I read once that we really don’t have memories like we
think. We remember things in living color like a movie or hazy remembrances but
overall, we think we remember events, like something happening when we were 3.
I’m not convinced. I see photographs of my brother and I hanging up our
stocking and in my mind’s eye the pictures move and we are in the movie of that
day. I have to say, I really don’t remember doing it but I know we did and
there’s the photographic evidence. Memories are funny things. Some people claim
they don’t have any happy memories of childhood and that may be so. I doubt it
but cling to any bad things that ever happened as what really did. If that
makes any sense. I think we do remember some things but what we don’t – our brain
fills in the rest. Like a partial water color painting that needs to be
completed. We see the image and then know what we need to complete it. Good,
bad or indifferent – they are in there somewhere. The memories. I have a
Christmas memory. Well, its really a conglomeration of several Christmas days.
For years they were the same routine and that’s okay. My mind can easily fill
in the rest. I recently told my Mom that I recall every Christmas morning was
very nice. She was pleased to hear it. Why would I remember it any other way?
Our house in Margate was a nice sized house a block from the
beach. Growing up a block from the beach, looking back, was a real treat. Even
in the winter, the beach served as a barren wilderness or landscape to which we
had many adventures – my brother and I. Jack was 3 ½ years older than I and it
was close enough to be playmates but far enough apart to have our own friends.
The Margate house was 2 stories and had a living room, formal dining room,
bathroom, kitchen and, what was originally maid’s quarters, a bedroom with a
bathroom behind the kitchen by the back door. That room was Jack’s room.
Upstairs was my parent’s room with a “Jack and Jill” bathroom that lead into my
Dad’s office. Behind the office we my little room which was partially converted
from a dormer into attic space. I was the furthest from the Christmas tree.
Jack was the closest. Christmas eve we would hang our stockings. We each had
one with our name on it that my Mom had made and embroidered our names and
beneath our names was a Christmas tree and, I think, a cat or maybe a mouse. I
recall one had a tail and the other stocking it had no tail. Funny to remember
something like that. My Dad would take a picture of us hanging our stockings in
our PJs. When we were older, we would be in whatever we had on that day. But
Dad always took a picture when we were well into adulthood. We would excitedly
head to bed and even if we thought about trying to catch Santa come down our
fake fireplace, we knew he wouldn’t show if we were watching. Christmas morning
Jack would come up the stairs and wake me up. First, he would have scoped out
what was under the tree and in the stockings. The “Santa Claus” present would
be a large unwrapped gift. I would get a large Fisher Price (little people) toy
like the airport or castle and Jack would also get something big like the GI
Joe truck with the spy gear. Jack would come up and tell me what I had gotten
but I wasn’t mad about it. My Mom told me that my first Christmas, Jack was very
concerned that Santa know I was there. Since I hadn’t been the year before –
how would he know? Jack and I would bound down the stairs and, I think, wait
for our parents to get up. The house would still be dark and the glow from the
tree and candles in the window would light up the room and presents. We would
sit at the bottom of the stairs and wait for them to get up. I don’t remember
actually going in and waking them up, ever. But they must have heard us
attempting to be quiet and get up.
My Dad would come down and turn on the fake fireplace and
oh, another tradition I almost forgot about. By the front door of the house was
a large round speaker about 3 feet tall with a marble top. He had snaked wires
down from the upstairs and would hook up the stereo. Then he would put on the
Sing Along with Mitch (Miller) Christmas album. We had our favorites and Mitch
and the gang would sing them all. With that playing he back ground we emptied
our stockings. We always had the chocolate gold coins, walnuts and an orange in
the toe…among other little treats. When we got older it was socks as our stocking
gift among the other usual stuff I mentioned. That never changed. Then the big
gift! We would wait to play with the big gift when we were done opening the
others. Usually, it was clothes. But not disappointing – the Santa Claus gift
was always something we could play with and never missed anything else. My
father would make a pancake breakfast after that. He made pancakes in the shape
of glasses. He wore glasses and it was his way of being fun. My Dad was
normally not one to go in for fanciful things but the pancakes were an
exception. After breakfast, we would get ready to go to my Grandmother’s (my
Dad’s mother) in Philadelphia. My Dad would put on, what he considered, a
festive ensemble. He was a college professor and had a fairly large wardrobe
for a man of the 1970s. He wore a sport jacket (even the tweed with suede
patches on the elbows), slacks, shirt and tie almost every day to teach. For
St. Patrick’s Day he would put together all his green items of clothing and
Christmas he would go with reds. Christmas ties were not common place back then
but he had a red tie that he wore with a white shirt and a red plaid jacket. I
always thought he looked dapper. Jack and I would wear something dressy we had.
I had one dress and my brother had one suit or jacket that looked dressy. We
didn’t like dressing up. My Mom, if she came with us, always looked sharp. I
don’t blame her for not coming. My Grandmother’s house was an interesting scene…I
will get to that. After getting ready, we would leave our toys behind and load
into the car to head to Philadelphia. The drive was usually about 2 hours.
There still is no real easy way from my Dad’s to the Tacony Palmyra Bridge and
over into the city. The drive up the White Horse Pike had many landmarks we
would look for the speed our journey like the large wine bottle of Tomasello
Winery and intersections in little towns. My kids can’t believe how we could
have survived anytime in the car without electronic devices but we managed. As
we went down the highway, I would look at the many houses and think about the
children that lived there opening their presents and what was Christmas like in
their houses. And then we would drive over the bridge.
My Grandmother’s house was really my Uncle Frank’s (my Dad’s
brother) house that he shared with his wife, my Aunt Dot. My Grandmother lived
there because she was old. I only remember her being old. The photos of me on
Christmas day standing next to her chair. She was small with white hair and I
don’t remember any actual conversations with her. My Mom had many with her. She
told my mother family history that I now know. There aren’t many left that know
the Patton past. The house was on Cardiff Street, down the street from the
Police station and not far from St. Tim’s, where she went to church. Now they
are referred to as townhomes but we called them row homes. Narrow red brick
homes with garages on the alley behind. The front step went up a little grade
from the street. One which my cousins and I would try and sled down (about 5
feet) and tear up the grass, much to my Aunt’s displeasure. The house had a
living room in the front followed by the dining room and in the back, under the
stairs to the second floor, was the kitchen with stairs to the basement (which
used to be the garage). I never wanted to ever go in that basement with its
aroma and dim light. No way. But I know I probably did on a dare from my
cousins. The carpet was high shag and couches had clear plastic on them. The
house was also filled with smoke. My Uncle and Aunt smoked like chimneys and
drank beer. Anytime of day, Aunt Dot would be in the kitchen, sometimes with my
Grandmother, drinking beer and smoking. Her black bouffant hair, black eyebrows
and red lips stand out in my mind. And that mouth! Yes, she was loud. So was my
Uncle Frank. He had been a Philadelphia police officer, as was his father, and
he made no apologies for how he acted. The dining room table was also covered
with a thick plastic table cloth and in the corner was a bird cage. He would
get drunk and take a stick and bang the cage and curse at the bird. This sets
the scene we would walk into. The college professor and his kids. If they weren’t
there when we arrived they would arrive soon after. My salvation from boredom –
my cousins. I was particularly happy when my cousin, Scotty, would come. With
him would also be his 5 brothers. Scotty is second to youngest. The youngest,
Peter, would often get ditched by us back then but as he got older he was
included in our adventures. If my cousin Frankie came, we were a trio to be
reckoned with. Scotty, Frankie and I are a few years apart. Even though Frankie’s
sister, Marylou, is exactly my age, I always gravitated toward Frankie. The
small row home would be filled with loud Irishmen involved with drinking,
smoking and suffering from Irish Alzheimer’s (remembering nothing but the
grudges). My brother would be hanging with the older boys and me and my crew
would head out on the streets.
By the streets, I mean the several blocks around my
Grandmother’s house. Thinking back, we were insane. We would go out into the
night and play that we were spies or behind enemy lines. Really, I was. I knew
nothing of the city streets and, frankly, neither did my suburban cousins, I’m
sure. We would run down the street, hide along the fences and discuss the great
questions on our minds. Like some Star Trek plot about whether or not Captain Kirk
could have defeated the Gorn if he was on any other planet. We would then be
unsure of our exact location and have to retrace our steps. None of us letting
on if we were scared. No, the adults never noticed we were gone. We would slip
back in. Into the smoke filled and loud room. There would be attempts to get
everyone together for a group photo but it never worked out exactly right.
Often heads were cut off or people weren’t looking. We would then get ready to
leave. The hope was that my Dad would be sober enough to drive home. When we
got older and the celebration moved to my cousin’s house, we would often stay over.
When my brother got old enough to drive, and was not drunk, he would drive us
home. But home we would head. I remember going back down the roads we traveled
on. The dark, clear night would reveal streets and roads with houses glowing
from Christmas lights. And when we turned onto Barclay Avenue in Margate, I
would see the strand of large colored lights that my Dad strung on the 2nd
floor deck and candles in the windows. A sight that lasted over 30 years. If I
close my eyes, I can still see that view. And I can still remember. I remember
the warm glow I felt inside by seeing my home at Christmas.
Merry Christmas and may all your memories be as warm and bright
as you remember.
