Christmas is family, past and present

Christmas is family. Those words decorated the plaque that our friends recently gave us, and as I put away the decorations, I pondered the importance of family, both past and present.
When I was a child, my family wasn’t rich by any means. My dad worked for Dillon’s Food Chain at their warehouse in Hutchinson, KS.
My mom babysat neighborhood children and sometimes took in laundry to make ends meet, yet somehow gifts always appeared under our Christmas tree, probably because Mom loved giving.
However, as much as my brothers and I enjoyed handling our “feeler presents” until we’d rubbed off the top layer of paper, the most exciting part of the holidays was heading to my grandparents’ farm on Christmas Eve.
Dad loaded our luggage in the trunk of the big Nash, and we kids squished into the backseat. My older brother Tom threatened by Santa Claus’ omnipotence, behaved like a young gentleman--temporarily.
My three-year-old brother Doug, who sported red hair and a smile no one could resist, also knew Santa was making a list.
I enjoyed the unusual peace, but as we drove closer to the farm, our excitement mounted until it became nearly unbearable. Once we spotted a distinctive hill, our landmark that we’d soon be there, we bounced up and down on the seat and chanted, “Granny’s Hill, Granny’s Hill.”
Five miles north of Minneapolis, KS, we finally spotted the chunky Christmas lights Granddad had strung around the porch. After we drove down the long lane and pulled up close to the house, Gran stepped out onto the back porch, still wearing her cobbler’s apron.
Tom sprinted up the sidewalk and nearly knocked her down. I followed more slowly, holding Doug’s hand while our parents gathered up the luggage and presents from the trunk.
“I thought you’d never get here,” Gran said, hugging us. Then, she kissed her daughter, and after Dad had lugged the suitcase up the back porch steps, she stood on tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “Chas,” she said, “how are you?”
The smells of chicken noodle soup, made from her old rooster, dinner rolls, kalaches, cinnamon rolls, and all manner of cookies, fudge, and divinity wafted through the screen door as she opened it.
Inside, Granddad, with his silver hair neatly combed back and wearing pajama bottoms and a white muscle T-shirt, waited for his share of hugs.
Before Gran dished up the soup, though, we had to wait for my uncle, aunt, and cousins. They lived only 20 minutes away, but we waited and waited and waited until they finally pulled into the driveway.
My cousin Kenny, with electric blue eyes and brown hair, was a year younger than Tom. My cousin Linda, with her long blonde hair curled into ringlets, was my age, and while the adults chatted, we sneaked into the living room to scrutinize the gifts under the tree, hoping to spot one or two for us.
The farmhouse, built by my great-granddad to replace the original cabin, seemed as much a part of the celebration as any family member. The big coal-and-wood burning furnace in the cellar heated the downstairs, leaving the upstairs with its three bedrooms as cold as the north wind.
Downstairs, the kitchen, where we finally gathered around the table to say grace and chow down, had turquoise-colored appliances. The spacious dining room, with its China cabinet and a table that extended to fill the room, was painted turquoise.
The living room, with the Christmas tree and holiday decorations, stretched ten by 14 feet, large enough for our family, including great aunts and uncles, to celebrate in the next day.
After eating, we children traipsed upstairs, the girls and Doug in the north bedroom. The boys in the west, and my grandparents in the south, but for some reason, Gran and Granddad didn’t come to bed as we shivered under the comforters, our breath visible in the air, and strained our ears for Santa’s arrival.
We finally fell asleep, still waiting, but being good proved worth it the next day, with our stockings filled and presents on our chairs.
This year, Ted, Kenidee, and I traveled back to Missouri and Kansas to visit family and friends. We’d already seen my brother Tom and his wife, my son David and his family, my aunt Donna, Mom’s sister, now 97, my best friend from high school and her sister, and my niece Melissa. Our last stop in Kansas was at my grandparents’ farm to visit with Tommy, my nephew who farmed the home place, and his wife.
We sat in the huge family room the added to the house, and after we caught up with the family news, Tommy took us on a tour, so we could see their renovations.
At the top of the new staircase, he told us, “This used to be the south room, this one the north, but we took out the wall to make the rooms bigger.”
Downstairs, the back porch was gone as well as the bathroom, the kitchen had new cabinets and white appliances, bookshelves lined the dining room, Granddad’s office had dissolved into the family room, and the old living room would soon morph into a master bedroom.
The house was artistic and beautiful, but to be honest, if Tommy hadn’t oriented us, I wouldn’t recognize some of the rooms.
As we drove away, I realized only my aunt, brother, cousins, and I could remember those childhood Christmases when the old house wrapped around us like a hug and the frigid upstairs rang with giggles as we waited to hear reindeer landing on the roof. Christmas is family, both past and present.