A Primordial Christmas

Surely she has no memory of that day. At exactly nine months old, the idea of celebrating anything would have been befuddling. Carefully wrapped and beribboned presents were basically ignored. Crawling across the carpet, she paused occasionally to touch a bit of tissue and hear it crinkle. Boxes beguiled ever so slightly. Six grown-ups and one pre-adolescent sibling nudged her towards an ever-growing pile of presents. She demurred and wailed a little.

Perhaps she was wondering what happened to lunch. Is it hidden here in all these papers? Who are these strangers in her house? Toys meant for older kids frustrate a small body with legs no yet able to walk. How can she manage a mini-fire engine?

The new and very bulky video camera is capturing the confusion. She's much too little to realize that each future holiday will be preserved in the same fashion. The equipment will evolve and improve vastly. She'll be walking, running, always talking, driving, graduating, moving away, marrying, coming home again. Her history is preserved, its memories tangible.

Strongly encouraged by a colleague, we've visited a studio for formal portraits. Each time I look at the chosen poses, I marvel at the faces, all so young, even the less than youthful parents. I remember vividly her outfit. A pale pink knitted dress and white tights. (In retrospect, I admonish myself for failing to choose a brighter hue.) No need for shoes. Her feet touch nothing.



We're sharing the season with her three surviving grandparents. It is the only time she'll be in the presence of all of them at once. Grandpa is gone within three months. Her paternal grandparents lived about a day's drive to the east. Our house is the residence of her widowed maternal grandmother.



Utilizing the video camera, Henry records his parents in an enlightening oral history session. Nearly thirty years later, it is touching to hear stories about their courtship and marriage, early careers, and many decades together. This brief glimpse is laced with humor and an abundance of affection. It is truly a family heirloom.

We've inaugurated the tradition of distributing a family photo. Persuading a mere baby to cooperate in such a venture is problematic. It will not get easier as she grows older and holiday photos multiply.



Sometimes I think about my own childhood or that of my husband. I'm fortunate that my mother took lots of pictures. Yet there are none of my first Christmas or those that followed until I was an adult. No seasonal photos exist for Henry either. Memory fragments are all we retain from those early days.

Maybe one of us received a miniature rocking chair.



I'll bet Henry had a fire engine at one time or he must have longed for such a conveyance. That's probably why he insisted we get one for her.



Christmas of 1983 is an important part of our family history. We've lost all her grandparents in the intervening years. They remain with us in spirit and are captured in countless images.

Now she has her own tree and traditions, shared with an adorable husband. This year there's even a holiday photo.



I'm certain the photographer encountered no difficulty in setting the primordial pose.