Christmas Eve has always been the best day of the year. When we were kids, Mom and Dad would take us to my grandma’s house on December 23rd or a couple of days earlier. [My Mom’s parents were Grandma and Grandpa. My Dad’s parents were Mammaw and Pappaw. —Melissa] Grandma comes from a long line of cotton farmers and she lives five miles outside of a small town with a population of approximately a thousand in Arkansas. In the midst of all these cotton fields are four houses on the same side of the road in a half-mile line that housed the descendants of my great grandmother. Mom and Grandma would bake cookies and cakes. Sometimes, they would let me help. My brother and I would spend those days running up and down the half-mile of road to my cousins’ house. We would play. Sometimes we would get on our bikes and ride down another mile in the opposite direction to my cousin Sonya’s grandma Pee Wee’s house. Then we would go into Sonny’s shop with all the power tools and saws and talk to Sonny. Sonny would regale us with tall tales involving snakes that bit off his fingers which were terrifying since three of his fingers on his hand only went to the first knuckle.
On Christmas Eve, Mom and Grandma would cook a ham and make pimento and cheese along with a wide variety of appetizers and sweets. We would eat ham and/or pimento and cheese sandwiches and then the family would open up all the gifts to make room under the tree for the presents Santa was going to bring later that night. The Family was my Grandma and Grandpa, my Mom and Dad, my little brother, and my Aunt Iona. Sometimes Iona’s roommate Debra would show up. We would have to wait for my Aunt Iona to drive in from Little Rock and she would bring in her presents and frankly, some of Grandma’s presents in a big black trash bag. Christmas Eve didn’t officially arrive until she arrived.
My cousins Martha and Sonny and their kids Sonya and Leslie would come over and there would be some liquor. The house was filled with laughter, wadded wrapping paper, and toys. We would listen to crazy stories, eat tons of food, and play. Then we would go to bed so that Santa wouldn’t see us. Mom said that if Santa saw us we wouldn’t get our presents because spying on people was naughty. I don’t know if my Mom was purposefully ironic but I still laugh about that until this day.
The next morning, we would wake up and find the gifts Santa had left us. Grandma and Mom would cook turkey and dressing and we would eat in the afternoon. Then we would run to my Grandma’s sister Mooney’s house and see what presents my cousins Laura, Julia, Ben, and Dan got. Then we would run further down the road and see what Sonya and Leslie got. It was a lootathon. Eventually, we would make it back home and sleep like we had been awake a thousand years because in kid years, we had been.
Over the years, the tradition morphed. Grandpa died when I was six and eventually Grandma’s friend Bud would spend Christmas eve with us. He would bring Grandma this three-pound box of cheap chocolate candies from Walmart that we would nosh throughout the evening. He was loud and funny. Then the kids eventually heard an alternative theory of Santa and didn’t get presents from him on Christmas Day. He gave those presents to Mom and Dad and we opened all of our presents on Christmas Eve. Sonya and Leslie got married and as such started spending Christmases with their spouses. Sonny and Martha started using Christmas Eve to prepare for their own grandchildren. Iona started having severe back problems and couldn’t sleep on the couch anymore. When Bud died, she quit coming down for Christmas Eve.
Now in 2019, my Grandma is 90. She is in a wheelchair and can’t really cook as much due to her inability to stand. My Mom is seventy and a little tired from taking care of my Dad. My Dad has dementia/Alzheimer’s. I honestly don’t know his official diagnosis. I know that he doesn’t know what day it is most of the time. He forgets when he eats. He recognizes me but he, on more than one occasion, has asked me, “Missy. When did you get gray hair?” Well, I started getting gray hair when I was 35. I am 46 now. It’s not histrionic to conclude that this might be the last Christmas Eve that my father recognizes me at all.
This is the last Christmas Eve ever, isn’t it? I don’t want to jinx anything or be unnecessarily pessimistic but this is really it. Another one will be a miracle and sometimes miracles happen. Stubborn jackassery is a dominant trait in my family’s gene pool as well as longevity. My Grandma’s sister lived to be over 100 but realistically, this is it.
This is the last Christmas Eve and I don’t want it to be the last one. I don’t want it to be the end. And yet it’s the end.
I’ve always been a woman who valued her independence more than anything but what I wouldn’t give to have someone to hold my hand during these next couple of days. This is so hard but I know what I must do. I need to get up, pack, put on some makeup, get in the car, and be Daddy’s little girl on Christmas eve one last time.
Merry Christmas everyone.
