Stockings on the Staircase

Growing up in the eighties, my Christmas recollections are split into two separate memories. The first is a soft focus memory, featuring scenes from Saturday morning cartoon Christmas specials, energizer bunny promises of toys that will run forever and that damned my little pony castle I wanted so much but never got. All this reminiscence plays to the tune of the Toys r Us theme. Prepackaged consumerism, perfectly wrapped in Santa’s sleigh that carried him to our roofs, conditioning our responses to what this time of year means, is exactly what this time of year was never supposed to be about.

The second memory is the reality. The small town house, second to last on a row of six. Red brick, with a small back yard and a shared driveway. Christmas there was not like the one I saw on TV. It was understated, it was without some very pivotal elements, like the mountains of toys the TV promised, and the stockings perfectly placed on the fireplace. Santa was in for a surprise when he visited me, because we didn’t have a fireplace he could shimmy down. His portal to give me my presents was reduced to a window or door. How disappointing for Santa. I always wondered if that was why I never got the things I thought I wanted. But mostly I really wanted to hang my stockings on the fireplace. Instead we hung our stockings from the banister of our stairs. I always felt cheated. As if Christmas was not being performed properly.

Christmas changes, as in all things in life because we change. So not getting what I ‘wanted’ didn’t matter as much anymore. It was more important I got what I needed. And that was family and friends. Being with my Dad and Mom, especially after they divorced became important. Seeing friends, spending time with them is more precious than money. The consumerism the eighties bred into me is still there, but it has been tempered with more humility from living through the nineties and opening my eyes to see the world. The fact that I know that places in this world are so wrought with pain and suffering, that the concept of crying over a plastic castle for miniature toy ponies seems so frivolous its nearly offensive. But I was a kid, and its not fair to judge ourselves when we were so naive.

Many of the traditions that my family and I created became have become very important. Even though the childhood thrill of Christmas faded as I grew older. Hanging the stockings on the banister became a vital component of my holiday experience. It wasn’t in front of a picturesque fireplace, but it made me recall days of playing in the snow till I couldn’t feel my toes, and being with those I loved.

Now I am a mother of two boys, living in a house that has a grand staircase and a fireplace. I was giddy when I realized I could hang my stockings the old fashion way and really give my kids the authentic experience. But in honour of my traditions, I’m still going to hang my old stockings from the banister, as an ode to my youth and to show my kids that stockings and life does not always have to look like how we’re told its supposed to be. Some traditions are meant to be broken, others are meant to remind us of where we came from.
The biggest tradition that I think this season should be about is love. Love for mankind and the earth is the only thing that will one day bring light to the places in this world still masked in pain.
Love.
Not like what we saw in cartoons, or advertised on TV.
It’s better than the energizer bunny, better than that plastic castle, and better than Santa.
It’s what we really want for Christmas and why I will still hang my stockings from the Staircase, because we need to remember the people that love us and who we love back.