Christmas Past, Present and Future

My daughter's only two years old, yet she's chosen a favorite Christmas carol. She even has a particular rendition of Jingle Bells that has taken her fancy. When she hears Bing Crosby crooning that proverbial song of the season, she yells "It's Santa Claus, mama!". Then, she starts singing along with the chorus, always a beat or two behind the melody like toddlers so affectionately do.  She stops briefly to remind me that Andrew Sisters are "Mrs. Claus" collectively.

I nod enthusiastically in agreement. Who knows? Maybe, she's right! For me, the merry revelers are more like “babysitters” than the Clauses, since Claire can listen to that particular Christmas carol over and over again. In fact, I put it on repeat, and it’s kept her attention long enough to write this post. Talk about a gift that keeps on giving! And, unlike Wheels on The Bus, I haven’t gotten sick of it…yet.

Right now, I’m just fascinated watching her develop the language of the holidays. At two, Christmas is new and full of wonder. It's a gift to get to rediscover Christmas through her eyes.

Before Claire become so enamored with it, I hadn’t really paid much attention to that Bing Crosby/Andrew Sisters rendition of Jingle Bells. Really, it makes me think of music playing in the background at malls, as I pass the Salvation Army Santa and the perfume counter at Macy’s. I'm shuffling through the chaotic holiday crowd, list in hand. I'm way too busy to notice the music. But Claire's enthusiasm for the season helped me stop and take notice.

When I pulled the song up on my computer for Claire, a detail on iTunes caught my eye. The song was written in 1943. We listen to so few songs from this age -- the age of The Great War and the Greatest Generation, victory gardens, rationing, Rosie the Riveter.

I picture my grandmothers in their youth, like I've seen in old photo albums. They're in their bedrooms getting ready for the day. They turn the dial on the radio and happen upon Bing, before putting on their silk slips and hooking their stockings to their garters.

That's how I like to imagine they started their day. Really, I have no idea what 1943 was like. My grandparents' heyday was so long ago, and before all of us were even a twinkle in the eye. The idea of that time is probably filled with as much mythology as that of Santa Claus.

Yet, in 2013, Claire and I are listening to a song from generations past. My daughter will never come to know my grandparents. They fill my childhood memories of Christmas. I miss them and remember them most during the holidays.

My daughter has chosen to love a Christmas song that reminds me of my grandparents in so many ways. Her choice in song connects me to the past and the future. I recognize that traditions remain constant yet time moves forward. I'm reminded that traditions are both the legacy of those before us and are alive and changing, as we initiate our young ones into our cultural heritage.

Indeed, It's the most wonderful time of the year (my favorite Christmas song)!

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Soul Search

 

The Homage, Marc Chagall, 1972

I stare endlessly at my daughter and marvel. Her face is compelling, purely because she is mine. Sometimes, my purpose is to see how she’s grown and changed. More often, I simply wish to behold.

Lately, I’ve been looking for my father. I search for him in the shape of her eyes, the set of her mouth, the way she furrows her brow. No trace of my dad is evident there, at least not yet.

I don’t know which I fear more...that my daughter will never come to resemble him...or that I have lost the ability to recognize him altogether.

My dad died when I was eleven. I am now 45. Much of my life has been marked without him in it. I have come to identify more with his absence than his presence.

Sadly, this space only grows larger as I grow older. Tragically, I no longer miss my dad.

I long for him, though. I search for him, too. Lately, I’m searching for my father in my daughter’s face.