The thoughts of the Christmases past sent me searching through a drawer of photographs. In the drawer was one of my "holiday journals." A journal in which I wrote of holiday events, traditions and kept assorted pictures and drawings. With my mind so scattered, I thought I would share some of those writings from days gone by.
Christmas, 1993
He said, 'I am always with you.' I truly believe I am part of Him, hence, I am always with you as well.
As our lives change and we move about, we all share the memories of 'home.' Even while the vision of home changes, there is still always one place we tend to come back to. . .this house.
It's not a big house. It's not the house that is described and memorialized in works of literature. It stores the memories we share. If the walls in the kitchen could talk; if the chips and the stains on the coffee table could tell; if the dining table could raise it's voice; if the hallway, which chronicles our lives, could repeat the stories it's heard. . .all would rise in unison and say, "this is our home"; "our meeting place"; this is where our family is one.
December 25, 1994
It is Christmas morning and Mama and I are sitting here admiring or new "museum piece". Last evening Bob presented Mama with the restoration of the clipper ship originally built by her father, Wilhelm Lange.
It is an impressive piece of work; art; love; continuity; TRADITION. The concept of restoration began three years ago. At Daddy's last Christmas in 1991, Bob showed Daddy the "remains" of the boat and told him he would restore it for Mama. Daddy and Papa Lange, and the rest of our angels, smiled at yet another part of our family, our traditions being preserved.
We are all very lucky, that each of us, in our own special way, have the talents to preserve, communicate and maintain tradition. Traditions that hold and bind us as family and friends. Christmas Eve at Mama's house is a tradition that I will always cherish.
The house took it's old form last evening; like a grand lady emerging for her annual debut. The tree that Mama labored over and fussed about slowly became the "perfect" tree, glittering and sparkling with its holiday adornment.
The music of the season soothed the holiday melancholy. Those not present are still in our hearts. The tables were set for all here, and afar. . .and gone. . .
. . .Bob, Bea, Veronica, Brian, Mama and I exchanged gifts. The presentation of the ship was quite dramatic. Bob orchestrated it with music by Wagner. Mama was very emotional. Veronica commented that she had never seen "Nanny" so moved by anything; she was grateful to have been witness.
This sharing of traditions helps us grow in our relationships with each other. This is the blessing of God; and He has so blessed this house; this family.
December 26, 1995
. . .Christmas Eve was at "home". . .a tradition I'll not part with. Mama and I prepared a small buffet. . .Bob and Bea joined us along with Diane and Ron, Annie, Lenny and Ethyl and Bob.
On Christmas Day we went out to Bob and Bea's for dinner. Joanie drove out with us. At Bob's house, I got my "house". Bob built me this most exquisite doll house. It is carefully crafted and full of love. It's so beautiful and I find myself silenced by this gift of love, time and talent. The words have not yet surfaced to thank him.
Bob is indeed a "giant". I find it no coincidence that he finds fascination with the "smaller things" in life. . .the doll houses; the model cars; The Village he has created in that huge, old tree in his backyard.
The Village is a magical place. Bob has created a series of winding stairs out of the trunk of the tree and climbing the branches up and up to an occassional platform. On the platforms are small huts, lit, and with small wisps of smoke rising from its chimneys. There are barrels and campfires and entryways into the tree itself. Some of the stairs led to a bridge crossing from one branch to another. He says that every year he needs to re-build the stairs and the bridges; you see the tree is growing, and so is the Village.
The Village. . .I am so glad that I was there to share Alexis' first viewing of the Village. She wanted so much to see "them". . .the little people. She could "smell" them cooking and she felt certain that she was small enough to fit through their entry way. She is such a precious child.
This particular journal ends abruptly. My brother Bob, died suddenly in 1998. Mama's house was sold in 1999 and Bea sold her and Bob's home that same year. There would be no more Village. Mama died in 2003.
I am not saddened by these memories of Christmases past. I am ever so thankful that I have those memories and that these people have been part of my life.
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