Mom particularly loved Christmas. She clearly put a lot of joy into it. The joy of making us, her children, happy. She never failed to remind us of her own Christmases, Christmases that, when she spoke to us about them, still filled her eyes with tears.
His mother had decided to settle the debts of her farrier husband. An officer in charge of horse care, he shod the cavalry horses, as well as the oxen, donkeys, and mules of the village peasants. A gloomy and taciturn man—he had left home at 14 and found refuge in a cemetery, then enlisted in the army—he had accumulated debts that shamed his wife. Unable to bear it any longer, she announced one day that she was taking charge of the family finances, and that from now on, the priority would be the repayment of these loans that humiliated her honor.
That's when Mama's tears began to silently roll down her cheeks. For years, Christmas after Christmas, she had hoped to find something by the fireplace, but her hopes had been dashed every time. Nothing, nowhere, not even an orange... The debts weren't paid off yet... That's why—Mama would smile again—there was no way we were going through the same grief.
Mom and Dad were putting up the tree in the living room on the evening of the 24th while we children were locked in the living room and waited, electrified with anticipation. Then our parents would call us. We would rush out of the room and, frozen on the threshold of the main hall, mouths agape, eyes wide open, we would watch the illumination of the tree decorated with magic candles that threw white sparks in all directions. Then, we would light the candles placed in clip-on candle holders at the ends of the fragrant branches. (Yes, at that time, we didn't think the tree could catch fire.) There were also walnut shells in the tree glued together with a loop of red wool to hang them, and painted gold and silver. And there was angel hair, and glass balls—I still have about ten that have withstood time and moves—and lemon and clementine zest... How beautiful our tree was! We spent a good ten minutes in awe, laughing with happiness, smelling the scent of the forests in the mountains.
And there were presents too. And soon, we were swimming among crumpled papers and empty boxes, each one busy discovering and taming our treasure. Mom, sitting in her favorite bottle-green velvet armchair, watched us without saying a word. She was simply delighted to see us surprised, satisfied, grateful. We kissed each other, then went to bed, each with our gift, which we placed on the bedside rug because the next day, at dawn, we would spend the day playing with it.
My Christmases were my mother's contentment, her reassurance, her sweet revenge on fate. No, no nativity scene under the tree, and no Santa Claus coming down the chimney. My father was a man who didn't tell fantasies. It was simple: Jesus was born, yes, but not on December 24th at midnight; and Santa Claus didn't exist. The gifts came from the parents, not from some obese character that big companies imposed to sell their wares. Example: a Santa Claus definitely dressed in red, pot-bellied and short, drinking a Coca Cola with a blond child near him, and who had on his head, as a hat, the cap of the bottle of this drink. Very intelligent, he understood that a Santa Claus who brings presents and drinks coke to regain his strength while distributing toys was a great message to encourage children to drink it during the winter, and not just in the summer! Advertising aimed at children is not new, but has always been around. I thank my father for protecting us from it. (Even back then, my father warned us that this was "fake news".)
Yes, the Christmases of my childhood were simple. Simple, simply because they were the extraordinary celebration that my parents offered us to tell us, with the wonder of a candlelit tree and carefully chosen gifts, how much they loved us… The next day, my father told us Christmas stories, stories of kindness, compassion, empathy, generosity, gentleness, forgiveness, reconciliation, reunions, truces. Leaning towards us, he decoded all these concrete gestures of humanity: “All that is love,” he told us with great seriousness, “and when you love your neighbor with tenderness in your heart, every day is Christmas.”
Our children's eyes blinked with emotion. We understood that tomorrow, and the day after tomorrow, and the day after tomorrow, it would still be Christmas if only we chose. to see in the faces and eyes of others our own faces and eyes. Their pain, their sorrow, their hope were also ours, and if we had the privilege of seeing them, our outstretched hand and our frank smile would be love given that would return to us a thousand times over.
With all my heart, to all of you who read me, Merry Christmas!
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