Gwen Lawler Tough’s family Christmas, circa 1953.
Going through the checkout line at a big box store yesterday, where the clerk barely glanced at me while taking my money, I remembered a very different world: The Christmas of my youth.
During college I worked at a big department store in Cleveland, Ohio, called Higbees. It had huge glass cases where the merchandise was elegantly displayed. I worked on the main floor, behind one of those counters, where I not only made eye contact with every customer, but I actually helped them select and make a purchase. I probably spent an average of 10-15 minutes with each customer, before wrapping their gifts and putting them in one of the Higbees bags.
When I was a little girl, going Christmas shopping was an event. My mother dressed in her best and wore high heels. I wore my Sunday dress. We got on the bus to go downtown, and I felt like the luckiest girl in the world, just to Christmas shop downtown with my mom.
There weren’t any malls, just big department stores downtown. On Thanksgiving night, they opened their display windows and many families drove by just to see their beautiful Christmas displays. The stores weren’t open; just the windows!
Mom and I shopped, but mostly did a lot of looking.
Being part of a very large family of eight children, we knew Santa couldn’t bring a lot of presents. And it was OK. For me, decorating our Christmas tree and our house were perhaps even better than Christmas morning. We had a nice family dinner on the first Sunday of Advent, and then Mom got out all the Christmas tree ornaments and other decorations. We decorated as a family. I always remembered my favorites from previous years: the silver bells that we put on our front door; the wax candle altar boys Mom put on a table.
I learned about the details about the Christmas when I was only 3 years old much later from my mother. She told me that because my Dad wasn’t making any money, they didn’t know how they would provide a Christmas for their four children. But Dad was determined. He came home from his job selling fences that no one wanted, to working all night at the post office. He did that for over a month. On Christmas morning, we woke up to many presents under the tree. Santa had come after all.
When I told my Dad about that Christmas shortly before he died, he seemed surprised. “How did you know?”
Of course, I told him that Mom had told me. My mother at that time could no longer speak, due to strokes. But she had told me about the generosity of Santa in Christmas 1953.
I think that was our family’s best Christmas.
How about you. What was your best Christmas?
