Leah and I have been doing a lot of talking lately about Christmas and tradition as we’ve ironed out the details of our holiday travel plans. My family really doesn’t have any well-established holiday plans right now, though I’m working to change that.
My parents and brother and I used to travel down to Burlington, IA every Christmas to visit my two sets of grandparents. Those trips were always filled with classic holiday memories: Huge family meals; attending the candlelight service at the Congregational Church; and of course opening presents.
It’s interesting to try to understand why the mind retains what it does from those times. One of my most vivid memories — perhaps really a generalized memory — is of the candy my father’s father used to keep in the bowls near his recliner in their family room. Grandpa was a fixture in that chair at Thanksgiving and Christmas, with his brown cardigan and brown slacks. He was funny, and affectionate, and his sweater always smelled of pipe smoke and anis. He’d sit in his chair and smile while my brother and I dashed around the house, reaching into the white glass bowl next to his chair now and then to pop another black licorice button into his mouth.
The other confection that always seemed to be around were these small pieces of hard candy that had colorful ribbons running through them. I never saw this candy anywhere but my grandparents’ house (in fact, I haven’t seen it for years now), which lent it a mysterious quality beyond its exotic appearance. This wasn’t the type of sweet we’d find sitting alongside the Baby Ruth, Bubble Yum, or Jolly Ranchers at 7-11. It seemed like candy for adults. And because I only saw it once a year at Christmas, it became forever tied with celebration and grandparents and white glass bowls and warm hugs from funny old men wearing scratchy brown sweaters. One of my jobs now is to see that my daughter creates memories like these for herself.