by some scholarly researcher who found evidence of an earlier tree’s appearance in another municipality — but it was still a big deal to us.
It was a simpler time, the early ’70s. Families seemed closer; neighbors knew each other. I was the youngest of five siblings, and the oldest, Ken, was our undisputed leader. From making meals when our parents were at work, to organizing pickup games in the neighborhood, to finding the best hills for sledding, my brother was always in charge. He delivered newspapers and shoveled sidewalks to make a few dollars, which he shared. I looked up to him, literally and figuratively.
With Christmas right around the corner, schools were out for the holiday, and the local stores were buzzing with last-minute shoppers, their red-cheeked, buttoned-up kids in tow. Hallmark-quality stuff.
But something was missing. The tree on the square was dark, its wires having been cut by vandals. For weeks, it seemed, the blackout continued. The town’s head honchos were unwilling — or unable — to fix the damage to restore the lights. It was upsetting, to say the least, to my 7-year-old self. Where was the Christmas spirit? The kindness, the joy?
Three days before Christmas, two teenaged boys worked outside for hours in below-freezing temperatures splicing together the wires on that huge tree. Ken and his friend John lit up the square in our little town just in time to light the way for Santa’s arrival on Christmas Eve.
A reporter took a picture of those boys, and it was on the front page of the newspaper the next day. One of my sisters found it for me recently. For the record, I still look up to my big brother.
‒ Pam Phillips
A Special Lesson from my Orthodox Jewish Grandmother
This story takes place in Chicago, Christmas Eve 1948. My religious Jewish family was getting ready to celebrate Hanukkah.
My mother had received a phone call that my grandmother’s dentures were ready to be picked up. Rather than waiting for the Christmas holiday to be over, my mother went to downtown Chicago to the dentist’s office. She returned by late afternoon and placed the white box containing the dentures on the hallway table.
I do not know what got into me, at age 12, and my sister, age 14, but we felt the Christmas Eve spirit surrounding us. Perhaps it was the lightly falling snow.
With that we decided to go to the Kresge Five and Dime store and buy some little flocked Christmas trees. For 10 cents you could get a 2-inch snow-flocked tree with either a green or red stand. We bought two — one in each color.
We took the dentures from the hallway table, wrapped the box in some tissue paper and put it on the mantel above the fireplace in the living room. Standing on the box were the two small Christmas trees.
My sister and I invited my grandmother to come into the living room and get her dentures. When she saw the Christmas trees, she began her tirade in how disappointed she was with her granddaughters, Vivian and Charlotte. We were making a mockery of the Christian religion. To this day I can see her standing in front of us in her beige dress, covered in a large apron, her voice summoning the memories of the antisemitism she lived through in Lodz, Poland, before coming to America in 1904. Her granddaughters had made a joke about the Christian religion. The Christians let the Jewish people live in peace in the United States. On and on she lectured us.
Every Christmas Eve, no matter where I am, I think of my Grandmother Peshe Epstein and her words of wisdom. My Hanukkah and Christmas wish for all would be that the world could hear and practice the lesson she taught us. May the memory of this wonderful woman be a blessing forever.
‒ Vivian R. Jacobson
Grandmother’s House
The year I turned 7, Christmas fell on a Sunday. For most families, that’s not a big deal. For my family, the weekend was the only time off from work for my parents and grandparents. My sister and I knew our parents would pack us up on Friday and “to Grandmother’s house we go” so that we’d all be together on the holiday.
Because we would not be in our own home on Christmas Day — “the most wonderful time of the year” — I’m sure my parents grew tired of us asking, “How will Santa know where to bring our presents?”
“When what to my wondering eyes did appear” on that Friday morning before we left — Santa had made an early trip to our house. In addition to the presents under the tree, he left a letter saying he heard about our dilemma, checked his “Naughty or Nice” list to see that we were in the correct column, and he and Rudolph delivered our presents two days early.
Now in my 50s, I still believe in the magic of Santa. I was lucky enough to live it as a child and again through the eyes of my son. My wish for all children everywhere is for them to experience the same magic all year. “Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!”
‒ Chris Dunn
A Gift in Layers
Every year my father would stay up late on Christmas Eve to bake his special coconut cake. He’d start early in the day with his secret recipe printed on blue copy paper. I don’t know where the recipe originated. He’d have all the ingredients spread out in the kitchen along with the double-boiler pot he pulled out once a year to get the frosting just right. I’d stick around to make sure I could get the leftover crumbs in the pans and have the chance to lick the spatula and scrape what I could from the pot as he patted as much coconut as possible on the frosting of each layer, then around the sides when all the layers were in place. He’d smile and admire his masterpiece and leave it on the dining room table for Christmas Day, tempting the whole house with the sight and smells. I’d be just as eager to get my first piece of that cake on Christmas Day as I was to open presents. I’m sure I have the recipe tucked away somewhere, but I’ve never used it. It wouldn’t be the same. One Christmas after our father was gone, my brother — who inherited the cooking genes — surprised me with the cake. It will forever be one of my favorite memories.
‒ Fallon McIver Brewington
My Personal Playlist
I’d taken up the snare drum in the fourth grade. Dad was a drummer, so there was never any question what instrument I would choose. The next year, on Christmas morning, I remember seeing the red bow on my very own drum set by the tree. My parents worked hard to find it, and getting it was a sacrifice.
But that was only the beginning. I played the drums in my room, one wall away from the living room. Night after night. My mother would tell you it never bothered her. Mothers are like that. Drumming became more than a hobby. It was like teenage therapy. And it was loud.
I played that drum set in my first band in the eighth grade. That same set of drums can be heard on songs from Nathan Davis’ album Out of My Skin. Nathan was at the top of the music scene in Southern Pines and, somehow, I got to record with him when I was 15.
The guitar is my primary instrument now, and it’s how I make my living these days playing with Whiskey Pines, and I am extremely grateful. I never really stopped drumming, though I sure can’t play like I used to. But every once in a while I can still feel the beat of a Christmas morning.
‒Tim Stelmat
Gran’s Chimney Folk
I only knew one grandparent – Gran, my father’s mum. A great lady. At Christmas she would sing The Messiah while ironing, and tell stories, one of which was about the “chimney folk.” She told my brother Bill and me that they lived up the chimney and were always there at Christmastime waiting to find out what we hoped Santa Claus would bring us. She helped us make messages out of tiny bits of paper and, as they were carried up the chimney by the heat and smoke, she used her ventriloquist skills to squeak — a sound she assured us meant that the message had been received! It took a year or two after I stopped “believing” for me to give up on the chimney folk. After all, I had heard them. I even once got into an impassioned argument with my school chums over them, insisting they were real. How could they not know about them?
When Gran first came to live with us, she produced an old, battered kitchen spoon which, from then on, seemed to be used to make everything, including brandy sauce for the Christmas pudding. The spoon had two jobs: first, stirring the sauce; and then the annual ritual of heating it over a match, filling its bowl with brandy and setting it alight while pouring it over the pud, which was then carried into the dining room, everyone cheering.
The years went by and my wife, Camilla, and I made several moves, the last one leaving England for the U.S. in 1987, and the spoon came, too. It now does what it does best here in America, including, very soon, the ritual of brandy sauce and flaming pudding, bringing back all those precious memories of Christmas past, of Gran, and the chimney folk, too.
‒ Tony Rothwell
Always in Our Hearts
My husband, Trent, loved Disney World, Christmas and family. He wasn’t ashamed to admit it. Why would he be? He earned a Green Beret and already proved he was an intelligent and capable badass. A Disney affliction wouldn’t take him down a notch at all. We both loved the bubble of the resort; it gave us an opportunity to pretend our lives weren’t filled with war.
In 2011 he decided he wanted his parents and mine to join us for Christmas at Disney — a large family vacation with all of us staying in one giant villa suite overlooking the Magic Kingdom. Every day at 5 p.m. the Magic Kingdom has a small and often overlooked ceremony when they play retreat and fold the U.S. flag that flies over the park. A family is chosen at the beginning of the day to assist with the task. It is random, but they look for a family wearing military affiliated hats or T-shirts. I decided that Christmas it would be us.
I got up early and waited patiently at the City Hall building until I could ask for the gentleman who makes the selection. They told me it was random, but I begged my point. I was told to go wait at The Bakery on Main Street. After an hour and half I was approached by a gentleman who very kindly explained he didn’t normally do this. I told him this was going to be my husband’s seventh deployment. Trent didn’t have a good feeling about it. He brought our parents on this trip so our daughter could celebrate Christmas at Disney with her grandparents. He would have all his favorite things in one place, at one time.
I explained that being honored as the veteran of the day was on his bucket list. His father was a Marine vet; my father was a Navy vet. The gentleman was moved, and he allowed us to retrieve the flag at 5 o’clock. As a family, we stood proudly for a tradition that Walt Disney long respected. My husband held that flag with pride. Someone took a picture of us all together, which we keep on a wall to remind us of that day.
Two weeks later Trent went on his last deployment. He arrived home earlier than his battalion, to Walter Reed Hospital, where his whole family stood beside him one last time as took his last breath. We all went back to Disney the following Christmas, on a vacation he had planned. We brought a unit hat for the kind gentleman who had given Trent one of his last wishes and thanked him for the memory that will always be in hearts.
‒ Beth MacDonald
Gather Together
This will be the first year that my mother, my sister and I will be able to celebrate all the holidays in the same place. Growing up in Norfolk, we would spend Thanksgiving with our extended family, then Christmas together with our own families. Marriage moved my sister to North Carolina, and work moved me to southwest Virginia. For over 25 years, we have had to choose which holiday to celebrate, and where. Do we get together on Thanksgiving or Christmas? My place or yours? My mother moved to Moore County in 2021, and my sister moved here earlier this year. Now the three of us are able to be together without having to rush to get back to our own homes, our jobs and our responsibilities in three separate cities. My sister and I have already planned a holiday schedule of events that includes everything from ice skating (or watching from the sideline) to baking cookies. No doubt, one weekend will be devoted to binge watching holiday movies with our mother, who watches them year-round! Tree lightings, local shopping, pumpkin picking . . . the moments today that will become our memories tomorrow are the most precious of all.
‒ Sandra Dales