This quote, and illustration, comes from the Joan Walsh Anglund book I owned as a child, called "Christmas Is A Time Of Giving." I used to look in this page in fascination, thinking it would be ages, if ever, before I reached this point!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Well, guess what, girls????????? I HAVE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
That said, I am going to share with you the three most memorable Christmases I can recall. Of course, they are the ones where something went wrong; who can recall the ones that went right?
Which is the point, I suppose!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
There are only three. I will begin with the earliest.
December 25, 1960-- I had just turned six a month before. Christmas at our house went well, The tradition was, on that evening, we would go over to my grandparents and spinster aunt, who lived on Nassau Street, off of Georges Road, in North Brunswick. The route was always the same, and it involved turning onto Commercial Avenue from Memorial Parkway, and going up it, until transitioning at Georges Road.
We were almost at the top--I could see the bus storage facility, even though it was dark, there were plenty of street lights and Christmas lights, when something went wrong. To me, at six, it seemed as though we had stopped for a red light, except we hadn't. Then I saw something in front of us come forward, and crash into us, hearing the impact of what was metals on metals. My sister, sitting next to me, grabbed me. The next thing I knew, the police had come, we were being pulled out of what was the wreckage of this recently purchased car. People came outdoors to see, and help us. My mother was holding me, we were all waiting for the police and ambulance to come. I couldn't stand it, any longer, and began bursting out crying. The woman next to my mother reached out, and said, "Here, let me take the baby!," in soothing, endearing tones. I remember having the presence of mind to think, "I'm not a baby!" My mother did hand me over, and while, at first, I might have thought this strange, and so might you, readers, understand, my mother was suffering from a fractured, if not broken rib, and had been hit in the eye against the dashboard, looking, for all the world, like a battered woman. I would not know this till later.
Eventually, the police and ambulance came. For some reason, at this early stage, ambulances excited me, so I was actually thrilled--can you believe this, darlings?????????--and we were taken to what was then Middlesex General Hospital, but has evolved today into the Robert Wood Medical Center. We were separated, which I did not like, and, as they looked me over, feeling for broken bones, looking for abrasions, they said I went into some kind of shock, and the next thing I knew, I was sick to my stomach, and throwing up into a bed pan.
My Aunt Kathleen, whom we all called Katty, drove over to meet us. When we reassembled, we all looked like casualties of the war. Katty drove us over to the house, and we had our Christmas visit, amidst much concern.
And then she drove us home, when the evening ended.
The next day, we were all at breakfast, nursing our wounds. As I spun a peppermint stick into my mug of hot chocolate milk, I could see, looking on the side of our toaster, a cut on one of my cheeks.
Suddenly, the phone rang. My father took the call. It was not till years later that I found out it was the cause of our accident--a Black man, named Charlie Collins. Commercial Avenue was a heavily Black area then, and he had been coming out of a nearby near, and hit us, head on. Obviously, he was intoxicated. I thought it nice of him to remember and apologize. I give him credit, to this day.
I don't remember if there were lawsuits. I don't think so, as I would eventually have found out. The car was insured, so it paid for itself, and we got a new one.
That is as much as I remember. Except to be grateful that it was a mere accident, and not a major tragedy. I could have lost my entire family that night. The idea did not escape me. God was watching, for a reason.
Maybe one of those was to share it with you. Since then, not a Christmas night goes by that I do not recall this event.
Three people from that night are still alive--my father, at 102(!), my sister, and, of course, myself!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Tonight marks 57 years!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
December 25, 1973-- Thirteen years later. I had just turned 19, completed my first semester of college at Seton Hall University, and was on Christmas leave. We were spending the day at my sister's--they had lived East for only two years, and the children, Jenni and Jonathan, were small. We were all younger, heartier, and my sister very creative. So the Christmas meal for many years was a roast beef, with Yorkshire pudding, and other staples--veggies, mashed potatoes, ambrosia, and a gelatin mold.
Now, I don't recall what night it happened--Christmas, or Christmas Eve. I will guess the latter. But there was a man living in the neighborhood who liked dressing up as Santa Claus, and going from house to house, giving out small presents to each child living there. I remember the delight of watching this, seeing the Santa stand outside on the porch, door open, cold air pouring in, as he handed Jenni and Jon their packages. It was fun, and we did not think anything of it.
Unknown to us, we did not realize he had been ill, and was carrying a viral pestilence!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Nor did we think anything of it, when, the next day, in the middle of Christmas dinner, Jenni got sick, and had to be removed to her bedroom. I thought it no big deal; small children do get sick. But then, like something out of "We Have Always Lived In The Castle," the pestilence went from person to person at the table. I was sick, so were the older children, Keith and Ian. Only my parents, sister and brother-n-law stayed afloat. I remember leaving earlier than planned, sick all the two hour drive home. When we got there, it finally hit my mother, and my sister was left with a sick household, since, I believe, Bill, her husband, and a pediatrician, had the call that night.
"The Night We All Got Sick," we called it. It is one of the most talked about stories in our family.
December 25, 2017-- Here we are, this year! I guess the passing of 34 years is enough to produce another Memorable Christmas. This one will be short, as it has been repeated. This Christmas will remain memorable as the year we did not go to my sister's this year. Not because we did not want to, but because of a viral pestilence, which swept through here like Dracula and his wives, starting Sunday afternoon, and not letting up in time for us to make the trip on Saturday. At the height of it, I was so miserable, I was wishing I was Barbara Steele, as Asa, daughter of the House Of Vajda, cursing her brother Greobi, Prince Of Vajda, in "Black Sunday!!!!!!!!!" So, this shall be remembered as "The Christmas We Stayed Home."
There you are. My three most memorable Christmases. May the next one to come--and it will--be humorous, and fun!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
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