My old man was a piece of work. I know of no one who loved Christmas more. Dad had a huge personality. He’s been gone for 33 years, yet I still hear new stories. I often meet some older gent for the first time. He figures out who I am and says “you’re Marston Smith’s boy?” and he gives me a mirthful grin. He then regales me with something my father said or did. Always a chuckle and sometimes an out and out belly laugh.
Christmas would start in early December as folks would come by the house, drop off presents and have a glass or two of spirits with Pop before going back into the cold. Farmers and watermen would drop off the fruit of the labors from the soil and the sea. Dad was a lawyer, and this is how some folks who needed his help, but had no money showed their appreciation.
Pop’s buds all knew that he was a gag gift and gadget guy and their gift giving was in concert with the old man’s personality. He had a walk-in closet that rivaled the show room at FAO Schwarz. His secretaries helped him with all of his gift purchases and wrappings, but Dad did all the deliveries himself. I only remember Dad playing the piano at Christmas time. To the tune of a bugle call, he would tickle the ivories and sing: “There’s a German in the grass, stick a bullet in his ass, dada dum dada dum, dada dum.”
I remember getting my first shotgun for Christmas, one year I got a canoe, but these are all faint and faded memories. The Christmas tradition I remember most started early Christmas Eve morning. We would go “Christmasing.” Dad would bake cookies, they were more like little pieces of granite with chocolate in them. We would then go and deliver the tooth breaking treats to the aged and those who had seen better times. All were folks that Dad used to see regularly, but now they were shut ins. Many expected to see us Christmas Eve morning as they had been on Dad’s route for years. I remember the absolute joy on their faces when just like clockwork, we would show up and visit. As I reflect on this tradition, this was Pop’s way of spreading Christmas cheer and the message I think was “I have not forgotten you, our friendship endures and you are of value to me and others.” I still get a warm glow and a bit misty eyed thinking about this tradition. It is always the first synapse of thought I have when I hear the word “Christmas.”
When you get older you start to see your parents in a different light. Years ago, when my son was boozing it up and breaking things (a venerable Smith tradition), I suddenly realized that all those times I was doing the same and thought I had the old man hoodwinked, he knew. Recently, I think I have figured out why Dad was such a Christmas nut. Lewis Powell, the Supreme Court justice had mentioned to others that Dad had the keenest mind of anyone he knew. Dad went to Woodberry Forest, a boarding school in Orange, Virginia. Although he became Senior Prefect, he was scrawny and never made the varsity football team. When the War came, he volunteered, he wanted to fight. The Army gave him some tests, and although he had never taken a physics class, he aced their test. They sent him to the University of Kentucky to take advanced physics (by the way Adolf Rupp was his PE instructor). Dad wanted to fight, so after a semester at UK, he decided to go AWOL so he would be shipped to Europe. Later he found out that the Government was grooming him for the Manhattan Project. He hit the beaches on D Day, fought in the hedgerows of Normandy, became an officer in Paris and was in Bastogne when all hell broke loose at the Battle of the Bulge. He marched into Germany, and when Hitler was defeated, he volunteered for service in the Pacific.
As kids, we all played war pretending to be soldiers fighting the Nazis or the Reds. I would sneak into Dad’s closet and pour through old photos of him in Normandy. But now, he wasn’t a scrawny kid, he was a full-size man, a warrior, with deep hollowed eyes and a martial look to be reckoned with. Dad never talked about the fighting, but he was in the middle of it all. I now know why Christmas meant so much to him. He had seen the worst of humanity. He was able to return home to Virginia, others were not so lucky. His joy derived from the blessings he’d been given. By sharing this joy with others, it helped assuage the pain of the past.
II
My daughter Ella is something like the 7th generation of Ellas in our family. Samuel Coleman was an officer in the Revolution. A daughter Samuella was named after him, and in subsequent generations it was shortened to just plain “Ella.” The Ellas I had known, an aunt and my grandmother were extraordinary people, so it was a no brainer to name my first daughter Ella. My Ella is a sweet and intensely loyal person. However, she wasn’t always this way. As a child, she always had an agenda. She wanted things, and she would wear my ass out until she got what she wanted. Stubborn as a mule and relentless in her advocacy, as soon as she got what she wanted, she would start campaigning for the next material possession she had to have.
Naturally, when Christmas came around, I would get a list of “wants” as long as my arm. Many of which were ridiculously impractical. Late in the Fall when Ella was 8, her cat Thomasina disappeared twelve weeks before Christmas. Ella was distraught. She and I hung “missing cat” posters all over the neighborhood. We knocked on dozens of doors. Poof, Thomasina had vanished into thin air. She was gone, and I knew she wasn’t coming back.
That year, I didn’t get a Christmas list from Ella. She said she didn’t want any presents, all she wanted was for Thomasina to come back. Dads love their little girls and will do anything for them, but how does one make a dead cat come back to life? It hurt me every time she mentioned that all she wanted for Christmas was Thomasina. I was emasculated because “I couldn’t fix it.”
Ella inherited my Dad’s love of Christmas. She’s a Christmas freak, but she wasn’t this Christmas. I always put the children to bed. We said prayers, sang hymns, told stories. Christmas Eve night while reciting her prayers, Ella once again asked for just one gift, Thomasina.
Christmas came, and as I recall Ella was very sweet, but a bit melancholy and reserved. She opened up gifts and politely thanked everyone, but she wasn’t bouncing off the walls with glee as was her nature. Well as you can imagine Thomasina did not come back. Later that night around 10 pm, we were all tired and getting ready to go upstairs. Ella was in her pajamas, sitting beside me on the couch. Suddenly, Ella said she heard a noise. I didn’t hear anything. She immediately screams “THOMASINA!” She ran to the door. I hated to see her get her hopes up. I knew that she was just an 8-year-old who wanted to believe with all her being. I had a pang in my heart, knowing that in a split-second Thomasina would not be there. Ella would be hurt and dejected.
But Thomasina was there.
III
Being divorced at Christmas time is not much fun. I think it is worse for men. We don’t make plans, and we don’t want people to feelsorry for us. We don’t like pity. Children go through a tough time at Christmas, and the last thing one wants to do is put them in the middle of a tug of war between parents and their families.
I have always been a believer (though not always of the best conduct). When I was a boy, my father would tell me prayers at night. During these moments, I always felt a divine and comforting spirit. Growing up, I did my share of misbehaving. I was a good time Charlie, but by the time Ella was born, I had slowly morphed into a regular every Sunday church goer. I soon read the entire bible (more than once) and over the years I have sat in hundreds of hours of bible studies with others. I like talking theology and have learned much from my friends. I have always loved hearing people’s testimony. I’ve studied Judaism. Being a history hack, reading the Book of Acts and other events that happened in the 1st Century strengthened my faith. Something incredible happened after Christ died. The “fire” spread all over the known world in lightning speed. I taught Sunday School and Confirmation classes for 14 years. I have served on my church’s vestry, slept with the homeless, ushered on Sundays, gone on mission trips, etc.
It was Christmas Eve and I was by myself, feeling blue and just trying to power through to the 26th when Christmas would be over. I likely wasn’t going to see my children. By this time in my life I didn’t like Christmas. In fact, I hated Christmas. My church is a beautiful old Episcopal Church, loaded with history. It is modeled after St. Martins of the Fields in London. I think our church is prettier. I decided to go to the late service. I wasn’t looking for a religious epiphany, in fact I didn’t even care about worshipping. I am a people person. I didn’t want to be alone, and I knew there would be tons of friends there, and this would cheer me up.
At 10:30, the choir started to sing the Messiah. It was beautiful. Powerful. We sung all the great Christmas hymns. I smiled and shook hands with dozens. At the end of the service, the ushers handed out lit candles to everyone as the church went dark. No one spoke a word as we all proceeded out in a very orderly manner, holding our candles as the choir sang Silent Night on the front steps. A light snow was falling. After a few stanzas, the choir switched to German as we all quietly dispersed into the night.
From all my learning, I knew what Christmas was about. But on this night, I was moved with a startling revelation that pierced my heart with happiness. Christ was light coming into a dark world. Christmas was about the GIFT of Jesus. Intellectually, I knew this, but on this night I felt the spirit move through me, and I was overwhelmed.
I have never felt melancholy about Christmas since that night. Joy to all.
