Last year, after my Uncle Billy passed away, my Uncle Ed sold the "home place" farm. After 56 years of my life, since the age of 7, I'd come to know the sights, sounds, smells, and feels of every wall, door, and tree. New folks bought the place; immediately bulldozed the old farmhouse, fraught with memories and love, then threw up a new "house". I still can't look at it when I drive down the old gravel road to Uncle Ed's place - I hide my view, pretending that it's still the old place, warm with a cup of coffee waiting, and sea stories to be told, until late in the night.
As yet another Christmas approaches, let us recall with tempered joy, those childhood memories that live on, long after wood, paint, metal, and varnish have disappeared. Let us recall the loud laughter, the way we had to open the hall door to let the heat out of the kitchen, the mad scurry to find a chair at the table, before Grandma... later Mom, placed the big turkey upon the table. The scent of potatoes, sweet-yams, sauerkraut, green-beans, stuffing, corn, and beets filled the air with an unforgettable smell - it was a plethora of plenty. Always preceded by a prayer of blessing - of thanks for our safety and good fortune, especially for those "out there" keeping us safe.
God lived in that kitchen... he blessed each morsel that went into our bodies; he guided Mom's hands, and always ensured that there was a place for everybody - no matter what table you sat at - the main one, the smaller one, and if you were very, very young... the card table with the big red flower on it. There was the clinking of forks, the tinkling of dishes, cups, plates, and spoons into coffee. Nobody left the table hungry... either in food... or in spirit. So, even though it's all gone now - replaced by a new owner's pre-fabricated house with pre-fabricated traditions... we must carry the memory of Christmas upon the Farm, with us. Take a moment to recall those who preceded us... who sacrificed so that we might succeed in our lives.
Let us not forget the voices, the laughter, the kidding, and the love... The joy of old Mrs. Kratina, telling stories with Grandma, her best friend from the old country... Grandpa grinning after sharing a joke with Mr. Kratina and my Dad. My "city" grandparents - the Daileys - who loved the farm as if it were their own, in spite of coming from Back East and Kansas City. The joy we felt when Uncles Bill, Ben, or young Tom D. would come home on leave from the Navy... and before us, Uncle Henry from WW-II. How blessed our family was - not one lost in war or conflict. (I remember my Uncle Bill, decending the staircase in his Navy dress-blues like some manner of aparition, handsome and proud.. encased in a cloud of Old Spice and confidence... I would strive to be just like him).
Take a moment this year - if you have children, do NOT let them forget their origins. Don't let them forget the many unknown immigrants who gave up their homes to come to a distant land... and achieve the American Dream. Then, unselfishly - share it with us... we, who follow in their giant footsteps.
Now, the only way we'll smell the old kitchen again... or hear the back door's closing sound... is in our hearts and memories. That's okay - the tinkle of the knob & chain on the pantry light switch will live on... the clank of burners upon Grandpa's woodstove will bring back the glorious scent of burned wood and comforting warmth on Winter nights. Let us never forget from whence we come. Vestle Vanotseh (Merry Christmas in Czech)
Tom D. - WØEAJDecember 9, 2008