It’s that time of year. The time when we drag our traditions out of the closets and boxes and begin spreading them about the house. When recipes and recollections join together to create new memories or give life to old ones. It’s a time so steeped in the past that sometimes, if we’re not careful, it’s difficult to be present in the present.
As I have grown older that struggle has become greater. I look back at my own childhood . . . at the people who were so much a part of it and are no longer here . . . aunts and uncles . . . my grandparents . . . my parents . . . and sometimes the world feels a bit emptier than it did just a few minutes before. And the traditions I loved so much! The trip to Memphis each year, to Goldsmith’s downtown where the Enchanted Forest came to life, allowing me to wander through my childish fantasies filled with giant lollipops and candy canes . . . with reindeer and elves and all things Christmasy. And Santa at the end. And, of course, the obligatory pictures. Oh, and the Sears catalogue, the one my mother would hand us each year and tell us we could select X number of things (usually with a limited monetary value) that we’d like to have for Christmas. I guess it was her version of a letter to Santa. That didn’t mean everything would magically appear under the tree . . . the aluminum tree with turquoise glass ornaments . . . the one that eventually turned into a live tree that my father would take outside and empty at least a dozen cans of flocking on to.
There was always Christmas with the Bolivar family; we’d take turns each year, but my favorite was going to my grandparents’ house with their small aluminum tree that always stood in front of the fireplace, atop the carpet covered in what I thought were the most beautiful pink and green cabbage roses. And we’d all crowd around the dining room table for the traditional meal followed by the best dessert in the whole world. Sweetened condensed milk that had been boiled in the can until it caramelized. Once it cooled my grandmother would cut both ends out of the can and use one lid to push it through the other opening. The edge of the can served as the guide for cutting, yielding perfect circles of creamy caramel goodness that were always accompanied by vanilla wafers. I’m sure there were other things, too. Probably coconut cake made with freshly grated coconut—but only after an ice pick had been used to puncture the thing three or four times so the coconut water could be drained from it. Then the hammer and chisel came out. And the grinder that was always attached to the ironing board so we could grind the cranberries for the cranberry salad that pretty much only my dad ate. When we’d all grown up with homes of our own, returning to the nest at Christmas became a new tradition; that was when Dad started gathering everyone in the living room, before the first gift was touched, opening his Bible to the second chapter of Luke so he could read aloud the story of the birth of Jesus.
I can so easily get lost in those memories, each one leading to another and another and another, until that old familiar ache burrows into my bones and I find myself wishing for things I know can never be. And possibly not enjoying the things that are. Staying present in the present doesn’t mean we have to push aside the wonderful moments we’ve collected over a lifetime—we just need to remember there are new ones waiting.
About the author: Lisa Shackelford Thomas is a fourth-generation member of a family that’s been in funeral service since 1926 and has worked with Shackelford Funeral Directors in Savannah, Tennessee for over 45 years. Any opinions expressed here are hers and hers alone and may or may not reflect the opinions of other Shackelford family members or staff.
