Holiday contrasts

By Vivian Lawson Hogue

Special to the Log Cabin

My youthful years were blessed with non-commercialized Thanksgivings and Christmases when you could thank God for His kindnesses at Thanksgiving, then thank Him again for His Son at Christmas.

“Holiday stress” was only what your portly uncle put on your mom’s antique chair after his bountiful holiday repast. Thanksgiving decorations were minimal, if not absent, because the tradition had to do with the gathering of family and friends. It was mostly a one-day celebration, but we looked forward to it for weeks. The turkey’s unfortunate demise for our sake was a concern of mine, but my parents assured me that it was for our consumption that the animal was created. The fact that this was unknown to the turkeys seemed to escape everyone else. I never questioned the presentation of the jellied cranberries and the cornbread because I knew they didn’t suffer, but the wringing of the turkey’s neck put a damper on my taste buds for some time.

Today the hobby shops and department stores have ceramic tableware, table linens, jewelry and window decorations replete with turkeys, fall leaves, scarecrows and acorns. It is odd that I rarely see images of pilgrims and Indians, the originators of the religion-based event with political overtones.

Both holidays saw sundry relatives sitting around our Thanksgiving table. These were people who ran common blood through their veins, but I often wondered what was different about the aunt who took out her dentures to amuse the kids. The year she brought a baked possum with sweet potatoes was the first time I appreciated the turkey’s sacrifice. An uncle who was a long-legged, 6 feet, 3 inches tall was usually asked to demonstrate his ability to kick the top of the kitchen doorway. The common blood seemed to take a sharp turn toward the funny bone.

My mother, who only gave to me the dubious honor of being allowed into the cooking area, wore her ever-present apron that had a smidgeon of everything she had cooked. The pockets always seemed to contain string, Wrigley’s spearmint gum, a cloth handkerchief and a safety pin, regardless of the number of washings. With it she cleaned her hands, handled hot dishes, wiped countertops and dried tears, her own as well as others’.

Christmas was somewhat more festive. Downtown Conway streets were “festooned” with bare strings of colored, non-blinking, lights. We thought they were enchanting. Light posts had shiny aluminum decorations that died a natural death after what seemed many decades. The Christmas parade featured floats made of chicken wire stuffed with tissues, and riders threw candy to children. The Conway Theater handed out hundreds of brown paper bags of fruit and candy to countywide youngsters.

Most people had only a Christmas tree, although some had yard scenes made of painted, wood cut-outs of the Holy Family or Santa. We decorated our tree about a week before Christmas as we found our live cedars in the woods. By Christmas we knew to not even rub two candy canes together for fear that a spark would ignite the crispy needles. The branches held World War II-vintage ornaments and lights with reflectors, strung popcorn and crimped aluminum icicles, and the homemade wooden stand was rendered invisible with a white bed sheet.

I note these details because the contrasts are obvious.

Technology, graphic arts and better salaries make impressive and excessive decorations available to all. Flight travel is common today where railroads were once the choice and necessity. Gifts were simple or utilitarian compared to expectations today. Foods are traditional, but one must now watch the cans of cranberry sauce as the current size holds two ounces less than last year’s, but the price is the same. Our holiday traditions and memories or the lack of them are part of the stitched-together quilt scraps with which we blanket ourselves daily. Some we recognize with comfort. Some, we notice, are fragile with fraying or damage. Holidays were once called “holy days.” Without keeping that perspective, any holiday can stray far from its purpose and our quilt can wear thin where we need warmth.

The author is a Conway resident.