The times that we remember the most seem to those associated with holidays. Specifically Christmas appears to be the one holiday to which all others compare. We either joyfully or sadly recall past Christmas holidays. As I recall, they were controversial in our family even before I was born.
I’m going to go back a couple of generations in my story to give you a bit of background. In the late 1940’s and early 1950’s, my grandmother had six children (the seventh not born until 1954). My great-grandmother insisted they call her “Nanny” instead of grandmother, probably because she was a governess in England prior to immigrating here in the early 1900’s with her husband and children. She felt in the 1930’s she was much too young to be a grandmother and chastised my grandmother over her non-Victorian habit of obviously having sex not once or twice, but several times!
I’m not sure of the exact year, but I do recall my mother telling me that it was Christmas and the oldest of the then six children was serving in the Korean War. My great-grandmother used to regularly read tea leaves and after dinner one evening was asked to do so by the children. Normally a fun activity, this time, Nanny was reluctant to tell the family that she had seen the death of her oldest grandchild. She finally did and unfortunately, her forecast proved to be true when the telegram came on Christmas Day. My grandfather, in a fit of anger and grief, took the Christmas tree and threw it out of the house into the cold snow outside. From that point on, Christmas was never celebrated again by my grandmother and grandfather.
After losing her eldest, my grandmother went into deep mourning and became somewhat catatonic. My mother (now the oldest) dropped out of high school to care for her younger siblings while the family struggled to deal with not only the loss of their brother and son, but symbolically the loss of their mother. After a while, it was deemed necessary to move away from the dark north to the sunny south and the family settled in a small sleepy Florida town where my mother eventually met and married my father.
A nice older lady befriended my grandmother and slowly brought her out of her grief induced trance by assuring her that the Bible offered her the hope of seeing her dead son again. Grandma grabbed on to this hope with both hands and never looked back until passed away three years ago at the ripe old age of 90. After a few months or so, Mrs. E bought a house near the bay, and told Grandma that since she was moving she was going to have to turn her over to someone else who would come weekly to visit her. Grandma was incensed. She had never heard of turning over friendship to a perfect stranger! Friendship was friendship. She didn’t realize that she was a “study” for which Mrs. E had been counting time until much later.
While Mrs. E and Grandma remained friends for years thereafter, I do not think that my grandmother was completely indoctrinated at that point and didn’t become gung-ho until after 1959. The reason I say this is because I was born in 1955 and I do recall one family get-together in which we were celebrating with all my cousins, aunts and uncles in attendance. I remember standing on my tip toes peeking at a huge sheet cake with “Welcome 1959” in blue frosting on a white background on a side table off the dining room.
Fast forward a little time to the very early sixties. I do remember being chastised by my mother who brought me to a Kingdom Hall. Being small, fidgety and what was termed then a “race-track” child (or in today’s terms, hyper-active), I had a terrible time sitting still for the length of a then one hour talk. In fact, I remember being introduced by my mother to the very tall white haired ancient man in a dark suit and glasses who had been on the podium earlier speaking to the entire congregation.
He patted me on the head and later my mother told me that Brother W. was anointed and very disappointed in my behavior! He had (according to her) even thrown a pencil at my head I was so disruptive. I was mortified of course, but I still could not sit still for those meetings when we occasionally went back to the Kingdom Hall. My mother was trying to mollify her mother who was now becoming gung-ho in the “truth”.
Add to this the birth of my little brother five years my junior and I can tell you about Christmas at our house or at least two of them. I remember getting a lovely metal dollhouse that still gives me a warm fuzzy feeling when I think about it. I had a gorgeous orange and black stuffed tiger, while my brother got a Lionel train set that belched actual smoke. I remember Santa Claus coming to our house, although on that particular Christmas I believe I might have been a little more jaded as I remember considering the strong resemblance to the neighbor across the street.
I can also tell you about the Christmas’s we didn’t have and how hard it was to look out the window at the other kids with new bikes and toys and while trying to rationalize why we couldn’t have new toys too. Although I had no choice but to accept the JW Belief that it was wrong as instructed by my mother, emotionally I was sad and angry that we were deprived of this special day of the year that was so “kid-friendly”. My mother was not consistent in her holiday/no holiday actions so I never knew if I was going to have a birthday or a Christmas for sure. Some years I got lucky and some years I just missed out.
One holiday in particular stands out in my mind. My mother decided we would color Easter Eggs on Good Friday even though we both knew doing so was something of which grandma wouldn’t approve so we were to keep it from her. It was a wonderful conspiracy and I was extremely excited. It was also one of the few days in Florida that the day stayed overcast, dark and rainy almost as a premonition of things to come. Late that evening while we were doing the dastardly deed and listening to the radio, a bulletin broke through the music announcing that a terrible earthquake had rocked Alaska and had literally demolished Anchorage. Tidal waves were imminent. My world rocked, literally.
I remember looking at my mother and seeing overwhelming fear mirrored in her eyes that I also felt. Immediately we threw away the Easter Eggs while my mother continually voiced the fear that that Armageddon was beginning! I could not sleep that night and I remember praying frantically to Jehovah not to let Armageddon come and apologizing profusely for coloring Easter Eggs! I knew I was going to die. I still recall that deep, deep fear along with the knowledge that nothing would save me or my family and that we were all going to die. I was nine years old and scared out of my skin. I don’t think I fell asleep easily for a long time after that terrible incident in 1964.
More to come if you can bear it. Paula