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An Introvert’s Christmas Eve

Christmas is traditionally a time for togetherness. I admit I enjoyed the shopping crowds when we still did that, and I still like being with family. But at some point, I need my alone time – time to reflect on things past, things lost, and things gained. I enjoy - no, I need to experience a few moments of quiet reflection and warm melancholy alone at the end of the rush and bustle of Christmas. I have a Christmas eve tradition that I’ve held on to for nearly 50 years that gives me those minutes of quiet. But one year I enjoyed my alone time in a special way, on a motorcycle ride. The annual hub bub of friends and family time ended early that Christmas eve. And I was not ready for bed. I had probably had a glass or two of wine when I geared up and got on my BMW near midnight and took a ride.
I rode past my old elementary school, where we had Christmas parties and gift exchanges every year. One year our teacher brought in ice cream in those one-gallon blocks, and it had a green Christmas tree cast into it right through the center. Everyone got a slice of ice cream with a Christmas tree right in the middle. After 60 years I remember that slice of ice cream like it was yesterday. Every class had a gift exchange. Gifts were usually some trinket of a toy, but one year some kid got a pair of socks and burst into tears. I knew the kid who gave her the socks and he was oblivious, laughing and going on like that little tragedy wasn’t happening and he had nothing to do with it. I felt sorry for both of them.
I rode into town past the Friend’s Church we attended, where my brother and I “acted” in so many Christmas pageants. We had parties on the nights we practiced, and every year at one of the parties Santa made a visit. This was an event for me even after I knew Santa was bogus. The little kids were so excited, and the adults were trying so hard to make it special for them. I, being a Wise Man at 10 years of age (I always played a Wise Man in the Pageant) watched it all unfold with a knowing, almost adult, eye.
I drove on to the farm where I grew up. The farmstead sat at the end of a ¼ mile gravel lane. There were no lights on in the house, and BMW oilheads don’t make much noise, so I eased down the lane. Things had changed a lot it 30 years, but I recognized the barn, milk house, and sheds where I learned to do grown up work and be a productive part of the family, not just a mouth to feed. That has been a source of pride for me for my entire life. And this is where it all developed.
I took a long look at the big farmhouse we lived in. Eleven months out of the year when the Sears catalog arrived, I went straight to the lady’s underwear pages, but not the Christmas edition. How many December nights had I spent on the living room floor next to our stinking oil heating stove, paging through the Sears catalog at the incredible toys that I knew I was never destined to own. Christmas morning our family of four gathered in front of the Christmas tree and my brother and I opened “what Santy brought us.” I usually got one good gift and a bunch of stuff I was indifferent to. When I shopped for my brother’s gift, I inevitably bought something I would like to have, and I think he did the same. So we always got one thing we really, really wanted. Later in the day the extended family gathered at the house, with cousins and grandparents exchanging gifts, and a huge meal. It wasn’t until I became an adult that I realized the generational significance of this gathering. This was the glue that held the family together. The glue failed when my grandparents died. I never see my cousins anymore.
We left that farm and moved to town when I was 12. This was the first (and only) time I ever went back. A light came on in the house and I clicked the BMW into first and eased back down the lane.

It was cold and I was a good 30 miles from home by then. I had forgotten to wear gloves and I was freezing, but I took time to drive past the farm where I worked when I was 15. The moon was bright and glistened on the snow-covered fields that I had spent so many hours working as a kid. I road past a flat 40-acre field and recalled the day the farmer, Maynard, told me to put the rotary hoe on the back of the 3020 and hoe the beans in this field. Maynard put me, me in charge of a brand new John Deere tractor and a 12 foot batwing rotary hoe. I stopped and stared at that field for a long time before heading home, still astonished and proud that I was trusted with such responsibility at the age of 15.
I crawled into my bed when I returned home, happily alone, and fell asleep listening to the Mormon Tabernacle Choir sing, “Still, Still, Still” just as I always had and continue to do to this day.