Christmas Remembering

“The Herdmans were absolutely the worst kids in the history of the world.”

If you don’t know what that line comes from, I’m a little sad for you, honestly. But for those of you who don’t, it’s the first line of the book, The Best Christmas Pageant Ever, and for me and my son, the reading of that book became The Best Christmas Tradition Ever.

My first exposure to the book was when I was a senior in high school, and our English teacher, Mr. Patman, read the book to us. The Herdmans in all their spectacular awfulness, the squeaky-clean sanctimonious Alice Wendelken, and the gradually enlightened narrator held our attention for the three class periods leading up to the Christmas break.

And then, as he was nearing the end of the story, Mr. Patman choked up and had to pause to collect himself before finishing. This was a side of him we hadn’t seen before, and I think we were all a little shocked. We were teenagers, so there was some nervous giggling. But there were those of us who choked up right along with him.

I read that book to my son every year from the time he was four (about to turn five right after Christmas) until the year he was about to be 17. That’s 13 Christmases, and every single time, I would start crying in the same spot.

Everyone had been waiting all this time for the Herdmans to do something absolutely unexpected. And sure enough, that was what happened.

Imogene Herdman was crying.

In the candlelight her face was all shiny with tears and she didn’t even bother to wipe them away. She just sat there--awful old Imogene--in her crookedy veil, crying and crying and crying.

The first time it happened, my son looked at me, concerned. “Mommy? Are you OK?”

But in later years, he knew it was coming, and he would start watching for the moment I would have to stop and collect myself, and we would laugh because I just couldn’t help it. Much like the way I jump every single time Fezzick throws the rock at Westley in The Princess Bride, regardless of the fact that I know it’s coming. (Yeah, I just did that last night, and my husband laughed at me. It’s ridiculous.)

We’ve stopped reading the book together every year now that he’s older and he’s not always with me for several days in a row leading up to Christmas, and I really miss it.

It’s not so much that I want to keep reading it with a young man heading into his twenties, but I miss those little boy years. Am I the only one who has recurring dreams of earlier versions of her children? Sometimes I just miss that little six-year-old version of him, or the four-year-old, or the nine-year-old, although I love the 19-year-old version of him just as fiercely and know that all those earlier versions are still there and make up who he is today.

But also, one of the quirks that make up my oh-so unique son is that he has very few childhood memories. There’s no reason for it that I know of--no head trauma or anything--it’s just how he is. He just seems to need the available storage in his brain for what’s going on right now. I don’t understand it, and it makes me a little sad for him, because I have such vivid memories of the sounds, smells, places, and events that made up my childhood, and I wish he had that.

I used to wonder what his memories of his childhood would be. We would be in the middle of doing something--and it didn’t have to be particularly important--and I would find myself thinking, I wonder what he’ll remember about this. And then came the divorce years, and I hoped he would still manage to remember the good stuff more than the bad stuff. But as it turns out, mostly his memories are very scattered and vague.

He does remember The Best Christmas Pageant Ever, though. I know because I asked him specifically about his Christmas memories before I wrote this. He came up with two things: being allowed to open one present on Christmas Eve and reading The Best Christmas Pageant Ever. And that made me so happy I almost started crying.

I suppose, for someone without a lot of specific memories, the repetition was important. Even though I didn’t set out to create a tradition, and I had no way of knowing that his memory would be like this, it seemed natural to continue once we had done it for a couple of years.

Memories, though, aren’t something you can plan. Sometimes it’s just in the doing and the repetition and the living that memories are made. And I’m really, really glad he and I have that memory together.

Here’s to wonderful holiday memories for all of you. Just go make a bunch of happy ones!