I walked into the old farmhouse that housed four generations of the Jenkins family. Suddenly memories of Christmas Eve flooded my mind. I remembered so many details of that special night that made me laugh and shed a tear, but mostly, my heart swelled with gratitude.
Uncle Bill was standing in the doorway with his fancy video camera with enough lights to illuminate a football stadium. So what I did I get for Christmas that year? Retina damage…
I remembered my grandfather — we called Gumpa. He sat in his old burgundy chair with the wooden arms. It was his corner, almost a sacred place. He had a bird’s eye view of the front door from which to see who was coming to celebrate, and he probably celebrated more when some of them left. His unopened gifts practically made a fort around him. All he wanted was a pack of Butterfingers. My favorite, too, but I was way too excited to eat. Gumpa never knew my name — he referred to me as Benjamin’s child. I guess I should have worn a name tag.
And there was Lou. Her white hair and wide smile appeared almost as angelic as the radiant star on the top of the tree. She had cooked our favorite dishes and loved sitting in the center of her living room surrounded by tons of family.
I remembered the Christmas tree. It was huge and always had strands of popcorn and enough silver icicles to rock the living room with shimmering enchantment. Greeting cards were taped along the frames of the windows. Gifts nearly exploded under that Norfolk Island pine.
And there was that pesky first cousin who always wanted to give you his special Christmas present — wringing his hands on your arm till the skin turned blood red. Or that other wild cousin who poked our doll baby’s eyes out; we cried our eyes out too.
Aside from all the unruly cousins, sugar high, and endless pairs of unwanted socks, there was another feeling that engulfed the room — unconditional love. The sights and smells of benne seed cookies and fruitcake only heightened our sense of how special it was to be together. I especially loved the Moravian star that was hung from the porch ceiling — it represented the star of Bethlehem, a reminder of the true meaning of Christmas.
Those beautiful Christmas Eves that we referred to as “going up to the yard” were amazing. Sadly, those 100 Christmases are now over, but they will never be forgotten.
I miss the faces, the warmth, and the anticipation for the next day. I miss my parents, sister, my grandparents, cousin, uncles, my aunt, and even the antics of that crazy cousin who hurt my arm.
It was so innocent, magical, and just plain fun. We didn’t know what would happen and we really did not care, because on that magical night we celebrated the best gift of all — each other.
