Margo Oxendine

Is it too early to be talking about Christmas? Since this issue sits around for two months before something new arrives in the mail, I will do just that.

There’s a picture I really wish I could find to go with this column. In fact, there is a pack of pictures that I’m missing. They are irreplaceable.

Last year, when the painters were everywhere, I had to move and rearrange every single thing in my house.

Have you ever decided to move something from where it’s always been to someplace new that seems more suitable? Afterward, can you readily find that item? Probably not.

Somewhere, there’s a pack of treasured family pictures. Among them is the one that, if I can find it, you will see instead of my usual mug at the top of this page. If you see the same old me, you’ll know I was unsuccessful.

The photo is one of me on what might be my second Christmas. It’s difficult for me to gauge the age of babies and toddlers, even if they’re me.

I’m in pajamas astride a big, shiny tricycle. My young, beautiful mother is holding me. She is laughing. It brings tears to my eyes just thinking of that photo. The old-fashioned Christmas tree behind us is bedecked with those once-fashionable shiny tinsel strands that graced all our childhood Christmas trees.

My Uncle Ed was a firm believer that the person placing the strands should not spend too much time on the task. He liked to stand some distance from the Christmas tree and toss the tinsel, letting it fall in globs where it may. My Aunt Hazel would later rearrange the tinsel into a more attractive adornment while Uncle Ed napped. Or more likely, played golf.

Remember the utter thrill of finding a new bicycle under the tree on Christmas morning? I had that thrill with the tricycle, I guess. I just can’t remember it.

There’s one odd gift I fondly remember always being under the tree when we were kids. It was a new dart gun with those rubber suction tips on the darts. There was also always a bag of marbles.

Of course, both standard gifts were my father’s idea. Just like the Lionel train set chugging around the tree — the one my sister and I were never allowed to play with; that was Daddy’s joy.  

When all presents were opened, we’d shoot darts at targets in the hallway. I always had an excellent aim. Daddy himself was a crack marksman; this is a good thing for a policeman to be. Yet, the only gun he ever fired otherwise was the dart gun.

As for the marbles, well, we all had our favorites. We’d take shoeboxes and make three little openings in the sides. Then, we’d line them up, lie on the floor, and shoot marbles into the slots for hours on end. Daddy included. Christmas Day always revolved around playing games with Daddy.

Mom, of course, was busy, busy in the kitchen all day. As a stack of Christmas albums dropped one by one onto the “hi-fi,” we’d all pursue our holiday pursuits.

If there was enough snow on the ground ― and there usually was ― we’d go sledding down the long road in front of the house. It was rarely traveled by cars, but on snowy days that road saw a lot of sledding action. Daddy had built a bonfire at the end of the driveway. Mom would make cocoa in an old percolator, and set that on top of some sort of frame across the fire. The neighborhood kids would drag our sleds to the top of the hill, then speed and whiz to the very bottom. Our house was about halfway up the hill, so we’d have a long ride. Then, we’d drag the sleds back up to the driveway for steaming cups of cocoa. And do it all over again.

Daddy always worked at the hotel Christmas night. Many winter nights, I recall him, in his tuxedo, a white silk scarf and a fedora, dragging the sled up the hill. He’d leave it where the road met the highway and drive to work. When he returned, he’d leave the car at the top of the hill and simply sled down the road, scarf flying behind him.

Ah, Christmas memories. Enjoy them in the making!

To order Margo Oxendine’s A Party of One, email [email protected], or call 540-468-2147 Monday-Thursday from 9-5.