We visited our youngest grandkids, four and six years old, on Christmas morning. What a trip down memory lane! Though they’d opened gifts the night before and sorted through stockings before we arrived, their over-the-top anticipation reminded me of earlier Christmases.
I remember traveling two days to get to my grandparents’ home in Meade, and seeing Grandma’s foil tree changing colors as the light wheel rotated above those wrapped gifts. The joy of snuggles with a beloved grandmother and helping her finalize Christmas baking didn’t diminish that burning desire to know what those mysterious packages hid from our wondering eyes.
As I watched our little ones create their own Christmas memories, ghosts of Christmas past flitted about. Their momma’s childhood ornaments dangled from branches on their little ranch Christmas tree. I saw the black and red Santa’s Dorothy Bray painted for our tiny girls. I bought them to honor both the traditional St. Nick and the Volga German black Santa unique to this region. Tucked tree-top high, I spied the glass pickle we once hid in the branches of their childhood trees. The old mixed with newer decorations caused me to blink back a tear or two.
Our youngest wandered from lap-to-lap nibbling a memory trigger. My husband’s mother, the 9th of 11 children, celebrated her adult Christmases with a holiday blitz: lights, decorated tree, cookies and candy enough to feed the Third Army, and presents she bought on sale all year and hid til the next holiday. She loved hosting big Christmases. Every year, she tucked a chocolate orange in our stockings. Our daughter continues her grandma’s tradition with her little ones. Smelling that citrusy-chocolate scent evoked visions of those celebrations as our littlest devoured that orb, one wedge at a time.
While my mom baked a few traditional cookies, my mother-in-law filled a small bedroom with containers loaded with Linzer tarts, spice cookies, oatmeal cookies, fudge, homemade caramels, and cherry mash candy. Everyone who visited during this time of year left with a box of goodies. All who miss her treats replicate a few of her recipes each December. I’ve shared her Linzer tart recipe with several old friends so they can enjoy them, and either our girls or I bake a batch for my husband for old-time’s sake.
Though my mom didn’t bake much, she whipped up a batch of Grandma Hatfield’s old-fashioned fudge every Christmas. I can’t make it without seeing a vision of her standing at the hot stove stirring the heirloom black-handled pot. I know she had a memory of her mom doing the same thing. As she got older, I took over cooking duties while she waited, spoon-in-hand, to scrape the pan once I’d poured thickening fudge on a greased plate. That recipe wove itself into our family culture, and my husband eagerly awaits December so he can enjoy this annual favorite.
Whoever said your Christmas list gets shorter as you age is spot on. I’ve learned I treasure traditions that let flitting ghosts of Christmas past visit and connect me to loved ones here and gone.
Karen is a retired teacher, writer, photographer, outdoors lover, and sixth-generation Kansan. After a time away, she’s glad to be home.