The first thing I remember about Christmas, growing up, was the comic on the front page of The News Virginian, drawn by a local high school art student, either Santa and a sleigh, a reindeer, a baby in a manger, mother Mary, something making you feel good about the season, with the countdown, 17 days until Christmas, or whatever it was that day.
Each day seemed to drag on for several.
The anticipation.
The last school lunch before Christmas was the school lunch version of turkey, mashed potatoes, corn, a roll, plus the tiny container of chocolate milk.
My mom usually packed my lunch, because I was (am) a picky eater.
Lunch back then: a jelly-and-butter sandwich, chips, banana pudding.
Every day, for me, except the day before Christmas break.
Well, and pizza day.
In sixth grade, we did a Christmas-themed play, and I was the lead.
I tried to Google from the bare details that I remember.
My character’s name was Jimsy, and the female lead was Janie.
I’m not getting much.
I’m pretty sure that there was a controversy one year about recognizing Christmas at school at all, which I get now.
I don’t remember the kids being too bent out of shape when we were told we couldn’t have the Christmas party.
I can imagine the hue and cry today.
Little ol’ Crimora Elementary would be all over Fox News.
Another memory that came back as I was scanning the memory banks was that my Granddaddy John used to spend the week between Christmas and New Year’s with us.
I hadn’t thought of Granddaddy John in forever.
I hate that about life.
We lived in a 12×60 trailer growing up. It had two bedrooms; my sister and I had a bunkbed in our bedroom.
For Granddaddy John Week, my sister slept with my parents, and Granddaddy John – a larger-than-life man, six feet and 300 pounds, easy, slept on the bottom bunk.
It didn’t register with me then, and didn’t until I thought of him sleeping in that tiny bed again this week, like, wow.
This doesn’t have to do with Christmas, but I remember that whenever we’d visit Granddaddy John out at the family homestead in Deerfield, his parting words for us, as we drove by the tiny house: see you in the funny papers.
It only registered with me, just now, that we visited on Sundays.
The day the Sunday paper had the full-color comics.
We’d be back next Sunday.
Get it now.
Christmas Day itself went by way too fast.
It used to take an act of Congress to get me out of bed in the morning – I hated school – but on Christmas, we were up before the crack of dawn.
In a flash, the presents were opened, and we were on our way to my Granny Decker’s, for lunch.
Both sides of my family were huge – lots of aunts and uncles, first cousins.
Christmas at Granny Decker’s was a game of basketball with my cousins Andy, Jimmy and Patrick, then lunch, presents, cookies.
I remember one year, I had gotten an extra Star Wars land cruiser, and my Aunt Bonnie offered to buy it from me to regift to my cousin, Gerald.
We settled on five bucks; she asked if she could pay me back later.
I said, sure, at 100 percent interest, compounded daily.
I was 7.
She borrowed the fiver from Granny to avoid the interest.
Which meant I went home that year with $10 in cash, because Andy/Jimmy/Patrick’s grandmother, Mrs. Bertucci, always gave the cousins a card with $5 in it.
Ten dollars at age 7 might as well have been a million.
Day after Christmas meant a trip to Kmart for the after Christmas sale.
Which was like Christmas all over again.
One year, probably 1982, I’d gotten an Atari for Christmas, and scored Moon Patrol at the Kmart after Christmas sale.
Those were the days.