Meggie Pitter grows up in Framingham, Mass., and tells her story as she lies dying, wandering between the worlds, engaged in conversation with her friends, as they too, tell her about their lives and loves
This is part of Meggie's story...remembering Christmas as a child.
Chapter 3
The Years of the Family
In the beginning, there was no big world around us. We were infants
toddlers, and then just kids. At about age four, we began to have memory.
We were under the spell of goodness until December 7, 1941.
Until that date, we knew of only one worldly event, the birth of the
Christ child in Bethlehem. Often I thought, Bethlehem sounds like “birth of
Him.” We children could relate to that far away event because Christ too,
was a child. I saw him only in that manner, when we said our prayers at
night. We loved to celebrate his birthday. Looking back, it seems that in our
innocence, we came closer than we ever would to the divine.
In those days, I imagined that everyone had a home like we did, with
a mom and dad, a family car, a dog, our own bedrooms, and an extended
family who visited at least weekly. Yes, all that and the magic of Christmas.
As we reached for the divine, Christmas fueled our imagination.
Christmas morning was spectacular. It was heralded the night before by
listening and singing along with Christmas carolers on the radio, and we
learned that it was a treasured evening. Then as we settled into the quiet of
our bedrooms, my brother and I could close our eyes and imagine where
Santa might be on his journey around the world. In this small way, we
learned to dream of the future, to meditate on something that brought love
to the children of the world.
Our home smelled like a wonderful forest. The six-foot fir, decorated and
exciting to us, nestled between the twin chairs of mom and dad. We were
lucky if it snowed so we could be transported into a world of snowy vistas
where snowflakes looked like precious lace and ice sparkled like diamonds
in a fairy kingdom bustling with Santa’s toy makers. Mom wove the stories
for us as we sat under the tree, lost in the dream she created, and our eyes
grew large with the wonders of the world.
We learned that Santa was really St. Nicolas, and he helped make all the
children of the world happy on the birthday of baby Jesus! Mom told us the
story, popular during the Depression, of “The Poor Little Match Girl.” I
wanted to hear it again and again, how she had suffered to save her mother
from starvation, but in the end had lost her own life. I cried in disbelief.
It was the beginning of learning that we had to make our own goodness
in the world. We believed in love as we hurried to bed with all the love we
had in our little hearts!
Christmas morn always dawned with the feeling of a spectacular event
about to unfold. Dad had gone to take care of the furnace. We could hear
the steam starting to ping and bang the radiators. Maybe this woke us?
Or was it the luscious smell of turkey that was wafting through the early
morning hours since mom had placed it in the oven before she went to bed?
Ah, Christmas was and always will be for children!
The magic of Christmas was even greater if Santa ate the cookies and
drank the milk we left on the kitchen table as softly falling snow blanketed
the ground around us. I thought that Santa was always better off to have
snow for his sleigh to slide on before he rose into the air.
Christmas morning, we checked the kitchen table first for crumbs then
rushed to the tree to identify our presents. In the night, frost had crept in
and left its mark on the windows. It grew almost all the way up the thin
glass to the sash. As the house began to grow warm, mom, in her special
way, captained the day, always steering a strong course through the mishaps
of conversation, interaction, and childishness.
Are we the same people who celebrated the birth of Christ by creating
the spirit of a magical time on that special day? How many times did we
recite “The Night before Christmas “with wonder and awe before that fateful
December day in 1941?
The scene melts away with the melting window frost as the steam heat
rises under the windows, blending all into the mists of the past. The water
on the windowsills is all that remains of the magical frost. Did the crying
windows know the future and begin the mourning for those special days that
would be lost forever when our small family shared an experience of love
with the world? Is family still strong enough to do that in this new world?
Movie scenes of my life flicker in my head as I recall moments in time
that never truly leave us. I first saw the jitterbug (swing) in my Aunt Mary’s
farm house kitchen. My cousin Bob was getting ready to leave for the service.
“Java Jive” blasted out of the phonograph, and Bob grabbed his girl, Beverly,
to take over the small kitchen in the most fabulous dance I had ever seen.
I could not wait to learn it!
Music was everywhere in our lives. Mom played the piano, dad, the
accordion, my brother Frank, the clarinet. I played piano and accordion.
We played and sang the songs of the time. At the end of the war, songs
with abandon became popular, like “Let it Snow, Let it Snow” by Vaughn
Monroe, and I especially remember, “Five Minutes More” by Frank Sinatra.
Love was back in the world, and we could finish growing up!
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