Holiday Memories

Seven recollections of Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year’s to get you ready for a holiday season we need more than ever.

By The Freedom Writers Group (Ocala) of the Florida Writers Association

Nearly 10 years ago, Ocala’s Good Life thought it would be a fun idea to have the Freedom Writers Group share their favorite anecdotes of holidays past. Who better to usher in the season than a bunch of wordsmiths, right? Well, after a 2020 that’s been incredibly challenging, to say the least, we reached out to them again for another set of memorable stories. The following recollections are funny, detailed, and thoughtful, an early present from our family to yours. Enjoy!

A German Christmas Candle

By Frank Dole

In 1968 I found myself in Germany courtesy of the US Army. The German people, their customs and food, but especially the local bakeries, soon captured my heart. Across the street from one of my favorite bakeries, near the Giessen city limits, was a candle shop. As soon as I entered, I became mesmerized by the hand-carved candles on display. The detailed work of those pieces of art came from a generational succession of artisans.

The shop owner, Augustus, noticed my obvious appreciation for each unique and exquisite wax carving on exhibit. He asked if I was an American. I answered him with my limited German. He smiled and asked in English if I had any questions. Augustus carefully explained the different techniques used in the creation of some of the candles.

During my tour of the shop, a candle with carved red poinsettias caught my attention. I mentioned how my mother loved poinsettias. Augustus told me the craftsman who made this particular example was from a family of wax carvers who lived in the Black Forest region. I purchased the candle, telling him how much my mother would love her gift. He seemed pleased it had found a good home. He provided a box and wrapped my gift in silky cloth, stating it was now safe to ship anywhere.

Later that day I gift-wrapped the box, placing a note on the outside telling Mom not to open it till Christmas. I took my prized gift to the base post office early in September to ensure delivery in plenty of time.

Shortly after receiving the package, Mom wrote and thanked me for the early gift and promised she would not open it until Christmas. In late January I received a care package with the regular assortment of sweets and homemade cookies, plus an envelope containing pictures of my mother’s reaction while opening her present. Her smile warmed my heart. The new treasure had been promoted to a prominent location within her well-established Christmas decor. She would not light it until I returned to the family again. After my discharge and when I was home for Christmas dinner, she lit the candle for the first time while we enjoyed dessert. It had become the centerpiece on my mother’s table.

Mom kept some of my gifts only because I gave them, but she treasured this one for its own intrinsic beauty. Over the years, I experienced much happiness knowing Mom proudly displayed the candle with her collection of holiday decorations.

I am now the proud custodian of Mom’s German Christmas candle. Every year, it enjoys a prominent place among my own decorations. The details and brilliant colors are still as stunning today as they were then. Far beyond its beauty, it holds memories of the joy it brought my mother.

Reflecting on Mom’s German Christmas candle, I realize how vital it is to think of the person receiving the gift and not the value of the gift, the joy brought rather than the gift given. My mother has always been my favorite teacher.

Christmas, of course, is so much more than the gifts we exchange as the Grinch in How the Grinch Stole Christmas observed. Within our families, may the joy of giving be taught, encouraged, and demonstrated.

Frank Dole became a hospice chaplain in 1994 until retirement in 2016. He also served as a bereavement facilitator. Frank has experience as a pastor/teacher in various church settings. He and his wife Cindy live in Ocala.

Christmas Day Reset

By Beverly S. Gilewitz

Christmas Eve! As the sky faded from amber to pitch black, the night before Christmas arrived not a moment too soon. I was numb from the constant reminders about Santa’s power to scratch kids off his good list, another parental fib to keep the little ones from misbehaving. As a mature 10-year-old girl who boasted that a real Santa didn’t exist and didn’t care about the nice or naughty list, I felt confident in my beliefs.

The anticipation of waking up Christmas morning always produced tingles of excitement that surpassed birthdays, July 4th fireworks, and Florida summer vacations. During the days leading up to December 25, visions of our artificial tree dressed in shiny silver tinsel towering over boxes wrapped in glittering paper interfered with my sleep. Painstakingly, I pondered my wish list and spent even more restless nights practicing my “oh, gee thanks” smile when I opened another package of tights and cotton undies.

Tonight, with each passing hour, I tossed and turned among piles of blankets. The grandfather clock chimed once, officially Christmas. Too impatient to wait for dawn, I snuck out of my bedroom to investigate what awaited me come morning, tiptoeing past my parents’ bedroom only to remember they were next door at a holiday party.

After crawling on the living room floor, my fumbling hands found the plug for the tree lights. Red, green, orange, and blue bulbs cast a warm glow in the living room, but something didn’t look right.

The floor was bare. Only an empty plate of cookies and a half full glass of milk rested on a table next to the tree.

According to my mother, this had not been my year for being a good kid. The dog constantly chewed on my math book (we didn’t have a dog) and I missed dinner more than once. Did she know I faked a sore throat twice to stay home from school to watch cartoons?

The absence of gifts made me immediately reconsider Santa. Had I been mistaken about the bearded fat guy who knew when I slept and when I was awake? For goodness’ sake, he knew if I had been bad or good. My head spun as I stared at the tree skirt under the tree. Who ate the cookies my parents left?

Amid twinkling lights bouncing off the hallway walls, I rushed back to my room.

Oh no! Now my parents would know I had been spying because they would never leave the tree lights on at night.

Sounds of reindeer stomping on the roof and images of jeering school mates showing off their Christmas bounties swirled throughout my dreams until Mother’s wake-up call.

“Up you go now,” she said. “It’s Christmas. I made cinnamon buns.”

My legs felt like cement. With eyes squeezed shut, I sniffed my way toward the sweet aromas drifting from the kitchen, still afraid to face the bare tree skirt.

I barely heard Daddy call out, “Hurry up and eat so we can open our presents.”

There are none, at least for me. Don’t they know?

“Hey, kiddo, turn around and give me that Christmas smile,” he said with his Polaroid camera spitting out pictures.

I inhaled until my lungs felt ready to burst and turned around. My dad pointed to heaps of colorfully wrapped boxes of all sizes.

Beverly Gilewitz has published in the corporate and private sector. She is currently working on short, short stories for readers on the move.

Curtains

By Beverly Johnson Biehr

Betty wanted to make kitchen curtains for her mother that 1970 Christmas. As her Chicago Public Schools home economics teacher, I instructed her on how to take the measurements of the windows and calculate how much fabric to buy.

She carefully machine-sewed the colorful flowery curtains. When finished, she ironed them and took them home. The next day she came to see me before classes started, bubbling over.

“The curtains are beautiful in our kitchen, Miss Johnson. My mother loves them. You should see them. Can you make us a home visit? Can you? Can you?” “Sure, I’d love to. You’re the first to invite me. Where do you live?” “Not too far. In Cabrini Greens. Can you come next week before Christmas vacation?”

I’m not sure why I didn’t hesitate before saying, “Of course.” I knew Cabrini Greens was a public housing complex of high-rise apartment buildings.

Betty met me after school, rode with me in my ten-yearold car, and directed me where to park. There was a group of children standing in front of the main entrance of her building. Betty greeted them and they greeted us, some giggling. They joined Betty and me as we walked into the building to the elevator.

We waited while it rumbled down to the first floor. A couple of men walked off, scowling at the children. I was surprised when the whole group of kids crowded in noisily and we began our ascent. When it stopped on a floor and the door opened, everyone laughed and shouted, “Sorry! We’re full!”

Arriving on the 8th floor, we got off en masse. Betty and I left them and walked to her apartment. With a hearty “Merry Christmas,” Betty’s mother welcomed me and gave me one of the cellophane-wrapped candy canes off the little table-top Christmas tree, also adorned with cheerful bubble lights.

I raved about Betty’s handiwork and that the curtains looked absolutely beautiful in their kitchen. Her mother said she thought they made their whole apartment look better. She was so proud of her daughter. I was, too.

They took me on a brief tour of the rest of the apartment with Betty’s three younger brothers and sisters watching and listening quietly.

Afterward, there was the same mob of children as before in the hallway. We again walked en masse to the elevator. I chuckled to myself at the seeming incongruity as we again piled in and made our descent back to the first floor. They walked me to my car and waved good-bye.

The next day I told my fellow home economics teachers about the experience. They looked horrified.

“You went up into the Cabrini Greens? It’s a wonder you got out alive. They’re dangerous, you know.”

“Oh my gosh.” I swallowed hard. “That must be the reason those kids crowded into the elevator until it was full. No one else could get in.”

“They were protecting you, young lady. They must like you. At least they didn’t want you to become a casualty.” We laughed, but mine felt hollow. That comment made me realize how vulnerable I had been. Yet, that was the environment in which so many of my students lived, survived, and managed to attend our high school.

I am still grateful for the hospitality and clever advance groundwork done by Betty and her mother that memorable Christmas.

Beverly Johnson Biehr is a retired pastor and teacher, an active member of Freedom Writers Group and Florida Writers Association. She recently published her memoir, The Casualties of Peacekeeping. She resides in Cherrywood Estates with her husband, Harry.

Rotisserie Turkey

By Lynn Bechdolt

Thanksgiving in the USA automatically brings to mind turkey, gravy, mashed potatoes, and cranberries. The turkey can be baked, smoked, fried by scalding air or boiling oil, brined and roasted, rubbed and roasted, covered in bacon and glaze and roasted… Well, I could go on, but the ones my father cooked on his rotisserie were better than any roasted one I’ve had.

I was born in Ohio, but my first memories were of Southern California in the late 1950s. In Anaheim, my father learned to barbeque chicken on a rotisserie. His barbecue grill came with a hood to hold in the heat, a glass door to watch the birds or open for basting, and an electric motor that turned the skewered chickens. With some experimentation, Dad concocted his own marvelous basting recipe. The chicken skin roasted dark from the oil, milk, lemon juice, Worcestershire sauce, paprika, salt, and pepper, but was crunchy-tender. Everybody in the family, even my picky brother, loved it. Underneath that delicious skin was chicken so juicy it almost fell off the bone.

Having mastered barbequing chicken, my father decided to try a turkey on the rotisserie for Thanksgiving. This spared my mother from filling the house with heat on a warm, cloudless day in Anaheim where we dressed in tee shirts, shorts, and tennis shoes. The only problem was the rotisserie motor had to work its little heart out turning a fifteen-pound bird for two hours. But the result was just as good as the chicken— great skin, fall-off-the-bone tender flesh.

In January 1960, my family moved from Anaheim to Sioux City, Iowa, following right behind a snowstorm that left two feet of snow from the Rocky Mountains to the Great Lakes. Of course, the rotisserie came with us. That winter, my father amazed the neighbors when, on Sunday afternoons, he cleared a patch of driveway outside our tuck-under garage and cooked a couple of chickens.

Our street was a line of new homes on one side and two old homesteads on the other. Many of us lived too far from family to visit for the winter holidays. As Dad talked with the other fathers in the neighborhood, they hatched a plan for a Thanksgiving block party hosted by the Bechdolts. Everybody brought something. Of course, my father barbecued a turkey on the rotisserie. Someone else brought a roasted one.

Neighbors happy to chat and share family recipes filled our basement, as well as kids ready to feast. Like the others my age, I ate so much my stomach ached. We over-stuffed children agreed that the only solution for our discomfort was to run around the block. After all, we had to make room for dessert.

A few weeks later, the rotisserie motor quit running. Since the manufacturer guaranteed its product for several years and it burned out after one, my father returned it, the second motor he had sent back in two-and-a-half years.

When the company provided him a third motor, they also asked what he was cooking with it. Two chickens or a whole turkey, he replied. The company responded that the motor was no longer guaranteed for more than seven to eight pounds of meat per cooking session and they would not provide him another.

That neighborhood Thanksgiving meal was the last time we had Dad’s unforgettable rotisserie turkey.

Lynn Bechdolt is a retired grant manager, medications program manager, mental health case manager, and Lutheran pastor for 25 years. She moved to Florida to be near her family and to write, that is when she’s not mowing grass or walking the dog.

Dad’s Christmas Surprise

By Cindy Pontbriand

Dad always knew what his Christmas gifts were. Always. He would hold up his wrapped gift and tell us what it was before opening it. This year we were going to try to surprise him.

We lived in the Chicago area at the time. The ice, snow, and frigid wind were hard on a man who loved to fish in the Louisiana bayous.

Dad traveled during the week, so we had plenty of time to plan. Mom found a small trolling motor he would love for his boat. Our dilemma came when it was time to wrap it. The motor arrived in a box. A big box. We knew that wouldn’t work—he could guess what it was.

I’m not sure who came up with the idea, but we decided to take the motor out of the box. We replaced it with a new fishing rod carrying case. It fit.

Christmas morning arrived early in our house. Our parents woke to the sound of three pairs of fuzzy slippers parading down the stairs. My sleep-deprived parents trailed after us into the den and joined the celebration of that most special day of the year.

On Christmas Eve, Santa had filled our stockings and left each of us an unwrapped gift. “Oo” and “Ah” chimed as each person emptied the stocking with their name on it and showed Santa’s gift to the family. Out of the decorated green velvet socks came many small treasures. The last gift from Santa was a large orange that rolled out of each toe.

Next to open were the wrapped gifts, the presents we gave to each other. All week the pile of packages under the tree grew; so did our excitement. It was the name tags that got me into trouble. If it had my name on it, wasn’t it mine? We were not allowed to touch any of the presents. Unless no one was looking.

As the eldest, it was my brother’s job to distribute the gifts. Reading the name tags, he selected and delivered one to each person. Then, we went around the room watching as, one by one, the gifts were opened. We each had the same number that morning, Mom made sure we each received an equal share. The routine repeated until the floor under the tree was bare.

My last gift was a musical jewelry box that played “Somewhere Over the Rainbow.” Sister opened a beautiful pink sweater set she was wishing for. Brother got a skateboard, and Mother beamed as she found a teapot that matched her china set.

Now it was Dad’s turn to open that big box. He flashed Mom a knowing smile as we three looked away so we wouldn’t spoil the surprise. Dad guessed, “Something for the boat.” Pulling the paper off the trolling motor box, Dad called out, “Thank you, it’s just what I wanted.”

With a large grin, he pulled out the sturdy fishing rod case. His smile faded a little as he pulled it all the way out. He searched deep into the box. Glancing at Mom he held up the rod case and said, “Thank you” in a very quiet and somewhat disappointed voice.

Not able to hold it in any longer, we all started laughing as brother carried in the trolling motor and handed it to Dad.

We got him!

That was the one and only time we were able to surprise Dad.

Cindy DS Pontbriand is a member of the Florida Writers Association, the Freedom Writers Group, and the Citrus Writers. She is currently writing fiction, poetry, and her memoirs.

You Snooze, You Lose (And I Proved It)

By Carol Jones

Back in the day—before marrying my one and only—a young man, let’s call him Bill, offered a unique New Year’s Eve invitation. Bill was cute, blue-eyed and dark-haired, but not as tall as the dreamboat of my fantasies. He was only a couple inches taller than I, and nobody called me “high pockets.”

Some friends of Bill’s parents were hosting a New Year’s Eve party at which their special guest, Dizzy Gillespie, would perform. John Birks “Dizzy” Gillespie was a jazz trumpeter, bandleader, composer, you name it, according to Bill. He seemed to worship the mere sound of the trumpeter’s name. I was not into jazz and knew nothing about Gillespie, but none of my other possible escorts’ festivities included a celebrity. This date promised high-class entertainment.

Dressed in our winter holiday finery, we motored into an exclusive suburb of Cincinnati and up the snowy driveway. Behind the waiting valet, the house shone with soft white lights, enhancing its grand façade.

Inside, a greeter took our snow-dusted coats and ushered us into the foyer. Lavish décor and tiny white lights glowing everywhere held me awestruck.

Once my composure returned, Bill and I enjoyed meeting the other guests. We laughed, talked, and danced to recorded music that emanated from somewhere behind the walls. Gloved servers carrying platters of delectable snacks wandered about while others carried cold bottles of champagne, ensuring our glasses remained bottomless.

Someone said Gillespie would play shortly. Bill and I chose a spot on a sofa and waited. At some point, probably during a lull in the conversation, I fell asleep.

Zonked on too much champagne, I never heard the trumpeter, never got to meet him. And worse, my date—in fact, my host, hostess, and everybody else—let me sleep through the night. Next morning, I woke up stretched out on the sofa where apparently somebody arranged me.

Embarrassed and furious, I rushed from one room to the next, searching for my coat. I ended up in the kitchen where curious staff members gathered around. When they understood my predicament, someone fetched my coat and purse while another called a cab, then gave me the phone to call my worried parents. I would be late coming home. Really late.

I didn’t know where my date had gone and didn’t care. Bill reappeared moments before the taxi arrived, bend-over-backward apologetic. He wanted to take me home, but I wouldn’t have it. So angry that I started to cry, I stormed out of the house and into the cab. There, the tears rolled.

Concerned for my well-being, the driver made the mistake of asking what was wrong. The whole sordid tale came pouring out. Although he tried to hide his grin, I saw it in the rearview mirror. He did not get a tip.

In the days that followed, Bill phoned numerous times. When I finally agreed to speak to him, he admitted he too had fallen asleep in another room.

Wow. What a couple of party poopers we were.

But the lesson became painfully clear. When enjoying holiday spirits anywhere except at home, one glass was my limit, and it still is.

Carol Jones is leader of the Freedom Writers Group of Florida Writers Association and two-time Royal Palm Literary Award winner. Her latest work appeared in WORDS, Marion County Public Library’s publication.

The Kings & I

By Angie M. Mayo

You better have the freshest grass you can get or they won’t stop at your house.” Such was the warning of my older cousins. I was four and old enough to understand the workings of the Christmas season. The thought of not finding the best grass in my yard made me anxious.

I grew up in Puerto Rico surrounded by a large, tightknit family with 24 cousins—the older ones loved to taunt the younger ones. Besides lots of love, I was showered with advice from each relative at every stage of my life.

In the early 1950s, Santa Claus was not yet a notable figure in our culture, particularly among the old-fashioned Spanish families. Mr. Claus gained popularity in the late fifties when stores such as Woolworth’s opened on the island and Americanized our holidays with their magnificent displays of the jolly man in the red suit. Until then, our most important Christmas celebration, hands down, was the feast of the Epiphany on January 6, also referred to as Three Kings’ Day. To this day, it continues to commemorate the visit of the Wise Men or Magi to the Christ Child when they brought the newborn baby offerings of gold, frankincense, and myrrh.

As a four-year-old, I had no concept of the value of gold or that other stuff. All I cared about was getting a bendat-the-knee, plastic walking doll with blonde braids and a pink tricycle with a silver bike bell and tassels on the handlebar. I had much at stake and reason to worry if I messed up.

Custom dictated that on the evening of January 5, I had to fill a box, like a shoebox, with fresh grass and place it by or under my bed for the Wise Men’s camels. During the night while I slept, the three kings would stop at my house, take the grass to feed their camels and leave gifts as a way of thanks. I imagined so many things going wrong.

For starters, on a dark night, they might miss my house altogether. But what scared me the most were those big camels. While the Magi busied themselves setting out the presents, the unsupervised camels could do as they pleased. What if one of them decided to clomp into my bedroom and help itself to the grass on its own? What if I looked tastier than the dried-up grass and it took a bite out of me instead? And how clean were their feet?

I came up with the perfect plan to eliminate the risk of the camels coming into my room. I told my mom.

“Mami, I’m scared of the camels. I want to put my grass box out front on the balcony.”

“That’s a good idea. I’m sure the kings won’t mind.” My mother’s calm manner always reassured me.

However, the night of Epiphany’s Eve, I had nightmares about the three kings not stopping at my house because my break with tradition offended them. No gifts for the disobedient girl.

When the long-awaited morning came, I rushed out of my room. What a sight! Our living room tile floor was barely visible. Packages wrapped in festive, shiny paper covered the floor. That is, except for my new pink tricycle with a silver bike bell and tassels on the handlebar sitting as a centerpiece in the middle, too big to wrap.

From then on, I continued placing my grass box out on the balcony. The kings indulged me. They were wise men.

Angie M. Mayo, a native-born Puerto Rican, is a retired pharmacist who enjoys writing short stories and poems. She is a member of Freedom Writers Group and the Florida Writers Association.

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