By David O. Heishman
Unbased First Published on 12/23/2015
Twelve Days of Christmas. Part of the Christian church year between Christmas and beginning of Epiphany. Some denominations celebrate between December 25th and January 5th, while others recognize period between the 26th and the 6th. I don’t remember which period my Mother and Grandmother observed. I don’t remember how old I was when those twelve days were impressed upon me, but I still remember the results.
A big box. Not very thick, maybe six inches. About same width and height as Mom’s old Maytag wringer washing machine. She kept the box on end pushed back behind the washing machine beside her kitchen sink. A fit tight enough to fend off a curious little boy. That physical protection atop her verbal admonitions to stay away from and stay out of “the box” were enough to give me pause.
Grandmother Cook’s idea I think. I can hear her chuckle over the whole thing as I write. She packed that box with twenty four presents. Twelve for Sis and twelve for me. Each present wrapped separately. I can’t remember what any of them were, but all were wonderful.
Anticipation. Sis and I like baby birds in a nest, mouths open waiting for our gift from Mom. She’d roll old washer out slightly, pull box from behind it, open the flap, fish around in there for a present. First she pulled out might be for me. Yes! Agony when she pulled Sis’ first and I had to wait a couple seconds longer. Both gifts out, we were free to unwrap carefully so as to save paper for another year.
Every day for twelve days, even through my Birthday on January 4th. “Hurry up Mom.” “Come on Mom”. “Please Mom.” “Is it time yet Mom?” Mom was a “toughy”. She enjoyed torturing me, but she always relented with a big smile.
I remember the anticipation of receiving each gift, but I also remember the let down feeling when all twelve were handed down and opened. That’s all. No more. None tomorrow. Devastating to know Christmas was over after I looked forward to every day of it for so long.
Grandma and Grandpa talked about those days in later years. A lot of work before the days of computer ordering. Maybe Sears Roebuck, maybe Montgomery Ward orders, but I think most came over the counter from variety stores in Chillicothe, Ohio where they lived. Grandma didn’t drive, Grandpa griped a bit about hauling her all over the countryside shopping, but they laughed when they told about it. No big gifts. Nothing expensive. It was that anticipation that grew each present to massive size.
I thought a lot about subjecting my own children to such exquisite torture, but I never got around to it. Thirty six gifts plus all the hassle and hullabaloo buying, wrapping, distributing was more than I wanted to tackle on top of learning to run the Moorefield Examiner. I don’t even remember if Phoebe and I ever discussed it seriously. I wish we had. I wish we’d done it. To this day perhaps the most memorable Christmas I had back home. Ranks right up there with first shotgun, first ice slates and first big bicycle and American Flyer electric train.
Thank you, my readers. This column ends twenty first calendar year of my writing. Your comments pro and con, written or verbal have been appreciated. Those comments are proof I’ve been read. Those comments keep me writing after the twenty odd years I’d allotted myself.
Merry Christmas, Happy New Year!
