Memorable Moments

Times Spent with Those You Love

article by Cindy G. Foust

Welp, here we all are on the cusp of the Christmas holidays, and in the spirit of transparency, as I write this column mid-November, I already have my decorations out. Don’t judge readers! It doesn’t hurt anything for me to have my house decorated a few weeks early, as there’s no “decorations police” that will issue a ticket for your Christmas tree being out in early instead of late November. Plus, it’s definitely a mood lifter, something I have been intentional about improving over the last few weeks. So, now that we have that out of the way, and I have outed myself, I hope this month’s column finds each of healthy, happy and ramping up for the holidays.

As I sit in front of my tree, sipping my coffee writing this column, I keep thinking that the holidays seem to come faster and faster every year. Does anyone else feel that way? Like, we just put the trees in the attic and took the tinsel down and here we are dragging it all out again. When I was growing up in Butcher’s Hollow (I know, I know, that was Loretta Lynn, but it sounds so country and I did, in fact, grow up in the country), it felt like it took forever to get from one holiday season to the next. Me and my sisters, Angel and Shelley, would literally start counting the days until Christmas after the arrival of the Sears Christmas Book or the JC Penny Gift Guide. As soon as either one of those magazines landed in the mailbox, we would dogear the pages of all the things we “wished” for. It’s funny to think about how our tastes and styles evolved from everything Barbie dreamhouse to hot rollers (I’m sorry to report that some of my daughter’s friends had never heard of hot rollers so I promptly texted their mothers and told them they had let their girls down!) to elf boots (don’t ask…but I was very stylish and chic at one point). 

As I sit in the quiet of my home this morning, I am all in my feels about the nostalgia of the season and thinking about my own children and longing for the days when my daughter begged for a dog (she was subsequently granted the wish and we now have Annie Lou Foust, smartest Maltiepoo of all time) or when my son asked for a bow or a trampoline. Except he was never gifted that one because when I was a grown adult and I thought it would be fun to jump on a trampoline (no alcohol involved, just lack of common sense), and the dang thing was dry rotted and I jumped high in the sky and the next thing you know, I split that thing like a melon and was sitting flat on my (rhymes with nut). Yeah, so I have PTSD over that and never got my kids one.

Okay, where was I?

Oh yes, memory lane and my feelings. All those years we spent at the end of Ollie Caples, a dead-end road that served as my childhood sanctuary, I never remember a Christmas that wasn’t filled with lots of family, great food, fireworks (thanks to Uncle Bobby, the greatest firework buyer of all times still to this day) and plenty of laughter. At the center of those times was Big Daddy, the one who loved playing Santa better than anyone, and who thought the tree going up the first of November was always a great idea. Sometimes I wish I could transport back to just one of those Christmas Eves, just one, sitting in my grandparents’ living room, because so many of those I have loved so much that are now in Heaven, would be there. When I close my eyes, I can smell the oranges and the fireplace and hear the laughter coming from Bitsy’s kitchen like it was yesterday. How many times did I stand in front of the space heater at her humble but beautiful and warm home and listen to her talk about the Christmas traditions she wanted to make sure she passed on to us. Like making sure we served those candied orange slices and mixed nuts on Christmas Eve…my sister still makes sure we have those every year. After we ate our Christmas Eve meal, for what is now the 56th year (it started when I was one years old), Uncle Bobby loads all the kids up and heads to the firework stand. He had them all sign a confidentiality agreement years ago that precludes them from telling how much he spends, (he likely had it drawn up at the lawyer’s office because they take it as literal as the security at the White House) and then they traipse back with enough fireworks to rival the ones they do shoot at the White House.

Except one year we shot them into the woods across from my parents house and they had to call the fire department and yeah, that was kind of memorable. Smoky the Bear would likely have made a commercial about us, burning down Christmas and all, but the fireman put the flames out after a few hours and Christmas was saved.

This season, in the absence of the gentle giant who has always reigned supremely at Christmas, with a different Santa hat on each year as he read the Christmas story from God’s word, we find ourselves rethinking these wonderful traditions. Do we all still gather at Piccadilly (the tab always picked up by Big Daddy)? Do we do fireworks? Do we gather at mom’s or my house or Shelley’s? Do we make pecan pie because that was his favorite, or will it make us too sad? In last month’s column I bragged that I was working through my grief and trying to help my family navigate through theirs, and for all the days that I do pretty good, there are just some where I don’t. Anybody want to guess what holds me up during those when the going is a little tougher. My memories…my steadfast, ironclad, rich in tradition memories. No one can take those from us, readers, they are the glue that makes up the corner of our minds (I really should consider song writing as a second, or third, career). I’ve written for years, and by years, I mean almost 11 (and, still no watch, but who’s feelings are hurt? I could in fact be comforted with a little Botox.) about the importance of making memories with our children, with our families and friends. I’ve written columns devoted to ideas on things to do, places to go, traditions to start, because at the end of the day, when we have to try and muddle through a difficult season, I know full well the value of those memories. They are in fact what sustains us, what gives us the strength to push through and lean into the years we spent making them. Instead of writing this month on ideas for new Christmas traditions, I thought rather that I would write about leaning into the old. Shelley and I laugh all the time at how cemented our kids are in our family traditions…they don’t want to change a thing! When I think about the value of those rich traditions, even one as simple as eating at Piccadilly every Christmas Eve since they were born, I can’t help but think that Daddy would simply say, “Of course, you will carry on.” So, readers, that’s what we will do…press on through the holiday, as we carry all the years that seem so far behind us, but really in fact, are still right here with us. And for that, I’m grateful. I wish you the safest, most joyous Christmas season that will be rich in what matters the most…memorable times spent with those you love.

Cindy G. Foust is a wife, mom, author and blogger. You can find her blog at the alphabetmom.com.