On the First, Second and Third Days of Christmas: One Head a-Fire, Two Near-Disasters, Three Cowgirl Hats

I shared a Christmas memory with some people today, and some of them enjoyed hearing it. As a result, I've decided to work at remembering some experiences my True Love has given over my various and varied Christmas pasts. So let's pretend that the Twelve Days of Christmas are really 25 and that they begin, not Christmas Day but December 1. Since I got this idea only today, December 3, I've already missed two days of memories. Therefore, I'm including three memories on this post. Expect only one memory per day for the next 22 (unless I miss a day).

If I follow through, this blog will be busy this season.

Christmas Memories: Day 1 
Long ago we celebrated Christmas at Paul's brothers house in Ardmore. One particular Christmas Day we were poised to eat our Christmas dinner and were, all nine of us, lined up in the kitchen to gather our food from the buffet laid out on the counter. As we bowed our heads to offer thanks, I, unawares, backed into a candle. When the "amen" was spoken, a collective gasp arose from the group, a plate shattered on the floor and suddenly someone was beating my head. Paul's brother, evidently the first to see the growing nimbus around my noggin, dropped his plate and, with his bare hands, put out the blaze.

Burning and burnt hair stinks. Thankfully what was singed amounted to only a small tuft. And thankfully the hair-wick was quenched within a few inches of my scalp. That tuft, however, became an annoying cowlick--one that took a year to calm down. So the memory of that Christmas extended well beyond the day and well into the new year.

Christmas Memories: Day 2
When our daughter Kelle was less than a year old, Paul and I moved to New York from Florida where we had lived less than a mile from my family. One year I managed to talk my parents into coming to celebrate Christmas in New York. They brought with them two of my sisters, and another and her husband, living at the time in Ohio, also came. All ten of us packed into our little three-bedroom duplex for a few days. If the space was cramped, it made no difference to me; I was overjoyed to be with my family. The space issue may, however, have bothered my dad.

On Christmas Eve, we all bundled to attend the Christmas Eve service at the church Paul and I attended. My mom, always spectacuarly dressed, wore a lovely white wool pant suit; the only reason I remember this detail is because my dad, evidently not feeling jolly, kept referring to her as "snow patrol."

The Christmas Eve service that year was remarkable for two reasons:
First, all the children in attendance were at one point called up to the front of the long sanctuary to sing some juvenile Christmas Carol. 40 or more kids came forward and were arranged along the platform steps. Apparently fire codes had not yet been invented because each child was handed a lighted candle to hold during the song. Seeing a pack of kids with live fire in their hands gave me the shivers; my family, spread out over a long pew near the back of the sanctuary, sat stiff and wide-eyed, watching Kelle among the glowing choristers, wishing we had reminded her about stopping, dropping and rolling before sending her up to the platform. As it turned out, all children returned, un-scorched, to their seats. My family began to breathe again.

That's when the second thing happened. The pastor who dismissed the children invited us to stand for prayer. We stood, shaky but thankful, and bowed our heads.
"Our Father," the pastor began,
"WHO ART IN HEAVEN!!" my pastor dad, now even more out of sorts from having been frightened, answered solo in his loudest preacher voice. The pastor leading the prayer continued, but it was clear that we were not being led in The Lord's Prayer.

I'm not sure what most families do in situations like this; ours, with the exception of my very beautiful and reverent mother, devolved.

Christmas Memories: Day 3
This is a short one.
When I was in third grade, we were given instructions for our class party gift exchange--each girl in the class was to bring a gift for a girl and each boy was to bring a gift for a boy. Unfortunately I misunderstood the instructions and told my parents that I needed a gift for a boy. My dad bought, wrapped and delivered a cowboy hat in the middle of our class party. Up until then, evidently, no one had ever heard of a cowgirl. I got thrown under the horse.