The Ghosts of Decembers Past

Back when my dad still drove a lot, my folks would randomly pop up at my door on Sunday afternoons to visit.  They never ever called first.  A few times when I was married, they'd come by and we wouldn't be home from church yet.  We'd pull in our driveway and the kids would get all excited to see Granny and Papa's car sitting in the driveway, waiting for us to get home.  We'd spend the afternoon sitting around the living room.  My mom would fill me in on all the latest church gossip and my dad and Billy would talk football.  The girls would sit on papa's lap and show Granny all their new barbie stuff.  After a while, I developed a sort of sixth-sense about when they were going to show up.  I'd wake up on Sunday morning and think to myself, "Mamma and Daddy are coming over today."  Sure enough, they'd be there about an hour after church.

After the divorce, we moved to our little house in Greer.  The Greer Christmas parade was always on a Sunday afternoon, right around Hannah's birthday, which of course, meant a Sunday visit from Granny and Papa.  The parade route followed Poinsett St. and then cut through Pine street at the end, so most of the floats came zooming by our house right after the parade.  Traffic leading onto Wade Hampton would back up nearly all the way to the end of our street.  Whether or not we walked to the end of the block to watch the parade, it was an exciting day.

One such parade-day afternoon, the girls and I were getting bundled up to walk up the hill and find a spot on Poinsett to watch the parade when I heard a knock on the front door.  My mom was standing on the front stoop, my dad slowly making his way up the steps, his rigid body fighting him all the way.  They came inside and too their places, Dad in the rocking chair as always, and mom on the loveseat.  We had our usual chat while we listened to bands tromping the street outside the house, having already walked the entire parade route, they just stomped and made lots of noise.  We listened to cars full of kids laughing and singing, parade floats zooming by too fast to really be able to appreciate.  I remember feeling as though I were a kid being kept inside for recess because I was missing out on all the fun to sit and talk with my parents about such mundane things as fishing trips or hunting victories, or who was behaving badly in the family that week.

They ended up staying longer than usual because their route home was blocked by parade traffic.  We had a good visit overall, and the kids as usual, collected their dollar bills and distributed plenty of hugs to Granny and Papa before they left.  I remember that day, in particular, because I had been feeling so down, and I remember that moment when I put my arms around my daddy's big middle and squeezed him tight.  He hugged me close and reminded me that he loved me, and I felt like he loved me in spite of all the ways I had let him down.  It was a bittersweet hug that left me teary-eyed as I watched them descend the steps back to their car, watched them drive away, feeling like I should have turned out to be a better person for them.

As time went on and age caught up with them, the Sunday visits ceased.  I began to never wake up with that sense that my folks would be knocking at the door come 1:30 on Sunday afternoons.  The only time they made it to my house in those last few years was when my sister brought them over on Thanksgiving day.  Those are precious memories to me now, the way my dad always got the best seat at the table, how my mom would be almost giddy because I made her favorite side dishes.  I still feel proud that they always bragged on my turkey roasting skills.  I piled them up with leftovers to take home after I sat on the couch and dozed off with my dad watching football for a while.  Then they were off, out the door for another year.  I never treasured that enough when I had it.  Never imagined that the last time they made their way down the steep front steps from my front door to their van, it would be their last time to visit me.

Parades come and go every year, and really, what are we missing out on by not seeing a bunch of strangers in tacky floats throwing candy and singing worn out Christmas tunes?

My parents are both gone now.  I can't go put up Granny's tree for her, can't bring her a poinsettia.  I can't buy my dad his umpteenth flannel shirt for Christmas, or watch the joy on my kids' faces as they crawl up in his lap to show of their new toys.  I won't get to hear his voice crack as he tears up while saying the blessing before we eat.  I won't get to see my mom all happy and joyful over the little trinkets we found to give her for Christmas--her angel collection has all been donated here and there, parts of her scattered over the Earth like so much dust in the wind.

They were the ever-present comforts in my life, the faces and voices that I have known since the dawn of my existence.  I never quite understood how surreal it would be when they were gone and I, a forty-something child, left feeling rather displaced in the world without my anchors.  It really is like being set adrift now, with no "home" to return to for Christmas.  Sure, the house is still there, but they are not in it, and they were what made going home for Christmas feel like going home.

They've each gone to their final home.  They believed so firmly in the power of eternal life--that they'd be reunited with their own parents, their siblings, the people who left them anchorless and adrift here on Earth.  I hope with all my might that they are truly home for Christmas now, in the presence of one another and all their loved ones who have been waiting there for them.  I hope their faith bore true, and I hope that someday, I might find that same kind of strength to believe the improbable--to embrace the seemingly impossible.  I hope that when my time comes, I can find them again somewhere and sit and chat for a while, just like we used to do on Sunday afternoons.

Merry Christmas y'all.  Hold your loved ones close, even when you'd maybe rather be doing more exciting things than listening to their stories you've already heard a million times before.  The day will come when you'll wish you could hear them speak those tales just once more.  Love them, cherish them while you can.