THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1994, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Sunday, December 25, 1994 TAG: 9412220053
SECTION: HAMPTON ROADS WOMAN PAGE: 02 EDITION: FINAL
COLUMN: YOUR TURN
SOURCE: BY PAMELA K. WIGGINS, SPECIAL TO HRW
LENGTH: Medium: 76 lines
THIS YEAR I will celebrate my 50th Christmas. I cannot believe it. It seems like only a few Christmas Eves ago that I was laying out cookies and milk for Santa Claus. And now even my own children are too old for that.
What happened? Where did all those Christmases go? Oh, how I wish I could remember them all, but try as I might, there are just too many. But I am able to dredge up a few.
My earliest recollection goes back to when I was 6. I remember getting a beautiful baby doll that year. I can't quite recall exactly what she looked like, but she did come with a complete layette and a nice metal doll crib. The doll and her clothes are long gone, but I still have that doll bed. I use it to hold magazines. It's probably a real collector's item now, but I wouldn't dream of selling it.
I also remember my eighth Christmas. I had heard terrible rumors at school about Santa Claus, and I just didn't want to believe them. That Christmas Eve, I slipped out on the front lawn and searched the sky wishing and hoping I might see that sleigh pulled by reindeer. I didn't see them, but after a while I swear I heard the faint sound of sleigh bells. And I knew there was absolutely no snow or sleighs anywhere near where I lived. Those rumors were lies, I concluded; Santa Claus would come that night. I suppose that was the last year I truly believed in him.
Santa almost always brought me what I wanted. I got dolls and bikes and games and then later, clothes and record albums of the Beatles. There were no television ads to influence me. My parents would take me to ``Toyland,'' a huge back room in the hardware store downtown, where I picked out what I wanted. The toys were not in boxes, and children were encouraged to pick them up and examine them. The noises of train sets running, tinkering toy pianos and melodic music boxes were wonderful.
I can recall only one mistake Santa made, and that was the year he brought me a purple fake-fur sweater. I hated it. And the proof is recorded on an old 8mm home movie. The expression on my face is of pure horror. The one time I wore it, I almost itched to death. I also got a dictionary (whoop-de-doo) that year. I was 15 then, and there was probably nothing that would have me happy that year anyway. It was not my best Christmas.
My childhood memories come and go, but the memories with my own children are most precious. Our first Christmas with a baby was pure joy. Joe was 11 months old his first Christmas, and he loved the ribbons and boxes much more than his gifts. But by the time Joanna and John Parker came along, the gifts took on more importance. Christmas morning became more mercenary. While mountains of paper and torn boxes were strewn over the living room, greedy shrieks of ``Santa brought you more than me!'' were heard. There were countless building blocks, GI Joes and Cabbage Patch dolls as well as all kinds of wheeled vehicles and race tracks. Like their mother, they probably got more than they actually deserved.
For a long time, on Christmas Day, our children acted out the Christmas story while their dad read from the Bible. It was so cute when they dressed up in old bathrobes with towels hung over their heads. Joanna played Mary, Joe played Joseph, and of course, for a couple of years, John Parker was baby Jesus. When he no longer looked like a baby, he was demoted to the part of shepherd, and a baby doll had to take the honored place in the manger. Now they think they are too old to do such things.
Soon, my children will leave home and have families of their own. Joe has a place of his own now, and next year Joanna will go away to college.
Will Christmas ever be the same again? Will they still want Santa to come? Will they come home for Christmas or will they spend it with in-laws? Will they teach their children the same traditions we had or will they create better ones? Will they remember the true meaning of Christmas? I worry about these things.
Maybe being 50 has something to do with it, but for some reason this Christmas seems just a little sad. MEMO: Pamela K. Wiggins is a resident of Franklin. by CNB