Christmas Memories

When I was a little girl, this was the most magical time of the year. My father made it so. On Christmas Eve, I would go to sleep under duress because I was assured Santa would not come if anyone in the house was awake. While I slept, our living room was transformed into an enchanted wonderland. Balloons, streamers and confetti blanketed the room, toys were strewn everywhere, stockings on the mantelpiece bulged with treats, Christmas music played. The cookies, milk and carrots left for Santa and his reindeer were conveniently gone. Only a few crumbles remained. I was told that jingle bells rang, along with a resounding “Ho, Ho, Ho,” to signal Santa’s presence and departure, but I never heard either. I did not realize then, that of course, many children were not fortunate enough to have this abundance.

I maintained this tradition for my children. I could not have done otherwise. One might argue that this is a gaudy and overly lavish display; that this might engender selfishness and lack of understanding of the season. Nothing could be less true. To ameliorate the overwhelming profusion, my father would allow us to pick three toys to keep and would lock the rest away. Once a month, we were allowed to pick one toy. That way, everything was appreciated, enjoyed and lasted all year. I did the same.

If this was spoiling my children, it didn’t take. They are both the kindest, most considerate, generous and loving individuals I have ever known. I don’t know if they will continue this tradition with their children. I hope so. In that way, my father still lives and shares Christmas with us. 

This is an especially bittersweet time because I miss him so much. I can see him sitting in the corner, watching, laughing, loving every minute of our joy. Merry Christmas, Daddy.

Merry Christmas, All.

                                                          Illustration by Lynn Bywaters

EDUCATED- DECEMBER 2018 BOOK SELECTION

Educated by Tara Westover is a chilling, biographical account of one women’s journey from her rural upbringing in Utah to Cambridge and Harvard and back. A journey that was almost a fatal, both physically and emotionally.

Raised in a fundamentalist Mormon home, Westover yearned for learning outside of her narrow, constricted life. Unable to even attend school because of her bi-polar, religious zealot father’s insistence on supposed, non-existent, “home-schooling,” she was forced to glean whatever information she could from borrowed magazines, music and books.

Westover’s father’s paranoia grew to such an extent that even serious injuries and medical emergencies were only treated at home under the supervision of Westover’s mother, who practiced homeopathic, herbalist techniques. Everyone in the outside world was considered a threat.

As if this behavior was not enough, Westover and her siblings were forced to work for their father under grueling, unsafe conditions in salvage and construction while preparing for the “end of days.” The father’s controlling, domineering personality, coupled with the mother’s bullied, cowardice and compliance acted as an effective brain-washing technique for all the children. This smothering control extended to ignoring physical and mental abuse.

Tara Westover’s recounting of unremitting determination is inspiring, shocking and heartbreaking at the same time. She questioned her abilities every step of the way. Perhaps the very grit that allowed her to survive under such circumstances was the foundation that allowed her to succeed.

Recommend.