A Christmas Narrative (2023)

Was thinking about my grandparents the other day, Grammy and Grampy Wing, and the farm where they lived, though it wasn’t really a farm as we think of farms, with cows and horses, chickens and other fowl, not that I can remember it that way; perhaps before my time. My grandfather always had a pig, though, I remember that, a new one every year, and we visiting grandchildren thought it great fun to help him slop the hog, fatten him up for spring time butchering, ham for Easter, carrying the bucket of slop and dumping it into the trough, watching the pig stick his face in and slurp it up, his little piggy tail wagging like a dog. And I remember the apple trees, the farm house attic of strange and wonderful things, old books and magazines, old clothes in an old trunk, and the old truck we “drove” out in back of the garage, Gramp’s domain, a workshop of old tools well-cared for amid the dirt and grease and grime.

But this time of year, winter approaching quickly, I specifically remember Christmases at the farm, something special, a family affair, Gram and Gramp and their kids, all six of them and their spouses, my aunts and uncles, and the hordes of cousins, fifteen of us. Christmas afternoon, we’d pile into the family cars, “over the river and through the woods” for dinner and the big family Christmas tree, a real tree, back then, as was the custom, a scraggly evergreen my grandfather had cut down, no Christmas Tree farm for him, but his own land, and placed it in the picture window facing the field across the street and the river beyond, a white Christmas. Gram had decked it out in glass ornaments, “breakables,” and the homemade ones the grandchildren had made over the years, perhaps some traditional ones from her own early Christmases, and tinsel, lots of tinsel, for what is a Christmas tree without tinsel to reflect the lights strung around the tree, those big multicolored lights bulbs so hard to find these days, a Christmas tree much more sparse than is fashionable today.

Gram would meet each family at the back door – no one used the front door, not even at Christmas – and gave us each a big hug and a hearty Merry Christmas and helped us off with our coats and hats and mittens and winter boots, squirming children, for though it was a big range of ages, there were always littles ones needing that extra help in the excitement, lest we track snow through the kitchen as we dashed into the house and into the living room, our arms flapping about, mittens attached to our coat sleeves waving as well. Gram and the aunts knew how to safely herd us all, coats and mittens removed, safely stowed away, now set free among the cousins.

The house had been transformed overnight, for now there were twenty-nine people in the old farm house, small rooms shared by family. The dining room was rarely used – I don’t remember ever eating a meal in there – but today, Christmas, the dining room table was pulled out and stretched out into the living room, where a second table had been placed, a long table, and beyond that, stretched to the far wall, a third table, the Children’s Table, a place of honor for the little ones, separated from the grown-ups, adults, aunts and uncles, parents to us all, our places set with paper plates and paper cups and plastic forks and spoons, our own settings, sparing for the adults, the good China and glassware, the special forks and spoons and knives reserved for special occasions, like Christmas and the family all together. And beside each place, the little servings of butter mints and nuts in a cupcake paper, meant for nibbling, but gone well before dinner even started. We all knew this was our end of the table, our designated seating, safely tucked away from the adults and their adult conversations and the shushing we would have to endure if we sat up there. The aunts made their frequent trips to the children’s table, serving us first and keeping our plates full, turkey and gravy, potatoes, white and orange, and peas and beans, and all the fruit punch we wanted, warned, of course, not to spill anything or get our clothes dirty, though I don’t think Gram cared about any of that. We were the grandkids, her children’s children, much loved, dirty faces and hands and a spot of gravy on a clean shirt and all. And for dessert, pies – apple and blueberry and mincemeat - and cakes – white and yellow and chocolate, cut into thick slices – and cookies, the favored cookie Gram’s molasses cookies, lightly dusted with sugar, always, year-round, available in the cookie tin on the kitchen sideboard. No need to ask; we knew where they were and how many we could have, plus seconds. But today, Christmas Day, they were openly served and within our reach, and nobody was counting! Well, maybe they were, but not the cousins.

 Perhaps we all dreamed of someday moving up to the adult table, taking our rightful place as an adult (of sorts), sharing in adult conversations, listening to what was once forbidden us to hear, being seen not as “kid,” but as a young adult, worthy of moving from the Children’s Table,  and I’m sure the older cousins, as they got old enough, moved up there, but I’m thinking this young man never achieved that, content to stay safely ensconced with the kids, my cousins and I at the Kids’ Table, but, … I could be wrong, for these family Christmases were so long ago, long enough ago that I can’t remember when – or why – they might have stopped, now but a memory relived at Christmas time, wondering about the change, where it all went in the passage of time, in the getting older, cousins now adults ourselves, kids of our own, grandkids.

And after dinner, the Tree! We’d all already scoped out the tree, glanced through the myriad of packages placed under the tree, perhaps seen our name, most likely not, though, not in the earlier, pre-school days of our lives, but we never doubted a package or two was there. And we tried to be on our best behavior, knowing we had no choice but to wait until the tables were cleared and dishes done and the chairs rearranged to accommodate everyone, all twenty-nine people and any stragglers who might have arrived with Christmas Greetings. And we knew, too, the comfy chair, over-stuffed, over by the piano, was already spoken for, for it was Gram’s chair, the chair with the best view of family gathered, all together at the farm in North Bath for Christmas.

I can’t seem to remember who distributed gifts, someone who could read tags, I expect, gifts for the cousins and the aunts and uncles and my grandparents, paper strewn around the room, and strict orders from my mother to save the tags so she’d know who had given what to whom, which, of course, didn’t always happen, and I expect we never read tags, just knew it was ours to open and we tore into the packages, shouts of joy and “look what I got,” books and knitted socks and mittens, plastic models and games, baby dolls and Barbie dolls, fifteen cousins enjoying the afternoon’s gift exchange at the farm.

This was a well-ordered gift exchange, not that we young cousins thought about that. The process, I think, was that family names had been drawn the Christmas before (or sometime after maybe), so that everyone received a present. I’m not sure if individual names were drawn, or if the adult sibling names were drawn and each family bought for the family drawn. Looking back, there was an unfairness in that, for you see, my father had, at that time, 4, then 5 kids, the largest family in the brood. Woe to the family that drew Burt! And the numbers went down from there: Cleon with three; Arthur, Calvin, and Claire with two each; and Marilynn with one, she perhaps the coveted name to be drawn, the Golden Ticket of Christmas gift exchange. How it was arranged was no big family secret, but as younger cousins, we never knew, never cared to ask, for the “how” didn’t matter. It just happened, and that was enough. Nobody went home empty handed, just tired and full and happy to have spent the day at the farm, a Christmas tradition spent with family, spent with cousins, making memories.

At the end of the day, the cars loaded with new gifts and clean dishes and leftovers, and the living room cleaned of strewn wrapping paper, bows, and tags, we said our good-byes to each other, cousins and aunts and uncles, and to Gram who hugged us each again, wished us again a Merry Christmas, and thanked us for coming, for a good day, for it was Gram that held the family together; today was her day, all she really wanted for Christmas, us together, safe and loved, she who knew of separation and loss, family and love.

I don’t know when those Wing family Christmases ended, or why – kids getting older, losing some, a hard loss, taken too young, divorces and moving away, demons fought, the demands of life, the family dynamics of any family in America. And perhaps it doesn’t matter, the why, just that we hold on to these memories we brought with us into our own lives, our own families, we cousins, and the new traditions we’ve started. Just a memory, memories made, perhaps forgotten, memories shared, reignited, memories, the things that life is made of, Christmases of long, long ago still in our minds: Grammy and Grampy Wing; Arthur and Doris, Billy and Sharon; Cleon and Pauline, Bobby and Ronnie and Leeann, and Millie; Calvin and Marilynn, Jimmy and Jeff; Burt and Eleanor, Linda and Mike and Ricky, Suzy, and Ruth; Marilynn and Chet, Pam; and Claire and Roy, Sandy and John, converging on the farm in North Bath, Varney’s Mill Road, Christmas at the farm, memories resurrected of a time long ago, when we were young, much younger than today, memories made to carry us safely through the passing years of our own lives, watching the years go by and remembering.