Music was a big part of our holiday. The day after Thanksgiving, and occasionally before that, the Christmas albums moved to the spot adjacent to the stereo, and it seemed that they played most of the day. The Mormon Tabernacle Choir and Julie Andrews were our favorites. Now and then during other times of the year Mom would put on a Christmas album, and that’s when we knew she was homesick. Since all of us took piano lessons at some time growing up, every year there were a couple of us learning carols for our lessons, so there was disconnected background music each December afternoon that sounded vaguely like familiar Christmas tunes.
Christmas was about making other people happy. I remember the family going to a nursing home to sing carols. We weren’t real thrilled about singing to strangers, but mom insisted we go. The home looked and smelled strange inside. The senior citizens looked blankly at us, wondering why our horde had invaded, I suppose. But when we started singing, their faces brightened. Some smiled, some clapped their hands, and some tried to join us in raspy voices. After our performance we passed out oranges to the residents. Some of them grabbed for us and wanted hugs. I felt a little awkward, but couldn’t say no. I remember thinking that they really weren’t hugging me. They were hugging the people in their lives that should have been there for them, but weren’t. I was just the stand-in for their moment of pleasure, and that felt good.
Several years we hosted a Christmas open house at our place, inviting ward members, neighbors and the missionaries. It was chaos, but it was fun. Mom baked like crazy the week before to provide the refreshments. She made banana bread, light and dark fruitcake, and her heavenly lemon nut bread. I remember squeezing the citrus for the hot spice punch (the juice of seven lemons and seven oranges in each recipe). It had to have been a load of extra work for dad and mom, but everyone enjoyed the party. There seemed to be wall-to-wall people of all ages. I recall that one year Frances Whiting commandeered the grand piano and sang like an opera diva. Someone--probably Dad---hung mistletoe from the hallway light, and there was some strategic maneuvering by certain guests to avoid or congregate underneath it.
Like Ginny, I remember going caroling to nursing homes as a family. The smell of old people combined with disinfectant would sweep over me as I moved in among the groups of resident, and my stomach would turn. I joined in the singing and distributing of oranges anyway. I recall handing an ancient toothless woman who was sitting in a wheelchair an orange, which she proceeded to gum, peel and all. I was mortified. As I look back on it, I should have offered to peel and divide the juicy sections for her. Although it was not pleasant for me to visit nursing homes for many years following that experience, now I really enjoy visiting my neighbors and loved ones who reside in such establishments.
ReplyDelete-Margaret