Moving
my foot from the brake to the gas pedal, I nudged the car forward another foot
and a half. The vehicles in front, behind and beside me did the same. The
sandwich shop on our right was actually open. I tried to talk my husband into
getting out and buying us all something. After all, when his purchase was
complete, we would probably be no more than a couple of yards further down the
road. Stuck on the freeway after a terrible car crash? Leaving a Razorback
football game? Wrong and wrong. This was actually a historic occasion. It was
the last time ever that we traveled to see the Osborne’s Lightmare on Cantrell
Road in Little Rock.
The first part of that particular Christmas had been very
traditional. Presents opened, a light meal for lunch at home (our big feast was
always on Thanksgiving), grandparents on their way back home. Then, we drove to
the big city for one last look at Christmas lights, including a stop at the
State Capitol, which was festooned in its usual tasteful style. Up to this day,
I had always thought that the people who lived near Jennings and Mitzi were a
bunch of Scrooges. What could be so bad about over-decorating your house? As I
suffered through that line with
thousands of other fools, I loudly encouraged my loved ones to please
enjoy this. I was far too concerned with staying the correct distance from the
bumper in front of me to feel any holiday cheer.
Two years ago, we visited that same light display, now
relocated to a special area of the Disneyworld theme parks. The weather that
day in Florida had been distinctly non-winterish, but after sundown, there was
a cool breeze as we walked past movie-set storefronts, collecting soft soap
flakes on our nose and eyelashes. The relocated Little Rock lights gleamed
proudly, dancing to perfectly timed Christmas carols. Oohs and aahs in many
different languages emanated from joyful people, all on foot instead of in
cars. We were proud to be from Arkansas, but even prouder that the spectacular
display was now settled in its perfect home.
I re-arranged the line of Christmas stockings on our mantle
one more time. With the addition of our newest grandson, things were getting
very crowded. I could hear the unasked question from my husband. “Why are you
doing this when none of them will be here to see it anyway?” This newest little one was too young for
travelling, and I had been recovering from surgery when he was born. I couldn’t
wait to hold him when we headed to his house for Christmas. But, we had had
hung stockings for every member of our family since before we had a mantle. I
was determined to continue the tradition.
A few days before we loaded up the car to head down I-30,
crafty Grandpa created two wooden ladders and painted them to match the trim in
our living room. They provided the perfect spot for all of the glittery
stockings, one on each side of the fireplace, with room to expand in the
future.
Christmas Eve has been the time for holiday gatherings for
my husband’s family as long as he can remember, so his sister and her fiancé
still come over each year for dinner and relaxing. Last year, the plan was that
the nearby kids and grands would come from Conway County to our house after
they opened their presents at home on Christmas morning. If you remember, Bing
Crosby’s favorite song became a harsh reality last year. As we watched the
weather reports on the twenty-fourth, it became apparent that our White
Christmas would be striking with a vengeance. There would most likely be very
little traveling going on anywhere in the state. My smile was sagging more and
more as the evening wore on. Finally, my very astute husband asked, “We’re
going to have to go to Morrilton tonight, aren’t we?”
Trying to be polite to our guests, I removed the
appropriate Christmas stockings from their spots on the ladder, and began
loading a box with the presents that remained under the tree. Somewhere around
8:00 ish, we headed north, and spent the last few hours before Santa’s annual visit in front of our grandkids’
Christmas tree, soaking up their smiles before rushing them off to bed and
beginning our trek back home.
Over the years, my
Mom went along with our crazy schedule as much as she could. But, on Christmas
Day for the last few years, she insisted on taking us out to dinner. “I don’t
want you cooking,” she would say. “We’ll go out, just the three of us.” There are very few places open on that
special day. Her choice was a restaurant that is more famous for breakfasts,
and in particular pancakes. Their Holiday dinner fare, to be honest, left
something to be desired. But, oh what fellowship, what joy filled that unlikely
celebration. That is the new tradition I will miss the most this year.
Treasure each moment, and adapt as needed. God has a
perfect plan for this, and every day in our lives.
