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©2003, F. Alexander Brejcha.
This is a bit of a rush job, but a story I want to share.
\ My mother and I emigrated from Sweden and came to America in 1968 (the fact that dad knocked up my babysitter [aren't euphemisms wonderful] who was also one of mom's students) had something to do with that. But when we came, our original drive for California was interrupted in Denver, Colorado, by meeting one of my mom's former college classmates, and a wonderful family - the mother/wife of which was from our home town in Sweden.
This family became my surrogate family with three brothers and two sisters, a wonderfully loving second mother, and a REAL father figure/role model. My new "dad" (as far as I was concerned -- even after mom re-married), was an ex-aerospace engineer turned church minister, who later turned Waldorf school teacher. He was also a pianist, opera-quality singer, and painter (art, not house). They all followed us from Denver to suburban Philadelphia (with only a brief detour to St. Louis), and from him I learned all my values, and a love of art and literature. It was why I became an art student (until M.S. destroyed that), a psychology student, and later a writer as my creative urges resurged.
His death some years ago was tragic, and along with the marriages of some of his children and their leaving the nest, Christmas changed. But, while he was alive, Christmas was magic with children returning from homes as far away as New Mexico or Arizona, or distant suburbs hours away. Terry was the magnet and glue that made Christmas what it is supposed to be. All tacky Christmas carols and commercial hype was forgotten on the 24th and 25th of December as a real Swedish Christmas took place. On the 24th it began with an early feast capable of feeding the large gathering (that grew as grandchildren were added) - but first came a Bible reading from Terry in a deep and warm base voice that embraced us all. Then FOOD, followed a move to the living room and a towering and beautifully decorated live tree surrounded by a huge pile of packages.
But presents had to wait for tradition
First, a satiated and love-infused gathering waited for the fireplace to be lit, and then settled in facing Terry for his sonorous and lively reading of "Twas the night before Chritmas". Warmed by Terry's words and the crackling flames, even the youngest sat patiently, though with anxious glances at prettily (sometimes clumsily) wrapped presents. Because as the last words of the story resounded through the room, the melee began as presents were piled onto. Older more patient folks waited (a little), enjoying alcohol-free eggnog, coffee, or tea - with obligatory cookies. Love was almost a physical presence in the room. Then it was early to bed, because on the 25th it was early to rise and dress for the Swedish Christmas 7 a.m. dawn service at the Gloria Day (Old Swedes) church in Philadelphia where Philadelphia area Swedes met each year - sometimes for the only time - for worship, followed by coffee, pastries, and small talk.
Then, to home (and sometimes a nap), and a day of relaxing reflections - or playing with (or reading) presents.
And thoughts of next year...
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