Milepost 4: Somewhere In My Memory

“Christmas on N. Union Street, Natchez, MS”

charcoal & acrylic on canvas

10” x 10”

2018

Much of my life has been spent on Interstate 20 between Atlanta and Natchez, traversing the distance between these two disparate worlds. In our earliest years my parents carted my brother and me off to Natchez every chance they got which was no small job with two young boys, a reality my brother and sister-in-law are now experiencing with my nephews. An eight-hour drive can easily stretch to ten hours with all the unscheduled bathroom breaks, arguments between brothers, and the inevitable threats from the front seat to pull over to the side of the road to settle such arguments.

Christmastime was exceptionally more challenging though. In addition to the two of us and all our family needs my parents also had to stealthily pack all of the gifts in our small trailer pulled behind our Volkswagen van (necessitated by the overwhelming volume of luggage and wrapped goods). Not only did they secretly squeeze in all of Santa’s surprises but also all those intended for upcoming gift exchanges with each respective family, the Junkins & the Hudnalls. Logistically, it was a huge undertaking, but somehow, my brother and I were none the wiser. Across the years we gleefully moved through Christmas completely unaware of the effort involved to make it all possible, a gift in itself.

The holidays for my family in the 1980s and 90s meant waking up in Natchez, Mississippi Christmas morning at the Hudnalls’ house. After hours spent barreling across Georgia, Alabama, and Mississippi we’d finally pull into the dead end of St. Charles Avenue, unpack our Volkswagen van and little trailer, and settle into the warmth of my Nanny and Paw Paw Smylie’s Christmas-trimmed home.

My grandmother, Ruby, would have supper ready when we pulled into the driveway, and the six of us would sit down to a hot meal. My grandmother’s table, even on a weekday, always had cornbread or yeast rolls, vegetables cooked with bacon (or bacon fat), and a meat dish as the centerpiece. My brother and I adored her and lived for her cooking, and both of us lovingly remember the food of her table, especially at Christmas, as dearly as Santa’s spoils.

While eating, my brother and I would keep an eye on the muted Jackson evening news on the black and white television set in the background as the adults talked. Eventually, the weatherman would finally present the Santa Report segment, part of the Christmas Eve broadcast that reported Santa’s movement around the globe, and we’d squeal for our Paw Paw Smylie to turn up the volume.

“It’s on, Paw Paw! Turn it up!”

There on live television we could see Santa’s progress as he moved across a map of the state. This both delighted and terrified us. HE’S REAL. He’s on the news! He’s already in Mississippi! AND HE’S COMING THIS WAY.

After supper the six of us would walk out to the street and look into the sky for Santa’s sleigh. I would squint and turn and point hoping to catch a glimpse of this incredible sight, but inevitably, after a moment of intense sky scanning someone would claim to have seen him zoom by.

“There he went, boys! Did y’all see him?”

This was always immediately followed by the suggestion that we get to bed so Santa wouldn’t pass over the house where two little Hudnall boys were still awake.

“Santa won’t stop if you boys are still up! Off to bed.”

Obviously, this provided our parents the opportunity to assemble bicycles, write notes from Santa, and arrange piles of goods, one for each son. It took years for my brother and me to catch on, so needless to say, it worked over and over, allowing our parents to arrange Santa’s loot and then collapse into bed after a long, long day of traveling and wrangling their two restless boys.

Yet somehow, even after a full meal and a long day on the road it was still difficult for me to fall asleep on Christmas Eve, especially after the Santa Report. He was ON THE WAY. With so much to look forward to I’d just lie there praying to fall asleep or for morning to come, whichever came first, so the opening and unwrapping, the playing and excitement, the visits from aunts and uncles and cousins, and the feasting and celebrating could begin.

One such Christmas Eve after finally drifting off to sleep, I was awakened by the sound of my brother sneaking back into our room. Demanding to know where he’d been he begrudgingly admitted that he’d already gone to the tree to see what Santa had brought, something he’d been doing for years apparently. I was dumbfounded. You can do that?!

After much pleading (and then threatening to rat him out), he agreed to sneak back to the Christmas tree with me in tow. Under explicit instructions to move slowly, tiptoe, and keep my big mouth shut we methodically moved through the dark house towards the living room, careful not to wake my parents or grandparents.

Upon reaching the top of the stairs we could see the glow of colored lights from the tree illuminating the living room and within it, Santa’s bounty. Mouth agape and eyes wide open in disbelief I took in the sight of all that awaited me in the morning but was immediately pained by the fact that I couldn’t touch anything, lest we give ourselves away. My brother reminded me in a whisper that we weren’t there to play but to inspect and take inventory.

How was this a good thing? And how was I ever going to fall asleep again?! Damn it!! What was the point in all this?

It was such an unfulfilling experience that I never slipped out of bed to sneak a peak with him ever again, choosing instead to ride out the anticipation until Christmas morning much to my brother’s bewilderment who secretly continued to slip out of bed early to catch a glimpse of Santa’s leavings each year.

But when morning finally arrived and I felt confident that someone else was awake, I’d climb the stairs to find my Paw Paw Smylie at the kitchen table with the newspaper and a cup of coffee watching the morning news while my grandmother, Nanny, was stirring butter into grits, cracking eggs, frying bacon, and pulling biscuits from the oven. The smell would lure me in, but I’d soon discover that I was only the third person in the household out of bed. Supreme disappointment followed knowing that I’d have to wait for three more family members to rise before I could go into the living room and ravage the pile of gifts I’d seen just hours before.

Nanny would fix a plate for me, and I would sit as patiently as possible at the kitchen table with my grandparents watching the Christmas Day morning news and praying for those other Atlantans to come up the stairs. One by one they’d emerge, but I’d have to continue to wait as my parents imbibed much needed coffee and everyone finished their breakfast. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity permission would be granted and the two little boys would tear out of the kitchen and into the living room to begin deconstructing their piles of gifts.

There’s no equivalence for the magic of these family moments in retrospect, not because of the bounty of gifts for excited little boys but because of the joy it brought my parents and grandparents to witness our unbridled enthusiasm and belief in the moment. The Christmas season stands apart from the rest of the year for this reason. We are given the opportunity to experience the moment as a child once more.

Living in my memory are the twenty-eight Christmases I shared with my mother. The greatest single constant across them all is the image of her curled up on the couch still in her nightgown with bed-head hair, sipping coffee, and beaming with satisfaction at the sight of her boys so entranced by the moment, even as teens and later as adults.

We’ve endured ten Christmases without her now, and each one is still a challenge. The preparations have mostly fallen upon me, but I maintain that it’s a treat, not a chore, to prepare her home for the season.

Mama worked overtime infusing the holiday with magic and cheer, and alas, her Hudnall men have attempted to carry on this tradition, for since that time, our family has been blessed with the addition of two new little Hudnall boys, and now in my late thirties, I find myself curled on the couch with bed-head hair and a cup of coffee beaming with satisfaction over the scene unfolding under our tree.

Life has come full circle for me in this way. I still find myself in Natchez on Christmas morning, but now, I am the one witnessing the unbridled enthusiasm of two little Hudnall boys and reveling in their belief in the moment. In the midst of this I give thanks to these boys for breathing new life into our family as well as to those that worked to make Christmas such a special time for those other two boys, now grown men, repeating the process, continuing the tradition.