At 62…Christmas carol musings

It’s the 20th of December. Catlin is coming for the holidays. I’m peaceful and warm in a (finally!) decorated house, baking pies, listening to my friend Ken’s Christmas CD and wishing I was in Magnolia hearing him sing live tonight. These carols are his own, not traditional favorites, and they’ve become some of my most favorite holiday songs. They are about small-town Southern Christmases, and just like Mike did, they bring me full circle.

Christmas visions always show families gathered together – crackling fireplaces, grandparents, parents, little ones, warm, cozy and perfect – generations passing traditions on down to the next generation. Yet there are so many of us tonight who aren’t with the ones we love, who are finding our own happiness and peace in ways that we never planned.

Holidays bring memories. And at 62, time has dulled my bad ones and added sparkle to my good ones. I never feel alone at Christmas. The love that has flowed to and from me over my life washes over me with each decoration I place. Gifts from friends, from co-workers, conjure up their faces, their voices, and the laughter we shared.

And then there’s family. Or in my case, the lack of it. My childhood ended way too soon. Mama and Daddy left this world when I was in college. For the rest of my life, I was destined to create my own family. I’ve been blessed with three wonderful husbands, all now gone from this earth. I never expected that. I always thought that I would be with one man until I died. But God had other plans, and my life has been fuller and happier with each new love added to my heart.

Jim gave me Catlin, along with half a lifetime of love and friendship. I look at our trees, and I see flashes of my early 20’s and 30’s in Houston. There are our nicknamed ornaments of Kermit and Miss Piggy, the start of the Hallmark collection, the frosted blown glass balls and hearts from the Original Christmas store. Jim started our tradition of wiring the Christmas tree to the wall after the year it slowly and gracefully tipped to the floor. I sift through memories of Catlin’s childhood, her Nana and cousins, all the holiday celebrations with kids running everywhere. Nana’s cornbread dressing, Mama’s fudge – the grandmothers continue to bless our table.

Al was Jewish. He plopped his menorah in the center of the table and said, “There. I’m decorated.” Yet, he semi-patiently helped me set up all the Christmas trees in their stands, and created the annual “chunk-Catlin’s-tree-out-of-her-upstairs-window-into-the-front-yard” tradition. His mama’s rhinestone brooch is the first ornament on our antique tree. We thought that good Jewish lady would enjoy that, and we always felt blessed when we placed it. Now, Al’s prism and star from the nursing home join it as the second and third ornaments in line.

So many traditions came from the 20 years that Al was part of our lives. The annual English Christmas cards, the Revels Houston performances, our menorahs, Christmas crackers, gifts under two trees, Kentucky Derby pies, the cheesy corn recipe from our neighbor, our Christmas lunch menu…the list of memories is long. Al loved to give gifts, and he put so much thought into the selection of them. He gave me things I never knew I wanted, and I continue to love them today.

I still shake my head and laugh when I think of Michael’s reaction to our celebrations and rituals that first Christmas we spent together. He gamely participated, but it was totally foreign to him. We talked a lot about it, about our childhood holidays, the respective holidays over our married years, and where we were now, starting a new life together in the fall of our lives.

Mike surprised me. He actually wanted the full-out sparkle, the love and the traditions. He had no problem with my menorahs. And being Mike, he quickly added some touches of his own. Our menus changed. Boiled eggs appeared in Nana’s dressing. And in the beginning, he told me to just go get what I’d like for a gift. Nope, I told him. You need to figure out what I’d like. A gift is from love. And so they were, carefully chosen gifts that made me smile, made me laugh and made me cry.

And now he, too, is gone. But I swear, I was walking through the dining room earlier this week. I’d been cooking, getting ready for friends to come to dinner. I heard in my head, as clearly as if he was standing there, Mike’s voice. “If I was there, we wouldn’t be having a damn chicken casserole. I’d be grilling STEAKS!” And laughing through my tears, I realized that I’d never wanted anything so badly in my life as to see Michael Farrell Powell in front of me, just loving me and making me laugh.

Holidays are hard. First holidays after a loved one dies are supposed to be the hardest. At 62, I’ve lost so many. My parents. Catlin’s Nana. Al’s dad. Friends’ parents. Relatives. Jim. Al. And now unbelievably, Mike, the husband who was supposed to be with me for the rest of my life.

We have choices, here at the holidays. We can mourn our loves and remain sad and depressed, or we can be happy and thankful that we had them. We can choose to keep them alive through our stories about them, through our memories of them, through our everlasting love. We can celebrate the guardian angels who are all around us, and thank them for their vigilance and care of us. We can realize that our tears are cleansing, shed from love. And that’s why, sitting here alone in our living room, listening to Ken sing, I’m not alone at all. I’m surrounded by love, a love that stretches back all the way to my birth and beyond.

And I am blessed beyond measure…at 62.