Submissions Needed for Christmas Memory Stories

Bringing the Christmas Tree Home

Is it too early for Christmas memories? Not if you want to submit a story, or vignette, to Spiritual Memoirs. There is a call for submissions for Christmas memory stories to be submitted between now and December 10th. One or two will be selected for publication by this group. This is a no-pay opportunity.

Considering the name, your story should probably lean to the spiritual side of Christmas. I don't think it has to be overtly so, but an inference or understanding that it is the Christian holiday being celebrated. Some lengthy guidelines can be found here.

I found a quote in the guidelines of great interest for all who write memoir stories. We write memoirs of book-length and short ones, too. But do we stop at merely telling the story, or do we let our readers know how the experience affected us?  Read the quote below slowly so you absorb it. Keep it in mind when writing a submission for this call but also for all the memory stories you write. We need to do more than 'tell a story.'

“Rather than simply telling a story from her life,
the memoirist both tells the story
and muses upon it,
trying to unravel what it means
in the light of her current knowledge. . . .
The contemporary memoir includes retrospection
as an essential part of the story.
Your reader [is] interested in how you now,
looking back on it,
understand it.”
(Judith Barrington, Writing Memoir)

The photo above reminded me of a story I wrote some time ago about getting the Christmas tree during my childhood years in a suburb of Chicago. Totally different than what the picture depicts. Maybe it will give you some ideas to write your own Christmas memory story.

Finding The Right Christmas Tree
By Nancy Julien Kopp

 In the 1940s, we city folk didn’t cut down a tree in the fields but kept our own tradition. On a cold December evening, Dad announced that it was time to find a Christmas tree. My two younger brothers and I grabbed heavy coats, hats, gloves and snow boots, and flew down three flights of stairs to our 1939 Plymouth. Our excitement bubbled over in giggles and hoots.

The corner lot Dad drove to, normally empty, now held dozens of evergreen trees. The pines and firs seemed to have appeared magically, lined up like the toy soldiers my brothers played with.  A wire had been strung around the lot and bare light bulbs attached. There was plenty of light to allow buyers see the assortment of trees that would decorate the homes in our neighborhood.
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The proprietors, who were also hunters, had erected a wooden teepee-like frame in a prominent corner to display two dead deer and a black bear. They were hung from hooks and occasionally swayed when the wind gusted.

My brothers and I marched round and round the frozen animals.

“Go ahead, touch it,” Howard dared.
   
My hand reached within inches of the thick, matted fur of the bear, but I quickly drew it back. “You first,” I challenged, but Howard only circled the animals, hands behind him.

Meanwhile, Dad walked the rows of trees, pulling a few upright, shaking the snow off.

He called to us and we crunched across the snow-packed ground.

 Dad held a tree upright. “No,” we chorused. “It’s not big enough.”

We followed Dad and thumbed our noses at several other trees. “Not big enough,” we repeated, stamping cold feet to warm them.

The owner ambled over, so bundled up he looked kin to the dead bear. He kept a cigar clamped in his teeth and wore gloves with the fingers cut off, so he could peel off dollar bills from the stack he carried to make change.

Dad shook the man’s hand and said, “OK, let’s see the good trees now.”

The burly man moved the cigar from one side of his mouth to the other, rolled his eyes and finally gestured for us to follow him.

We scooted across the pine-scented lot to a brick building. The man opened a door, and we tromped single-file down a long flight of concrete steps.

Even more trees leaned against the walls. Dad pulled out one after the other until he found a tree that we three children deemed “big enough.”

Silence now, as the serious part of this adventure commenced. Dad and the cigar-chomping man dickered about the price. Finally, money changed hands, and Dad hoisted the tree. We jostled one another up the steps to be closer to the green treasure.

Dad fastened the tree to the top of the car with the rope he’d brought. The boys and I knelt on the back seat, watching to make sure the tree didn’t slide off the roof of the car during the short drive.

Once home, Dad hauled the tree up three flights of stairs to our apartment and put it on our small outdoor balcony. We’d wait until close to Christmas to bring it in and decorate the branches. Several times a day, I peered through the glass door to check that no one had stolen it. Why I thought someone would climb to the third-floor balcony to steal our tree is a wonder.

Days later, Dad carried the tree inside and tried to put it in the stand, but it was no use. The tree was too tall. It should have been no surprise, as it happened every year. He always caved to our chorus of “not big enough.” Dad found his favorite saw and cut several inches off the tree trunk. When he put it in the stand, the tree rose like a flagpole, straight and tall, nearly touching the ceiling. There was a collective “Ahhh” from the entire family.

Dad hummed a Christmas tune as he strung the many-colored lights, then Mother helped us hang sparkly ornaments, and we finished with strand upon strand of silver tinsel, being warned to place it strand by strand. “No throwing it at the tree,” Mom said. Near the finish line, we did throw that tinsel when Mom went to the kitchen. It was great fun to toss it and see how high we could throw.

Finally, Dad climbed a step-stool and placed the last piece on the top. What joy to see our special angel with the pink satin dress and golden wings. The tree was so tall that her blonde hair skimmed the ceiling. I visited her every day while the tree was up. There were days when it seemed she smiled at me. Christmas wouldn’t be Christmas without her.

That sweet angel got lost somewhere over the years. Most likely, she’d become tattered and torn, and Mother discarded her long after we children had grown and left home.

Finding the right tree and decorating it each year was one more link in the chain of family bonding. My brothers and I were gifted with the treasure of the memories of that holiday tradition.

Now, my husband brings our tree upstairs from a basement storage closet. Artificial, always the same height, never needs to be made shorter. It’s easier, but I miss those cold, snowy excursions to the tree lot with my brothers. I still put an angel on top of the tree. She’s nice but not quite the same as the one with the pink dress and golden wings. Not once has she smiled at me.

Why You Should Record Your Memories

We write family stories and memoirs because of events in our lives that had some importance or relevance to us and those whom we know as family and friends.

There are many happenings in the years behind us that should not be forgotten but treasured. We want to keep those stories alive for our children and grandchildren and even farther down the line. Yesterday, I wrote about my first train ride. I don't believe any of my four grandchildren, aged 12-22, have ever ridden on a train. They have no idea about compartments, sleeping berths, dining cars, porters and more. Recording that initial introduction to a long train ride is my gift to them. Yes, our words are gifts to our family.

The negative times need to be recorded as well as the good ones. Some people would say that the bad times should be forgotten Put them in a closet and turn the key in the lock.

I don't feel that way. The difficult times in my life have helped me understand myself and others. I have also discovered along this long path of my life that out of all bad comes some good. Granted, there are moments when it's tough to find the good. Look hard enough, and something positive will come through.

Writing about life in your childhood will let others know what living in an earlier time period was like. Your personal family stories will be a small sliver of history in years to come.

What should you write about?
Immigrants should write about the why and the how and the result. Married people must write an account of their wedding. The birth of each child you have should be recorded in a story written by you. Not just the facts but the emotions, the reaction of others and more. Write about a family reunion, painting pictures with words about the individuals who attended.

Write about graduations--your own or a spouse's or your children's. How about vacations? Lots can be written about family vacations. Again, not just where you went, what you saw or ate, but about the people involved, their actions and reactions.

Write about the favorite place where you lived. You want to remember, as Isabel Allende, says in our quote, the reasons that place was special for you. What did it look like? What kind of area was it? Who were the people who lived nearby? What little spots in the house were special to you?

Write for publication or for your Family Stories Book that is for your family. It doesn't matter whether these memories are published for the world to read. That, of course, would be wonderful.
Even if no one but your family members read what you've written, you've done them a great favor, given them a gift of words and memories that will last through the generations.

One last thought. The younger people in your family might not appreciate what you've done until long after you've written your stories. Don't worry. The day will come when they will treasure the words you gave them.

Consider Your Memories A Lasting Gift

Novelist, Isabel Allende, got it right when she said that we should Write what should not be forgotten.

I was reminded of this last night when I was a sub in a Bridge group. Many of the women in the group have children close to the ages of my own. During our kids school years, our paths crossed on a frequent basis but then came years when I'd run into one of them occasionally, not regularly.

While we had dessert and coffee, we caught up on one another's life-- where the children were living, how old the grandchildren are, who had grandkids graduating this year and more. Old times were brought up, mused upon and laughed at.

There are so many parts of our lives that are exactly that--a part. We often change homes, friends, jobs and lots of other things as our life progresses. We all have periods we'd like to savor and some have times they'd like to never think about again.

Why not write about the times that you don't want to forget? They might not all be happy moments. There are difficult times that should be remembered for various reasons. One of them is to let your children, grandchildren and future family members know what happened to you and why it is a part of your family history. Maybe whatever happened is what made you the kind of person you are. Perhaps, it was a situation where medical information will make future generations aware of a genetic problem of some kind. We don't want to hide things like that, we should share them to help others.

We should most definitely write about the happy times, the places that soothed our souls, the people in our family whom we loved. If your mom made the best pot of vegetable soup on the planet, your family would love to hear about it. If your dad helped you make a Boy Scout or Girl Scout project, writing about it will show your family the love your dad had for you. It's not always a major accomplishment that a newspaper would feature that you'll want to write for your family. It's the little things that matter. It's seeing a personality trait in an ancestor that you may have yourself. So that's where I get it! might be your reaction when you read about a particular habit Aunt Sadie had.

Write about the times, places and people you don't want to forget. If you don't, they will most definitely get lost. Don't let your memories float away on the sea of time. Your memories are a gift to both your present and future family members.

It's December!

Have you turned the page on your 2010 calendar? There it is, the final month of the year. It's December, filled with holiday must-do activities and fun social event along with the routine things.. December also brings a lot of memories. I's the perfect time for writing down your childhood memories of this last month of the year.. They'll be decidedly different from your adult December days, I'm sure.

Here are a few questions to trigger those December memories:

1.  What did you do in your classroom this month?

2.  What changes took place at home?

3.  What differences did you see in your neighborhood shops?

4.  What kind of foods did your mom make only in December?

5.  Were church services and children's programs part of your December?

6.  Were the days longer or shorter for you this month?

7.. What special programs did you listen to on radio or watch on TV?

8.  When did you learn that giving was as gratifying as receiving?

9.  What's your favorite holiday family story?

I'll post my December memories tomorrow.

What Are Your November Memories?

Last month, I urged readers to think about the things they did in October during their growing-up years. If you do this for every month of the year, think of the treasure chest you'll have to put in your family memories book. The one you're assembling for your children and grandchildren. If you don't have one yet, get started now.

Ask yourself some of the questions I offered in the October post--things like what your schoolroom looked like in November, what your town's retailers did in November, the weather in your area in November, or what kinds of foods your mother prepared in November. Thanksgiving will loom large for all Americans. Was it a small gathering or a big affair? Did your mom do all the cooking or did relatives bring food with them? Did you go shopping the day after? Answering these questions will trigger a lot of memories for you.

My childhood November memories are pasted below in a piece I wrote last year for Our Echo.

November In Chicago

The crisp, sunny days of October somehow slid into damp, gray ones during November in the Chicago area where I grew up. For some reason unknown to most of its inhabitants, the sun played hide-and-seek in the late autumn and winter months, mostly hiding. Wind swept across Lake Michigan, bringing a chill that seeped through warm, woolen jackets and into the bones of both young and old. Leaves which had fallen and not been raked yet, swirled around our feet with each new gust of wind, and naked tree branches dipped and swayed like ballerinas announcing that winter would soon begin. We walked faster on our way to and from school, and Mother often commented that we had roses in our cheeks when we arrived home, nice way to describe chapped skin. We paid little mind to our rosy cheeks once inside our warm apartment.

Each of the five rooms in our apartment had a large radiator with an on-off knob on the side, and a narrow deep pan that hooked over the back which Mother filled with water to bring the humidity levels up. Our large building had steam heat, fired by a huge coal furnace in a garden level basement. I guess you’d call it a half-basement. There was a window in the furnace room where the coal man inserted a chute from his truck and soon sent the coal rumbling down the chute while a group of us kids gathered around to watch. The coal man stood guard outside, and the apartment janitor stood at the delivery end of the chute in the basement. The coal man’s face matched the product he delivered making the whites of his eyes stand out prominently. Once this scary looking man finished, the kids ran around to the basement door to witness the next step in bringing heat to all our apartments. John, the janitor, grabbed a big shovel and fed the furnace from that huge heap of coal. He let us watch for a few minutes, then snarled at us. “Get out of here now. No place for you kids.” And his fierce look sent us scattering. Once, there was a coal strike, and we had very little heat for several days. We wore our coats and hats and even gloves inside until we heard the blessed sound of pipes rattling and radiators hissing once again.

We celebrated Armistice Day every November 11^th, commemorating the armistice signed to end WWI at the 11^th hour on the 11^th day of November, 1918. Even after WWII, Armistice Day remained as November 11^th. Now, we call it Veterans Day and it’s celebrated the second Monday of November. There are still parades and speeches, breakfasts and lunches served in places like the American Legion Hall, but somehow it doesn’t have the same meaning as it did when I was a child, and the date remained constant.

The next big event in November was Thanksgiving. We celebrate now much as we did then. The menu remains the same as it was when my mother and my aunts prepared the dinner—turkey roasted to a golden brown and stuffed with a moist dressing redolent with sage. One of my aunts made an additional stuffing that she baked alongside the turkey. This one was a family recipe from the French side. Sausage added to it gave it a spicier taste. We had mashed potatoes and rich gravy made from the turkey drippings, sweet potato casserole with a marshmallow topping, homemade yeast rolls, cranberry sauce, a salad called Seafoam made with lime jello, cream cheese, mashed pears and whipped cream. Our vegetables were usually green beans. Pumpkin pie and apple pie finished off our feast. Real whipped cream topped the spicy pumpkin pie, and vanilla ice cream and perhaps a piece of cheddar cheese graced the plate with the apple pie on it.

My father had two older sisters who lived in the Chicago area with their families, so we usually celebrated Thanksgiving with one or both of them, trading homes from year to year. My five cousins, my three brothers and I had a wonderful time together, despite the wide range of ages. After dinner, we were shooed outside to play, even when it was very cold. I suspect the adults sat around and drank more coffee, nibbled on the leftovers and did all they could to put off the dishwashing time.

No dishwashers in those days, so all the women pitched in and cleared the table, washed and dried the dishes, often with towels made from flour sacks. When my female cousins and I got older, we were drafted into the kitchen to help. Chattering women and clattering dishes, that’s what was heard in the kitchen after dinner. We were probably better off, as we got some exercise after eating so much, while the men plunked themselves into chairs and listened to the radio, and in later years, watched the small screen TV we had.

Occasionally, it would snow on Thanksgiving Day but seldom enough to keep anyone from getting to wherever their dinner might be.

When I got married, I thought about asking my parents and my brothers to come to our house for Thanksgiving, but I hesitated to do so for fear of upsetting my mother who had cooked countless Thanksgiving turkeys. My aunts had passed away, so Mom was always the hostess. After a few years, I worked up the courage to suggest it, and Mom threw her hands skyward and said, “Finally! I’ve been waiting for someone to invite me for Thanksgiving for years.” After that, when we lived close enough, Thanksgiving for the extended family that lived nearby was at our house.

Now, my children both make the trip home for Thanksgiving every other year, bringing their families to share in the Thanksgiving traditional menu. We use a few shortcuts now, and we load the dishwasher instead of drying dishes with flour sack towels, but the grandchildren revel in being with cousins just as I did all those years ago. The faces around the table may be different, but the same warmth of a family gathering to give thanks and spend time together is there. May it ever be so.