I recently heard the Christmas season referred to as “a season for profit,” and “a commercial circus.” In the Seattle airport, a complaint led to the removal of several dozen decorated Christmas trees; but the city of Mobile has begun calling their annual parade a Christmas Parade again instead of a Holiday Parade. In busy stores, I’ve overheard such remarks as, “Hush! I told you you’re NOT getting that. I am trying to finish this shopping. Shut up!” or “I don’t know what to get him. He’s a problem every Christmas.”

I have often wanted to hold up my hand like a street-crossing guard and shout, “WHOA! STOP! “ in reaction to all the madness of hustle and bustle and stress and hurry. I think an ideal Christmas would be to step inside one of those Currier and Ives Christmas cards where snow is a foot deep, smoke curls out of a farm-house chimney, Christmas tree lights gleam from the window, and outside there’s a horse hitched to a sleigh. There would be a sumptuous old-fashioned meal inside, and each person will receive one gift; followed by a reading of the Christmas story from the Bible and a sleigh ride. Too idyllic, I know.

When I grew up, it seemed Christmas would never get here. Children did not get toys year round; not even for birthdays. The only time we got toys was at Christmas, because the local dry goods stores didn’t display them except at Christmas. My daddy and his brothers and sisters told me that Christmas was the only time they got fresh fruit. Children of their era hung real stockings (not needle-pointed ones) at the fireplace and they got fruit, nuts and hard candy in them. Of course the Christmas meal was a feast with chicken and dumplings and dressing made from scratch and the chicken “killed from scratch by my grandmother,” who was very adept at wringing necks.

Those of us who grew up in the 40s-50s arose on Christmas morning to walk barefoot on cold linoleum to find toys under our tree. I love books and always got those. How many of y’all remember the “Sparkle Plenty” doll? Little girls always got a baby doll for we were encouraged to be mothers and homemakers before that became “not cool.” Our pedal cars were metal, not plastic and our tea sets were glass. Our rocking chair was wicker and our table and chairs were wooden, not

orange and green plastic. Christmas dinner was at Grandma’s not at a five-star restaurant nor aboard the Princess Cruise Line in the Caribbean.

Christmas memories are filled with sounds that, as one grows older, still bring us joy. There are the familiar Christmas carols we sing at church, the tinkling of the Salvation Army bell and the Christmas laughter of friends and family members, which we still can hear if we can stop this rushing about at Christmas and listen for them again.

And the sights of Christmas are also there to remember and smile about. I shall never forget my husband and my oldest grandson bringing home the most misshapen Christmas tree I ever saw. I think we actually tied a limb to one spot to make it halfway presentable. We called that one our “Charley Brown” Christmas tree.

But absolutely nothing can rival Christmas smells. There is nothing on this earth that smells as good as dressing baking. The mixture of chicken broth, green onions, bell peppers and sage mixed with scratch cornbread is simply divine to my nostrils! I recall my grandmother keeping her homemade fruitcake down inside a five-gallon lard can with a tight-fitting lid. When she would go into that closet and raise that lid to pour some spirits on the cheesecloth that wrapped the cake, I’d go in there with her. OH! the pungent smell of that rich cake! Come to think of it, I guess that wasn’t a Baptist fruitcake? It was delicious though.

I wish I’d kept a diary of all my Christmases. I think it’s important to share Christmas past with descendents; for your family’s memories and experiences are uniquely yours and should be passed on, not forgotten. As for that Currier and Ives Christmas I dream about; I think I have it all covered except foot-deep snow.

Merry Christmas.