Christmas on the Farm

                A green Christmas—I think this is a first for me.  I remember many white and brown Christmases, but never one with grass returning to life in the gentle rain.  Thinking back to how cold it could be, triggers memories of Christmas Eve at my grandparents’ farm.  The upstairs of the old house was heated by warm downstairs air rising through round iron floor grates.  I can still feel the bone-jarring, teeth-chattering cold of climbing into bed, the mountains of blankets heavy on my young frame.  Eventually the shivering would warm the covers enough that my teeth would quiet and I could listen to adult chatter floating through the grate as they played cards long into the evening.  The air still smelled of wonderful food—mostly the final course, Grandma’s plum pudding made from her mother-in-law’s English recipe.  As scrumptious as it smelled, I could never bring myself to ignore the raisins and try some.

                It was hard to fall asleep after all the festivities.  There were afternoon games with the cousins—cards and Chutes and Ladders.  If it wasn’t too cold, the older ones would go for snowmobile rides while we younger ones played on snow piles near the house.  Grandma always had a huge batch of hot cocoa on hand when we came in.  When gift opening time arrived, the kids had to work for our presents.  We could either sing a Christmas song or read a story or poem from a box of clippings.  The cousins exchanged names back at Thanksgiving so there was a toy present to open from them and a practical present to open from Grandpa and Grandma.  Usually Grandma crocheted hats, scarves, or slippers.  I still remember wearing my red and white hat and purple scarf in grade school.

The cousins sporting our new hats--1976

                 In the morning, we’d race downstairs to the warm kitchen for a quick bowl of cereal before church.  It’s funny how I still picture their church from a child's perspective—people towering over me, blocking the view as we belted out the long Glorias of “Angels We Have Heard on High.”  After church we’d head down the road for a town Christmas with my other grandparents—another  day filled with cousins and games and food.  Sifting through these memories feels a lot like a hug…the kind you thrive on as a child and miss as an adult.