Cooperative Living November/December 2014 - 42

RURAL LIVING by Margo Oxendine, Contributing Columnist
REFLECTIONS
OF CHRISTMAS
FROM DAYS
GONE BY
s it too early to be talking about
Christmas? Since this issue sits
around for two months before something
new arrives in the mail, I will do
just that.
There's a picture I really wish I could
find to go with this column. In fact,
there is a pack of pictures that I'm missing.
They are irreplaceable.
Last year, when the painters were
everywhere, I had to move and
rearrange every single thing in my
house.
Have you ever decided to move
something from where it's always been
to someplace new that seems more suitable?
Afterward, can you readily find
that item? Probably not.
Somewhere, there's a pack of treasured
family pictures. Among them is the
one that, if I can find it, you will see
instead of my usual mug at the top of
this page. If you see the same old me,
you'll know I was unsuccessful.
The photo is one of me on what
might be my second Christmas. It's difficult
for me to gauge the age of babies
and toddlers, even if they're me.
40
I
I'm in pajamas astride a big, shiny
tricycle. My young, beautiful mother
is holding me. She is laughing. It
brings tears to my eyes just thinking
of that photo. The old-fashioned
Christmas tree behind us is bedecked
with those once-fashionable shiny
tinsel strands that graced all our
childhood Christmas trees.
My Uncle Ed was a firm believer
that the person placing the strands
should not spend too much time on
the task. He liked to stand some
distance from the Christmas tree and
toss the tinsel, letting it fall in globs
where it may. My Aunt Hazel would
later rearrange the tinsel into a more
attractive adornment while Uncle Ed
napped. Or more likely, played golf.
Remember the
utter thrill of finding
a new bicycle under
the tree on
Christmas morning?
I had that thrill with
the tricycle, I guess.
I just can't remember
it.
There's one odd
gift I fondly remember
always being
under the tree when
we were kids. It was
a new dart gun with
those rubber suction
tips on the darts.
There was also
always a bag of
marbles.
Of course, both
and make three little openings in the
sides. Then, we'd line them up, lie
on the floor, and shoot marbles into
the slots for hours on end. Daddy
included. Christmas Day always
revolved around playing games with
Daddy.
Mom, of course, was busy, busy in
the kitchen all day. As a stack of
Christmas albums dropped one by
one onto the " hi-fi, " we'd all pursue
our holiday pursuits.
If there was enough snow on the
The neighborhood
kids
standard gifts were
my father's idea. Just
like the Lionel train
set chugging around
the tree - the one my sister and I
were never allowed to play with; that
was Daddy's joy.
When all presents were opened,
we'd shoot darts at targets in the hallway.
I always had an excellent aim.
Daddy himself was a crack marksman;
this is a good thing for a policeman
to be. Yet, the only gun he ever
fired otherwise was the dart gun.
As for the marbles, well, we all had
our favorites. We'd take shoeboxes
would drag
our sleds to
the top of the
hill, then
speed and
whiz to the
very bottom.
ground ― and there usually was ―
we'd go sledding down the long road
in front of the house. It was rarely
traveled by cars, but on snowy days
that road saw a lot of sledding action.
Daddy had built a bonfire at the end
of the driveway. Mom
would make cocoa in
an old percolator, and
set that on top of
some sort of frame
across the fire. The
neighborhood kids
would drag our sleds
to the top of the hill,
then speed and whiz
to the very bottom.
Our house was about
halfway up the hill, so
we'd have a long ride.
Then, we'd drag the
sleds back up to the
driveway for steaming
cups of cocoa. And do
it all over again.
Daddy always
worked at the hotel
Christmas night.
Many winter nights, I
recall him, in his
tuxedo, a white silk
scarf and a fedora, dragging the sled
up the hill. He'd leave it where the
road met the highway and drive to
work. When he returned, he'd leave
the car at the top of the hill and simply
sled down the road, scarf flying
behind him.
Ah, Christmas memories. Enjoy
them in the making! 
To order Margo Oxendine's A Party of One,
email recorder@htcnet.org, or call 540-4682147
Monday-Thursday from 9-5.
Cooperative Living/November-December 2014
Cooperative Living November/December 2014

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