My Mother’s Christmas
First A Preview And Review
Been a challenging year. Lost two out of three uncles. Relationship ups and down. Business reinvention. Stalled remodeling. Derailed writing projects. Trying to do too much with too little resources. My own photography is saving me, helping to keep me fit, serving as an outlet. Made some breakthroughs in other areas too. Retreading, retreating, retrofitting, reorganizing, organizing, and self-re-recognizing.
Wears me out just to think about this year. A year dominated by Pluto, the god of death and transformation. God of power struggles, the underworld, the subconscious, money, power, sex, transcendence, inner demons, destruction, devastation, hope, oil, gasoline, water, floods, hurricanes, nuclear accidents, secrets, lies, deception, corruption, realization, inspiration.
All that is now in the past. Coming into this moment: the smell of Douglas fir needles and the fresh cut trunk of the new Christmas tree. Colored points of light reflecting off the black windows at night. Smelling black oak and ponderosa pine smoke from the fire blazing in the woodstove. Walking carefully outside, everything sparkles, covered with tiny crystals of ice.
I am teetering on the razor edge of the present and then slipping back into the past, a farther past. Christmas has not been the same since 2002 when my mother passed on. Gazing into the Christmas tree, I am transported back to memories of turkey, dressing, pies, big salads, presents all around the room. Christmas carols and bells jingling. A poem I wrote in 2005 can best bridge the gap from here to there. It was a poem about how my mother used to make Christmas…
My Mother’s Christmas
By David Leland Hyde
Written March 12, 2005
On the ground in East Quincy I found a palm-sized Christmas stocking labeled Mom.
I picked it up and began to spin back through my days.
I fell like piles of sand through an hourglass.
I heard the music of “Silver Bells, It’s Christmas time in the city,”
My mother sang and played piano.
It was Christmas time in the country.
Her voice a melody of tinkling glass.
The turkey in the oven,
Pumpkin pie spice floated from the kitchen.
Eyes so wise, knowing why.
Her mother, my grandma, grew up on a ranch,
One of four sisters with all that work.
The stuffing, a recipe handed down.
My mother never slowed down,
“Work, we must work, work, work.”
Only on Christmas breaking the spell with Carols.
Always with me through the night:
Her singing, “It’s Christmas time in the city.”
At midnight, I sneak out to see if Santa has come yet.
In the morning I play with a stuffed tiger around the tree.
My dad sets up for a picture of the three of us.
The stocking has a snowflake on the toe that looks like a star.
It brings me my mother, guiding me.
When she was alive I took her for granted.
She smoothed my way and held life together.
Now she is a benevolent force floating in the stars.
Holding a larger home.
“Silver Bells, Silver Bells, It’s Christmas time in the city.”
Do you have any special childhood memories of Christmas or another holiday you celebrate?