This blog post is a special one that I wrote last year at Christmas about a cherished Christmas holiday memory in my family. I wanted to think about how important it is to “hand down” those important memories to our children and grandchildren.
These memories will never happen again, so when the excitement of holidays are over and you are able to return to a semi-normal pace of life, and hopefully you will have time to reflect on the family gatherings and the stories passed down by the elder members of your families. Take some time and add to your own story and then preserve it in a pertinent way, such as writing a blog post or recording a special interview with a cherished family member.
Your own holiday memories are just as important to your family history as are your ancestors’ stories. After all, if you don’t write about or record those memories who will? You are probably the primary source for the recording of them. Your children may at some time in the future write about your holiday memories, but they will not be the same as your very own memories written in the first person. Does it take a bit of time? Yes, however it is well worth the investment.
One of my favorite holiday memories is from my childhood, when I was 10 years old. Indulge me as I add a little background here.
It was 1961, my parents had purchased a 1948 Dodge Desoto (that was old even then!) as a second car so my mother could drive me to school as my dad needed a car to drive to his workplace. We required a second car since I was recovering from a bout of rheumatic fever that I developed in the early summer of that year. I had spent four weeks in the hospital that summer and when I came home I was barely permitted walk to my bedroom once a day. I certainly was not allowed to walk to school as it was about a ½ a mile away.
That car was like a tank! It was huge, blue, and heavy! Can you just imagine how much gas that thing must have used? But as some of you may remember gas was cheap then. Of course, there were no seat belts, my brothers and I sat in the large, upholstered back seat while my mom drove us to school daily. My youngest brother was not yet in school, but he had to go with us every morning anyway.
In 1961 our family still bought a fresh Christmas tree every year, one that we chose at a tree farm cut down by the owner. It had snowed the day before we went for our tree and about ten inches of snow covered the fields and the rural roads near the tree farm. So, Dad drove us in the big DeSoto out to a country tree farm about fifteen miles from our suburban home.
It was late in the day on a Sunday afternoon just a few days before Christmas. The roads had been plowed, but not as well as they are today. The skies were cloudy, and a light snow had begun to fall as we started our journey to the tree farm. We were suited ups in our heavy coats, snow pants, rubber boots with the metal closure clasps that covered our shoes, our mittens, scarves, and hats. As I remember now, we looked like we stepped out of a scene from "A Christmas Story," the older movie that so many of us watch currently in our homes at Christmas time. You know, the one with Ralphie!
As we drove, more clouds gathered, and it began to snow, but we continued driving slowly on the snow-covered roads farther out into the country, arriving at the tree farm before dark. I sat in the car with my mother while my brothers and my dad stomped into the heavily snow-covered field to choose the tree, have it freshly chopped down, and then have it tied to the top of the Desoto.
The snow was now falling in big fat flakes and at a fast rate. The boys and my dad got back into the car with my mom and me, trying to stomp off the snow from their winter coats and boots bringing lots of it into the car. As we began to drive on the old farm road to the main road my mother pointed out that the heater was not working in the car. It was getting quite cold, but we only had fifteen miles to miles to our home. Surely our winter attire would keep us warm for the ½ hour drive.
The back roads that we traveled on to the farm were starting to pile up with more snow, and it was getting dark, quickly! Suddenly another car came by that tossed a sloppy mess of snow onto the windshield of the big old tank and we began to slide. My dad was a good driver but still the heavy DeSoto slid off the road, into a ditch on the side of the road coming to rest against a guard rail. No amount of pushing by Dad and my brother was able to extract the car from that ditch. Finally, my parents made the decision that we had to get out of the big old car with the tree still tied to the top and begin to walk to the closet house that had lights for help as it was now dark. That was a far distance with the snow falling faster and piling up on the road. My youngest brother was only three years old and was not especially happy to be walking on a heavily snow-covered road in the dark looking for help or a house with a telephone so we could call a tow truck to pull us out of the ditch. I was not supposed to be walking that far as I was still recovering from rheumatic fever and my little brother was crying, my middle brother was unfazed as usual. Eventually we saw a light from a home that was off the rural road where our car was immobilized after sliding into the ditch. So, we trudged down the long driveway toward the light.
Dad knocked on the door and then we heard a small voice telling us to come in. We all tried to brush the snow off our clothing and stomp it from our boots before entering. In a calico fabric covered platform rocking chair sat a small, old woman, half-covered with a blanket. She must have been very trusting because we looked like quite a sight. My father told her our predicament and politely asked if she had a telephone and a telephone book that he could use to call a tow truck. But even though it was 1961 she had no telephone! Her name, she told us, was Mrs. Royce. Her son, who had been in their barn tending to a few farm animals saw our sorry group come to door and soon arrived on the scene. Again, my father explained our circumstance to the man. Mrs. Royce’s son told us that his neighbor who lived about a ¼ mile down the road had a telephone and offered to walk with my dad to the neighbor’s house. Dad went with him.
My mother, myself, and my brothers stayed with the woman. She was a delight! My three-
year old brother was crying and tired, and she offered to hold and rock him. He fell quickly asleep! Meanwhile my other brother and I just stood and looked around in the main room of the home. It was not like our small, but adequate suburban home. There was a coal stove for heat, old blankets draped in doorways to contain the warmth of the main room, and an exceptionally large friendly, drooly dog. There was also a wonderful aroma coming from a large pot on the stove and the sweet old woman offered to share her dinner with us. We all sat and ate while my little brother slept. In a while my dad came back with the woman’s son and told us that the tow truck was coming. We visited for more than an hour with Mrs. Royce and her son as we waited for the tow truck.
Finally, the tow truck arrived, my dad went with the driver to where our car had slid into the ditch. They came back and parked on the snowy road with our old heavy DeSoto in tow. We all dressed up in our still wet winter garb to head outside and trudge through the now knee-deep snow to the truck. My youngest brother had slept for last two hours and did not want to leave the old woman who had calmed him and quietly rocked him to sleep. Eventually we donned our winter outerwear again and left for home.
The five of us and the tow truck driver squeezed into the truck to travel to the nearest garage where we left the car, the front bumper and right fender had been damaged from the impact of sliding into the guard rail that we hit, one tire was flat, and it was undriveable. Luckily, none of us had been injured. The driver then took us to our home ten miles away. He even loaded our fresh Christmas tree into the back of his tow truck. We never drove that car again.
Later the next summer my mother told me that Mrs. Royce had passed away. I hoped that we had brought her some joy on that snowy day. We went to the cemetery and left flowers on her grave, but I will never forget the part she played in our very own family Christmas story.
That Christmas season and that Christmas tree were special to our family. There are few Christmas tree farms anymore, or maybe you live in an area where there is less snow or much better clearing of roads than years ago. And I can guarantee that there are less 1948 Dodge DeSotos than there were in 1961!
So, go ahead, write, and record your favorite memories of your story to add to your larger ancestral family story. Someone, someday, will be glad that you did!
So cute. Very fun to think of my dad as a baby!