Memories of Christms Past

I've been struggling to both find time and ideas for posts.  This is a composite vignette of all my favorite memories from going into town for Christmas as a child.  I first published this five years ago.  I hope you don't mind the rerun.

Who among you remembers when shopping was a main street adventure rather than a mall experience? Maybe you grew up in a town with a vibrant downtown. Maybe you were like me and grew up in a smaller place and traveled to town for shopping on High Street. The town we went to was 7 miles away and it was always an event when we drive in, partly because of the the excitement of going to town, partly because we had so many relatives connected to downtown. Of course, in December there was the added fun of seeing all the decorations and visiting Santa's shack.


Often the adventure would start when we arrived in town and went to the newspaper offices to visit Nana, who was telephone switchboard operator there. First of all, it was a thrill to think we could stride right into the offices at such an important place and be ushered around to the desks of so many people to say hello. Second, it was always nice to be greeted excitedly by Nana. There was never a time she didn't squeal with delight to see us. I was also always amazed and impressed by what she did behind her switchboard. It was a huge wall filled with plugs that she'd pull out and push into different spots in order to connect callers to the person they wanted to talk to. She'd be taking calls through her headset and her hands would fly across the board even as she continued to talk to us in between. Between her ability to know where each plug had to go, doing it quickly, keeping up a conversation with us, and knowing how she could whip through a crossword puzzle, the Jumble puzzle, and the Cryptoquip in the paper each day I was sure she was some special kind of genius. On our way out Nana might give us a piece of candy from a bowl on her desk or maybe give my brother and me a little money to spend on a treat when we shopped with Mom.


From the newspaper offices we'd walk the two blocks to where the big action was, High Street. High Street was always an amazing sight to me. Our town's main street was short and narrow, just wide enough for two lanes of traffic and no parking. We had only recently gotten a traffic light at the second end of it. I could easily walk from one end to the other. High Street was longer than I'd want to think of walking as a child and it was wide enough for 3 lanes of cars with parking on both sides. All sorts of stores and shops lines both sides of the street. At one end was the diner. At the other was the library and hospital. My little town had no library or hospital. High Street had to be special to be so big and have so many important sorts of buildings and businesses on it.


Our next stop would be to Mr. Reuben's store where my other grandmother, Mom-mom, worked. It was a small women's clothier. Whether it was Mr. Reuben or Mom-mom who saw us first we'd be greeted warmly. Mom-mom would beam proudly while Mr. Reuben remarked about how my brother and I had grown and ask us how we were doing in school. He always seemed as happy to see us as our grandmother was. Mom-mom would introduce us proudly to anyone else in the shop she knew. Since she had worked in the same shop for 30 years she knew quite a few people. We'd be gathered up in hugs and kisses before heading back onto the street.


A trip to High Street almost always meant a stop at the New York Store. This was a local department store with three whole floors! Now you have to understand to a kid from the country a store that big was most impressive. There was a Sears on High street that was newer and had a bigger floor but even in the Sears customers never left the ground floor. At the New York Store we could explore the ground floor or go down the creaky wooden stairs to the basement or climb to the second floor. The New York Store seemed to have all sorts of things you couldn't find in other places and all sorts of interesting nooks and crannies to explore. Mom would pay for whatever purchases she had there. By then we'd be begging to go to Town Toy.


If the New York Store was impressive for its wide array of wares Town Toy was kid heaven simply because it was the only place I had ever been that was entirely devoted to toys. I couldn't imagine so many toys and here were piles and piles of them all under one roof. Mom usually made us endure whatever other shopping had to be done before we were allowed to enjoy this particularly favored destination.


We didn't get to High Street often so when we did there was usually a visit to the shoe store in order. How many pairs of Buster Browns did we go through in our childhood? I was especially hard on my shoes because my favorite playground apparatus was the swings. When I needed to stop I'd drag my toes in the dirt on each downswing to slow myself. I went through the toes of shoes so fast my mother threatened to buy me steel-toed shoes. I do recall Mom walking me past the work boots on one trip and asking me if that's what I really wanted to wear instead of my pretty shoes. The salesman would measure my feet and bring out boxes of shoes to try on, carefully preparing them before sliding them gently on my feet and squeezing the sides or pinching the toes to see if my foot rested in them properly. I liked the Brannock device. It fascinated me that someone could use this funny metal thing so deftly to know what size shoe I should wear.


After seeing our grandmothers and walking through the New York Store, the shoe store and Town Toy my brother and I were getting tired but there were more places to go and things to see. Fortunately, there was a bus service in town. This was more evidence to me that we were in a big, important place. No buses ran in my little town. My Uncle Duke drove buses for the city so Mom would find his line and we'd take a ride on "Uncle Duke's bus," as if he personally owned it. We always hoped there were seats near the front so we could sit right behind him and watch him closely. It was very impressive that he could maneuver this huge vehicle all around the streets and know where to go. I was sure I'd get lost or crash into something if I had to do his job. It felt good to rest on the bus before Uncle Duke dropped us near to our next destination, the library.


Aside from the toy store my other favorite place was the library. It was so big. I was just amazed that there were so many books in one place. Of course we had a library at school but this was just so much larger and had so many grown ups coming in and out. It had a lovely little children's section that was bigger than the one at school. It made me feel good to know that this building full of grown up books had a special place for kids. I liked that no one hurried me along too. During library day at school we only had so much time to pick a book before we had to line up and I'd always get lost in the stacks trying to decide what I wanted. At the library on High Street I wasn't being rushed. I could take out a bunch of books and look at them before getting more to look at and finally deciding what I wanted to take home. Oh bliss!


By now it was getting late and we had two more stops to make. We'd trudge back from the library and take a small break part of the way when we stopped at great-great Uncle Lloyd's general store. Uncle Lloyd was a tall, thin man with a long, lean, smiling face. The apron he wore at the store and the broom he carried to keep the worn wooden floors clean seemed to mirror his lankiness. He'd owned and run this little store for decades. He was a kind man and gave many a young person their first job. Unfortunately, by the time I was a child his business was waning quite a lot and he was sliding into senility. He was easily taken advantage of by the people he hired who began stealing from him. I prefer to remember his happy smile and the meticulously kept old fashioned store.


After visiting Uncle Lloyd we'd have renewed vigor as dusk was falling and the Christmas lights flickered on up and down High Street. We knew there was one last stop and this was the one we'd most been waiting for, the one we'd pestered Mom about since we'd arrived in town. Up ahead of the side of the main intersection was a red shack with a Christmas tree, a candy cane fence around it, and a tall red and white striped pole. Santa's Shack! We'd get in line for our turn to sit on Santa's lap and have our picture taken. The earlier visit to Town Toy had allowed my brother and me to refine our wish list. When it was finally our turn to go inside and see Santa we were ready. We'd each have our turn then both sit on his knees for the picture before being given a candy cane to take home.


Our trip to High Street was over and we'd head back to the car carrying the day's purchases, books from the library, and sucking our candy canes. During the drive home my mind would swirl with the images of switchboards, city buses, huge libraries and toy stores, creaky wooden floors, doting shop owners, a wide street, and Santa himself....perhaps a sugarplum fairy or two tiptoed in as well...but High Street was special enough when I was little.


What retro Christmas memories do the rest of you have?

RIP Mr. Sendak

Maurice Sendak has died.  Most folks will recall him for his book Where the Wild Things Are.  It's a wonderful book with a naughty protagonist, Max.  It was rather revolutionary in that it was descriptive of the inner life of a child rather than prescriptive in how the child should behave.  Sendak respected his audience enough to let them be who they were.

Among my favorite Maurice Sendak works are the illustrations to Elsie Holmelund Minarik's Little Bear series of books.  I had such fond memories of those books as a child that when I became a mother I sought them out for my own children.  I loved how Little Bear's own imaginary life was depicted and validated.

Mr. Sendak, thank you for giving children credit for greater sophistication than many grown-ups conceive and for both sparking and celebrating imagination for generations.  You live on in your wonderful books and illustrations.  And now, let the wild rumpus start!

Friday 55 & Da Count-Enthusiastic Imagination

I'm a high fashion model strutting down the runway. Everyone wants to be me.

I'm a fairy princess here to grant your wishes with my magic wand.

I'm a scuba diving ocean explorer discovering a shark no one else has ever seen.

Some props, some costumes, and a bit of imagination is all it takes.


DA COUNT

The remaining Limelets and I were invited to a friend's house for dinner last night. We had a terrific time. These friends have 4 children under the age of 6. While dinner was being finished the wee ones took us on a tour of the house and showed us their favorite costumes and danced to some fun music. It's been a long while since my Limelets have spent much time playing dress-up but it was great fun to spend time watching the transformative imagination that young kids have so much of. We saw ballerinas, queens, elephants, and panthers right before our very eyes because all it takes is a fancy dress, a regal bearing, your arm as a trunk, or your fingers as claws to make you anything you want to be. So in addition to enjoying time spent with grown up friends I had a blast watching all the imagination too. I think I counted this once long ago but I'm counting it again anyway.

So tell me, what did you used to pretend when you were small? You already know I spent time as Tarzan and Mowgli but I'll also tell you I liked to pretend I was a nun too....a flying one, of course. (Thank you, Sally Field.)

I Just Can't Escape This Color.

First a quiz, then a story...

You Are a Purple Crayon

Your world is colored in dreamy, divine, and classy colors. You hold yourself to a sky high standard, and you are always graceful. (Obviously the writer of the test has never seen me zipline, or even trip over my own feet when I walk down the street.) People envy, idolize, and copy you without realizing it. You are an icon for those who know you. (So why aren't you ALL wearing tie dye and Birkenstocks???) And while it is hard to be a perfectionist, rest assured it's paying off! (Perfectionists never rest!!! What's wrong with you?) Your color wheel opposite is yellow. While yellow people may be wise, they lack the manners and class needed to impress you. (Hhhm, but yellow is the color I want my bedroom to be.)

What Color Crayon Are You?

Onto the story...

My mother loves the color purple. LOVES purple. I have known a few other folks who love purple and I have to say there seems to be some inherent madness that attends this fondness for all things violet. No other color seems to elicit the same devotion or spark such mania. Even among lovers of purple my mom attains a special level of passion that far exceeds anyone else I have ever met.

She dates her love of the color to her teen years. All I know is that my entire childhood was bathed in shades ranging from deep purple to pale lilac. Mom was a seamstress so she made a lot of clothing...mostly in purple. My entire bedroom...purple. She tells the story of how she was helping me get dressed for school one day when I was 6 and I looked at her and intoned quite matter-of-factly, "Mommy, I really don't LIKE purple. I'd like to wear something else." She looked through my entire wardrobe and could not find anything that didn't have some element of purple on it. She was both cut to the heart and panic stricken by my stated dislike for her favorite color. She tells me as I outgrew clothes she began to let me choose other colors to wear until eventually I expunged every shade of purple from my wardrobe. I never again wore purple in any shade. In fact to this day I avoid it. I have exactly one purple item because Mr. Lime needed a shirt tie dyed purple as a sample for something. The person he had me make it for did not want it so it came back to me. My love of tie dye trumped my dislike for purple and I wear it as a pajama top.

My mother's passion for purple went beyond wearing it. When my dad left and we moved into town she bought one side of a small duplex. The siding was white and trim was black. In Pennsylvania Dutch country this "color" scheme was one of a few acceptable choices. Dark green, navy blue, or dark brown might also have been tolerated as trim colors. My mother of course chose to paint all the trim a shocking shade of purple. Initially she went with a very dark purple but she decided it was too likely to be mistaken as black so she quickly changed it to an unmistakable screaming, bright purple. Our house was across the street from the local high school. Between the location and the color we NEVER had to give anyone directions to our house. Where do you live? Do you know the purple house by the high school? Oh, yes. Are you next door? No, we are in it....blink blink...shuffling of feet...attempts at polite silence or kind remarks ultimately failing.

The above exchange reveals a bit more about the PA Dutch mentality regarding house color. The absurdity of the trim color meant the entire house was described as purple. The contamination was complete. We were actually listed on a Chamber of Commerce Scavenger Hunt one year (find the house number of The Purple House). If the neighbors were left in any doubt about my mother's sanity when she painted the trim they were convinced when she painted the entire carport purple and hung a giant sign which read "THINK PURPLE." Of course her innovation in reaching the second floor shutters for paint touch-ups may also have contributed to the neighbors' questions about her mental stability as well. Imagine a wisp of a woman standing on the second story window ledge while lashed with a leather belt to something heavy inside. Now add two kids reaching out of the window to hang on to each of her legs to keep her feet from slipping. I.am.not.making.this.up. This is the woman who dared to tell me I should know better than to go on a zipline without a harness. Had I not been overcome by anesthesia and heavy narcotic painkillers at the time I may have thought to remind her I learned from the best.

When I grew up and moved away I thought I'd be able to escape the color and its effect on my life. No purple clothes, no purple houses. Oh, and no purple cars. My mother had hers custom painted in her favorite shade. Then I had children and would you believe the very first color each of them could identify by name was PURPLE. Now, dear readers, let us consider normal language development in a child. One of the reasons that worldwide terms for female caregivers or mothers tend to have the M sound in them is because it is so easy for babies and toddlers to produce. They can randomly let their lips fall together as they hum and say mama or oma. Elated grownups reinforce this with glee and they begin to associate it with their mothers. Single syllable words with simple consonant sounds are easiest to learn. Thus, when learning colors one might expect RED to be first, perhaps followed by BLUE or GREEN. Not my children. Nooooo. Each one of them cooed out PURPLE much to the absolute delight of my mother, who I believe whispered to them in their sleep.

Eventually my mother built a new house with my stepfather and rented out the old house we grew up in. It was no surprise when the new house had purple carpets and walls in both the dining room and her bedroom. When the old house's trim needed painting it was surprising that my mother let the tenants chose the new color. No one was shocked when they opted for blue though it was interesting to hear that the neighbors were sad to loose the purple. I was surprised myself to find I felt a little bit of sadness that I could no longer go drive past the purple house of my childhood. The house is still standing. It's still recognizable as my old house, but there's a little something missing to not see the screaming purple shutters, door and railings. I think somehow all that purple seeped into my soul and is in a lot of ways responsible for me being able to be comfortable enough to state preferences that don't conform to everyone else's expectation or tastes. So thanks, Mom. Anyone want some tie dye?