One set of my Christmas memories comes from the early-to-mid 1950s – ancient history to most folks but very real to me.
I would have been seven, eight, or nine years old, somewhere in there.
Christmas night was when a passel of Mama’s kinfolks descended on our house. Eight, 10, maybe 12 adults, and at least that many kids. If they were roughly the age of my parents or grandparents, they were “aunts” and “uncles.” If they were about my age, they were some kind of cousin.
The kiddie tables back in the kitchen, that was where the action was, where the fun was, and where I figured I was learning how to be a teenager like my older cousins. Teasing and taunting, giggling and gossiping. I mean, who wants to sit with the grown-ups, be still, and say “Yes, ma’am,” and not understand half of what they are talking about anyway?
And then there was the christening of my five-year-old brother’s new Christmas pants.
Brand new that morning.
No hand-me-downs.
Corduroy, even.
An older cousin had smuggled in four or five Roman candles (from another state where they were legal) and the kiddie tablers tippy-toed out into the backyard to shoot them off. After much begging and whining, little bro got to shoot the last one, a small, five-shot version.
It all happened so fast.
The first shot of fiery phosphorus goes off well enough into the night sky.
A couple of seconds later, the second shot heads out pretty much parallel to the ground. The third, into the dirt about 20 feet away.
The fourth, into the ground about three feet from his shoe. All while he wailed but still gripped the candle for dear life, the fifth shot torched his lower pants leg.
Somehow, he was not burned or hurt, but all the commotion had parents boiling out of the back door and setting up little conferences in the shadows of the backyard.
From where I stood, they looked to be pretty serious conferences.
But it was another Christmas night family gathering that I now recall with the most fondness.
I’m guessing it was 1954, maybe ‘55.
After dinner, the adults adjourned to the front room, which had a fire in the fireplace and a beat-up old pump organ buried over in the corner. The kiddie tables were in full swing back in the kitchen.
It was then that we back into the kitchen and began to notice unusual sounds of singing coming from the front of the house. Singing, with enthusiasm, hymns, maybe a couple of show tunes. Anyway, we kids began quietly migrating toward the action.
Aunt Marjorie and Uncle Bill were the family performers, and they were leading the efforts. Aunt Marjorie was on the sorry old pump organ, her feet attacking the two pedals near the floor like it was a bicycle race, her fingers dancing up and down the keyboard (which sometimes responded with sounds, sometimes with nothing, sometimes just a wheeze), her head turned over her shoulder as she sang, glancing at husband Bill when they harmonized.
Uncle Bill stood near the fireplace, singing with a deep, rich baritone voice that must have started somewhere down near his navel. I can still clearly recall the first couple of verses of his sly singing of an old folk song called “Froggy Went A-Courtin’.”
“Froggy went a-courtin’, and he did ride. Uh-hum.
“Froggy went a-courtin’, and he did ride. Uh-hum, uh-hum.
“Froggy went a-courtin’, and he did ride, sword and a pistol by his side.
Uh-hum, uh-hum, uh-hum.”
The second verse is much the same, except Froggy “goes up to Miss Mousey’s side” and asks her to “be my bride.”
Several other verses should indicate a cautionary tale: it would take Froggy a lot more than the bluster of a sword and pistol and the flashing of a shiny rock to win Miss Mousey.
As I looked around the room that night, I absorbed a feeling. I can’t say it was a rational thought, but rather just a boy feeling something around him. Earlier, I had heard the adults say something about Bill being “back from Korea,” but it meant little to me.
That night, in that room, there were feelings afloat. Of peace – no worries, no problems, no anxieties. Of pleasure, even joy – in each other’s company, of doing something together, of seeing Uncle Bill standing there in their midst again and singing about a frog and a mouse in his rich, deep baritone. It was a kind of celebration.
It was as if, maybe, just maybe, this is the way it is supposed to be.