Christmas Past

         For most of us, early childhood was a wonderful time of life. Our memories are cocooned in the warm, amber glow of childhood innocence, and many of us look back fondly upon those time-blurred memories and count those days among the best of our lives. While not an especially nostalgic person, the Christmas season does tend to bring those thoughts to the surface, and every once in a while life has a way of tapping you on the shoulder and reminding you of where you’ve been.
         This happened to me recently. My family and I went into a bargain store, which shall remain nameless, with the intention of killing some time before we had to meet some friends. While there, I recalled that I was in need of shampoo. Now I wouldn’t dream of buying some cheap, bargain brand shampoo for my wife or daughter, yet I bought the cheapest thing on the shelf for myself. They called me a cheapskate, and we went on about our merry way.
         A week or so later, my shampoo ran out and, thankfully prepared for the event, I grabbed the fresh, new bottle, poured some out, and lathered up. Now typically, in this day and age, even the cheapest of hygiene products contain additives to make them pleasing to the olfactory senses. This product, however, did not. I was enveloped by a sharp, medicinal odor that threw my head into a tailspin. My vision started to waver before my eyes (not really, I just didn’t have my contacts in yet. That part was just for dramatic effect), and suddenly I flashed backwards in time some thirty years to a dimly remembered basement somewhere in the frozen Midwest.
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         It seemed like it was always cold in grandpa’s basement, even though most of it was finished, heated, and covered with rugs and carpeting. That only made it a better place to sleep, though. Whether you slept in one of the deep, soft, cushy beds or resigned to a cot, there were always enough blankets to smother a herd of elephants piled on top of you to make certain that you didn’t get cold.
Not that that made it any easier for me to sleep. At ten years old, and the reason that I was sleeping underneath enough blankets to make a Turkish rug vendor envious was that it was Christmas. My family and I had completed the annual trek some 900 miles from North Carolina to the uppermost tip of Illinois just the day before, and today was the day! If you’ve ever been ten years old before, and I’m betting that most of you have, you know that the single hardest day of the year to get to sleep is Christmas Eve. Sugar plum fairies? I think not! Visions of Transformers and G.I. Joe’s and Hot Wheels racing sets danced in my head! As difficult as it was, though, I eventually drifted off, and awoke to absolute silence; as if the world held its breath before the chaotic storm that was Christmas morning unleashed its fury.
         I stretched my left foot tentatively toward the floor, only to retract it immediately as it encountered what felt like sub-zero temperatures. It wasn’t long, however, before my excitement overcame my fear of the cold. I wrapped myself in the thickest blanket that I could find and made the attempt once again. The rug closest to the bed looked like a single strand of inch thick rope a quarter mile long wrapped around itself until it covered a fifteen foot swath of the floor. My foot found it this time, and I scampered into the next room toward the bathroom. In order to make it to my goal, I had to cross a ten foot expanse of bare concrete floor; grandpa’s workshop.
         There was nothing to do but just go for it. I held my breath and moved as fast as I could, and moments later I was on the Astroturf covered bathroom floor. That was where the smell assailed me. I never knew if the shampoo that was kept in the downstairs bathroom was just something that my frugal grandmother purchased for the seldom used shower, or if that was the brand she regularly used, but the pungent, medicinal odor has stuck with me my whole life.
         A few minutes later I was trudging up the steps in my half excited, half asleep daze. It was still early, and I fully anticipated that everyone was still asleep. This would give me the ideal opportunity to shake a few festively wrapped packages to try to glean their contents. I opened the kitchen door as quietly as possible and was surprised to find my Grandpa standing in front of the stove. I shuffled over to him; a tiny abominable snowman in my huge, down filled comforter. He looked down and saw me standing there, and a wide smile came over his face. He bent down and gave me a hug.

“Good morning, Karl. Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas, grandpa. Whatcha making?”
“Oatmeal. You want some?”
“Sure!”

         I sat back into one of the kitchen chairs and watched as grandpa added oatmeal to the already boiling water. Outside the frost covered kitchen window, a brilliant red cardinal landed on the bell shaped block of suet hanging there. He added his gentle tapping to compliment the sounds of the gently bubbling water. Moments later grandpa started adding other ingredients, I was never really sure exactly what they were, but a few minutes later there was a steaming bowl of oatmeal sitting in front of me. For a long time the only sound was the clink of the spoons against the ceramic of the bowls and the tapping of a cardinal outside the window. At last we finished and, for the coup de gras, a tall glass of cold milk.
          There were no words needed. It was just a moment of quiet contemplation between the two of us. It wasn’t something that I was accustomed to; as a ten year old, anything that didn’t involve action or entertainment was just boring. But… it just seemed right. It didn’t last very long; my little fingers were itching to dig into that big, red stocking hanging in the living room, but the sense of contentment that I felt was profound. The moment ended as other family members began to wake, the spell broken by squeaking doors and flushing toilets. I ran off into the living room to hunt for chocolate, and left my grandfather sitting at the kitchen table.


         I had to shake my head to clear away the cobwebs. Tears formed in my eyes, washed away immediately by the warm water of the shower. It had only been a few years ago that my grandfather had finally succumbed after a years long battle with Parkinson’s disease. I was unable to see him during those last couple of years, and that is still a heavy burden for me to bear. Those few moments of transcendent memory were an unexpected and precious gift that I appreciated more than I would have thought possible. I can’t say that it made me want to continue to use the absolute cheapest shampoo on the market, but I don’t think that I will be throwing this bottle away any time soon.