Growing up, we never had a regular Christmas tree. That may have been because my mom was creative, or it might have been because we were poor and necessity is the mother of invention. Perhaps it was both. About two weeks before the 25th, my mom and dad would go to the woods and find a limb that she thought was just right. My dad would then affix the limb to a platform, and Mom would put flocking on it and hang “icicles” and cheap treats from the branches. It was fantastic!
We used the same stockings every year, and they would be filled with fruit, nuts, hard candy scooped from a barrel, and ribbon candy with felt from the inside of the stocking stuck to the sides. Walnuts were okay, and pecans were decent, but cracking Brazil nuts and almonds without crushing the whole thing was tedious and gave little reward for large effort. They usually just sat around until summer and got thrown out. The felt fibers on the candy were no big deal—just suck on it for a couple of minutes, spit, and voilà: clean candy.
The kids usually had two presents. One was something practical, like shoes, jeans, or a coat, and the other was a treat. For me, the treat was best if it was a ball. Nobody really cared how much they got because as soon as the openings were done, all the guys went outside to see what everyone else received. We would play catch with my ball, shoot someone’s fiberglass bow and arrow (of course with the stoppers removed from the tips and the ends sharpened!), ride the rich kids’ bikes, break the dart guns quickly, get the Slinkys in kinks, play paddle ball until the rubber bands broke, rock-em sock-em robot fight, bust wooden tops, look in kaleidoscopes, and yo-yo.
Before long, the “stuff” would be forgotten (unless you got a Schwinn Classic Orange Krate complete with a gear shift), and Christmas would move on. Christmas night, we would gather around the Zenith black-and-white television and watch Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer or, if we were being tortured, the Andy Williams Show. Supper was usually baked turkey, dressing (with egg yolks—yuck), gravy, cranberry sauce, green beans, and, for whatever reason, often tamales.
The toys were fun, and some years I got something really cool, but I never really worried about Santa. The Sears catalog was fun to peruse, but I didn’t expect to get that stuff. I thought people with real trees were odd, and fake trees were not a thing. The food was okay, but a bologna sandwich with mustard and potato chips inside would have been just as good.
Christmas was about people. It was about my mother’s mother showing up looking ancient (younger than I am now) and dipping snuff—really. It was about Uncle Elijah snoring in the chair. It was about going to my cousins’ house in Brownwood the day after. Christmas was about my dad being home, and later my married brother and sister coming home, and us staying busy playing games and running around until we were exhausted.
The holiday season for a kid in the '60s was about being carefree and not losing sleep over LBJ, Woodstock, or whether the turkey was dry or if we would have pumpkin pie or pecan. I didn’t care if Granny smoked in the house, and sleeping on the floor was no big deal. Water wasn’t bottled, cable didn’t exist, nobody had a computer or a cell phone, microwaves were yet to be, we read maps, gaming meant baseball or football, and television was only in color if you were rich. Nonetheless, I slept like a baby every night knowing that all was well, two pairs of jeans were plenty, and shoes with holes in them were the norm.
These days, I catch myself wanting to go home for the holidays. Mom and Dad are gone, as is my brother. The “old folks” are just memories, and I am now the “old folk.” I don’t know the people living in any of the homes of my youth. (One owner did say, “We have always wondered who Eric ’77 is!”)
If we are not careful, Christmas becomes a production, with presents piled high, money spent extravagantly, meals needing to be perfect, trees (multiple) elegantly adorned, the latest news dominating our conversations, and trying to mask disconnection. In the midst of all the process, I sense that something is missing—that I need to rediscover.
I can’t reverse time, but I can bring time to me. This Christmas, I can not worry about gifts under the tree. I can not even worry about the tree—Mom didn’t. I can ignore that “the little lights aren’t twinkling.” I can be blessed by sandwiches or tamales or—who really cares? I can share what I have with others and be grateful for what THEY have. I can fall asleep in my chair knowing my kids are grinning while I snore.
This Yuletide, I can enjoy friends and family while we laugh, play games, and share a glass or two. During this winter festival, I can choose not to worry about a broken dish, a stain, burnt gravy, or the latest political scandal. Instead, just like the '60s, I can relax, enjoy the people I love, be grateful for another cycle, and sleep like a baby knowing that the Lord born in a manger is in control—and I don’t have to be.
And I will be home.
Will you join me?
Blessings, Eric Cupp
