Tuesday, December 03, 2013
In 1957, my mother stole Christmas and moved it into her heart for safe keeping. Granted, Christmas of 1958 was spent with friends, but after that, each December Mom brought forth her treasured love of the season, shining it's ever-growing light into even the darkest of corners. Mom bought the most beautiful trees, filling them with lights, ropes of mother-of-pearl washed Lucite beads and ornaments rare and fine. She took us caroling night after night. No church service was missed. Several times each December we all waited on long lines to see the Harvey's nativity scene at Centennial Park one more time, and one more time, and please, just one more time. Gingerbread houses were made and our own home shimmered with good cheer, carols and wonderful smells.
The love of my mother's life, my father, died suddenly on December 27th, 1957, when I was 9, my brother was 6 and my sister was 11. But my dear, dear mother put aside her grief long enough to steal Christmas from his coffin. She hid it away it in her heart and then gave it back to us, all warm and shiny, each and every year.