When Holiday Memories Fall Short, Create a New Story

The year is 1965.

My sister and I wedged our little bodies into the overstuffed chair. Daddy sat between us. He held a book in his hand.

"Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house."

Daddy read the words. Mona and I eagerly listened, anticipating the next phrase.

We gazed at the pictures. We read the words. We heard Daddy's voice.

The tradition of reading Clement C. Moore's tale of Santa's visit repeated year after year. Indeed, my husband and I continued this tradition when our son Aaron was born in 1986.

That was the first year we recorded the annual tradition on VHS tape; our state-of-the-art video camera and its clunky cassette tape captured the sound and the movement with all the precision that the early generation of magnetic tape could muster.

In 1988, another little human added herself to the scene when Shannon, our daughter, was born.

Year after year, the scenes changed, but the story remained the same.

We prompted the kids to introduce themselves. "How old are you? What grade are you in? What's your favorite subject?"

When they learned to read, they each took turns reading a verse.

One year, we delayed the recording for a couple of days. One of the kids was sick? Maybe we just lacked the energy.

My husband dreams of editing all those recordings into one Ken Burns-worthy documentary:

"I'm six years old and in first grade," Aaron says in his high child voice. "My favorite subject is recess."

Later, "I'm 19, a sophomore studying English at Lesley University."

Later still, "I'm 35 years old," Reverend Aaron states with dignity, "And I serve as the settled minister at a Unitarian Universalist Church in Framingham, Massachusetts."

The fiction of Moore's story grounds our family tradition.

Whether we read the words, save the recording, are physically together on a specific day of the calendar, or are far-flung in different parts of the country, tradition trumps reality.

But the fiction of the fiction and the desire to get it right can be a goal too high ever to achieve.

When my sister and I settled in next to our dad to hear him read the story of Santa's visit, I knew with all my heart and every fiber of my body that Santa Claus and his sleigh and his reindeer were at that very moment merrily flying through the night sky on their way to our house.

Even so, I noticed Daddy's light wheezing between sentences. Sitting in the old threadbare chair, I inhaled the faint fragrance of his Pall Mall cigarettes as he licked his tobacco-stained fingertips and turned to the next page.

I wrote my letter with my humble requests for presents and left the note on our small play table alongside a glass of milk, a plate of sugar cookies, and a carrot for Rudolf.

I knew that I had to get into bed and try to go to sleep so that Santa could magically come down our chimney with his overflowing sack of toys. He'd stop and read my note, sip the milk, eat the cookies, and Rudolf would nibble the carrot, leaving just a bit of stem.

Then, Santa would write a quick response because my sister and I always left a blank note and a pen.

The next morning, Mona and I anxiously waited in the hallway leading from our bedroom to the living room. The door, never normally closed, remained shut for a ridiculously long time.

Finally, Daddy opened the door.

The Christmas tree lights are on. The wrapped presents under the tree were pushed aside, making room for Santa's gifts, which were never wrapped.

This year, a motorized race track spreads out before the tree. Two cars speed around the black oval—zip, zip, zip.

Did either my sister or I ask for this toy?

Did it matter?

Santa knew what was best.

The milk glass sits empty. A few cookie crumbs are scattered on the plate. A nub of carrot beside it. And a note from Santa in a handwriting so foreign to Mommy or Daddy's.

“Dear Bernadette,

You asked for a new troll, but I thought you’d like this racetrack instead.

Love,

Santa

P.S. Thank you for the cookies and milk. And Rudolf loved the carrot.

Does the perfect gift exist? Does it even matter?

Year after year, we read the story. We recreate the scene. We record, and then we move on.

The fiction of the fiction serves not as the goal.

The fiction of the fiction augments real life and makes it better.

The story adds spice to an ordinary sugar cookie. It adds color with bright sweaters and candlelight. The story provides characters we love in plots contrary to our mundane existences.

The fiction of fiction entertains our minds with stories we dare not live and adventures we cannot afford.

We turn the page. We watch the film. We listen to the story. We imagine. We dream. We broaden our worlds.

“I in my kerchief and ma in her cap.”

What kind of malarky is that?

No matter the version, the story resurrects memories of years gone by.

My recollection may be flawed, but it's mine, nonetheless. And when we finally assemble that retrospective video of all the Christmas Eve readings, the evidence may refute some of my memories.

In the end, the idea of tradition may matter more than the tradition itself.

And experts agree when they suggest,

“By acknowledging our emotions and approaching the season with a focus on well-being, we can create a more meaningful and fulfilling holiday experience.”

Whatever you do, whoever you are with, wherever you are, savor the now.

And if your now feels painful, lost, or depressed, turn on some upbeat music, play a positive movie, or pick up a good book.

May I recommend an old tale?

Better yet, write your new tradition. Draw a new scene. Hum, a new melody. Mix up a new recipe.

You are a creator. You matter.