I started to take the day off from doing my usual Sunday blogging…it is, after all, Christmas, and no one expects me to work on Christmas, do they? I don’t really consider it work–maybe because I don’t get paid for it 
and anyway, it’s therapeutic. I need a little therapy today. This blog isn’t about massage, so consider yourself warned.
Each year when Christmas draws near, I find myself remembering a lot of Christmases past. Some of those memories are sweet, and some are upsetting. When I was younger, my favorite thing at Christmas was the gathering of the clan at my grandparent’s house. All the aunts and uncles and cousins gathered. The cousins and I played music, we had turkey and ham and all kinds of good country cooking. Now that my grandparents are gone–and some of the aunts and uncles are too–the whole family doesn’t come together like that anymore, and it’s kind of sad. We still see each other, but we’re never all in the same place at the same time anymore like we were back in those days.
As an adult, another tradition developed. My best friend and I spent time together on Christmas Eve for about 18 years. She was suffering from clinical depression, and some other emotional problems. Suddenly one year before Christmas, she sent me a letter saying she didn’t want to celebrate Christmas anymore, that she just wanted to be alone. I responded with a letter about her depression being the cause and begging her to get some help, and she got mad at me and stopped speaking to me. For the next decade or so, until she died, I would send her a card every year telling her how much my memories of spending Christmas Eve with her meant to me, and she never responded. It was a hurtful thing, but I know that her illness was behind it, and I just had to not take it personally.
I have childhood memories of some favorite Christmas gifts. When I was 3 or 4 years old, I got a small white grand piano. That was my first musical instrument and I loved that piano. A neighbor child who was playing at our house broke it and I was crushed. Fast forward a couple of years, and my stepdad’s parents gifted me with a real piano. That was the real beginning of my lifelong love of music. When I was nine, my mother got me my first guitar with Green Stamps. In case you’re not old enough to know what Green Stamps are, they were stamps that were given out at the grocery stores. You had to collect them by pasting them in little booklets, and they had a catalog of gifts you could get by collecting so many of them. I know there’s a picture of that somewhere, and I’d like to find it. That same year, my oldest brother played a trick on me by giving me a Christmas present that was in a huge box that a television came in. On the inside was layer after layer of newspaper wrapped around something. It turned out to be a bottle of Scope mouthwash. I could have choked him. I was all excited thinking I was getting a television for my bedroom. READ MORE…
