View from the North 40: The Christmas one about miracles and lights

With a notoriously poor memory for the events of my childhood and a brain that seems to make stronger, longer-lasting neural links with negative memories than happy ones, it’s nothing short of a Christmas miracle that I have so many fond memories of this holiday from my younger years.

Even before the annual hunt for the perfect tree came the package from my Grandma Inez with her version of an advent calendar: a wall hanging of burlap with a green felt Christmas tree. It had tiny gifts or candy tied with yarn to it like ornaments, one for me and one for my brother for each day, marking the days until Christmas morning.

She did not wrap the gifts so they were the subject of much anticipation and discussion between my brother and me. Normally, a temptation like that would have sparked an argument or some kind of physical altercation in which blood would have been drawn, but I don’t remember ever getting into an argument with him over who would get what gift. We just worked it out. That was miracle enough in itself.

Eventually, though, the family would end up out in the woods trooping through the boughs of needles and the snow to find the perfect specimen on which to display our painstakingly arrayed ornaments. My brother and I took this all very seriously. Many trees would be rejected before we agreed on The One. If you listened closely you could hear Mother Nature sigh with relief as she happily sacrificed an 8-foot conifer to our peaceful negotiation.

And someone with OCD could hardly fault our attention to decorating detail, as we made sure we had perfect spacing and color variation among the decorations. It was quite a process.

Decorating started with lights (never tangled because we were careful) strung just so, then rope tinsel wound in the same direction as the lights (of course), then came handmade and personalized ornaments (many of them annual gifts from our Aunt Leontine), then metallic balls to fill any spaces, and finally the icicle-like dangley tinsel (spread individually and evenly — never clumped). The whole process took a couple hours to get everything right, but it was like we were possessed with an unnatural goodness.

This was always a couple hours not only without fighting but true cooperative effort as well, so the angels in the heavens sang “Hallelujah” over the peace that reigned in our living room. I don’t remember many of my gifts: art supplies were always a big hit, the toy horse with articulating limbs, the Barbie-like doll also with articulating limbs that actually wrapped around the horse to look like she was riding for real (so much better than stupid, straight-legged Barbie) and my first bike, blue with a white seat (but who gives their kid a bike in winter in Montana? Cruel parents that’s who, so I shouldn’t have gotten in trouble for riding it in the living room. Just sayin’).

This is what I do remember about every Christmas Day. My brother and I had an agreement that whoever got up first woke the other, so we got the big reveal of Santa presents together. We would tippy-toe through the dark to the living room, plug the lights in and behold the tree transformed with wrapped packages.

We were allowed to go through our stockings without parents there. We didn’t let that opportunity pass us by, so while they enjoyed another hour or more of the miracle of peaceful slumber, we got treats. And candy for breakfast.

We would pull the gifts and goodies from our stockings (always an orange at the toe) and array our bounty around us, whispering and playing quietly by glow of Christmas lights. We had to wait until 6:30 to wake our parents, and sometimes we looted our stockings so early, we had to go back to bed and start over later, always with the agreement that we would do this together. Tippy-toeing into their bedroom, we would divide and concur in a two-front assault, each picking a parent to whisper awake.

“It’s Christmas. It’s time to get up and open presents. C’mon. Santa was here. It’s morning,” we would say to their closed eyes in the dark. Our parents weren’t necessarily filled with Christmas cheer in those first moments of waking, but the tree lights always fixed that.

As far as I know, my brother and I never broke the Christmas morning pact. If he did, I don’t want to know. I prefer believing in our Christmas miracle and peace on Earth illuminated by tree lights.

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Merry Christmas to all and to all good lights at http://www.facebook.com/viewfromthenorth40.