A Christmas Memory: The Gumdrop Tree and Family Traditions

Merry Christmas!!! Christmas Day has arrived and over the course of this month, and part of last month, I have shared so many Christmas memories of my past—some from the books I am currently writing and others just related to the holiday. I will continue to share a few more Christmas memories until the end of the Christmas season, January 6 though maybe not as frequently. 

Christmas seems to have come so fast this year, at least for me. Today, a random memory from when I was very little came to mind. It’s from a time when some traumatic events happened in my life, so the details are a bit spotty and pieced together.

There was a period when my parents split up briefly when I was between two and four years old. My mom packed up and flew with my sister and me to stay with my grandmother for what was meant to be a vacation but with the intent to stay in Texas. However, that story is for another time. This story, which happened before I began kindergarten, is a significant memory for me. I'm not sure how long we were living in certain places because, in a short time, we lived in a few houses. We lived in a rented house off Cody Road, where I have a strange memory of possibly getting abducted by something like aliens sneaking in through a hole in the wall behind my chest of drawers. I might share that story in a future blog. We also lived at my granny's house on East Drive in Mobile, Alabama, my grandmother's trailer in Rockport, Texas, our little yellow rented house on Easter Lane, as well as the house we rented from the parents of my sister's friend Laura Moon, just two doors down from the yellow house.

After my parents got back together, we all ended up in the little yellow rented house on Easter Lane. This was shortly after we experienced Hurricane Frederick while staying with my granny until my dad found the yellow house. When we moved in, Daddy did everything he could to try and make amends to my mom, except buying her a replacement wedding band for the one she had lost many years back. When the Christmas season came along, Daddy took us all out to a few places to look for Christmas trees, something that became a tradition. Back in the 70s, places like department stores and hardware stores didn't carry real trees like they do now, and you basically only had three choices: an artificial tree from a department store, a Christmas tree farm, or stands that were usually set up in random parking lots or a vacant area next to a gas station. I know it sounds weird, but this was definitely a thing. Since I moved to Atlanta almost 30 years ago, the only business I recollect that still sets up like this each year is called Big John's.

This particular year, Daddy was going out of his way to make us all happy and wanted this Christmas to be special for us all. We didn’t go to a tree farm but to one of the aforementioned places that had trees set up in a parking lot, or next to one. I don’t remember how the decision was made, but I remember being able to pick out a tree, which I thought would be the one in the living room, but my dad had already picked one out. We all got back into Daddy's pickup truck and headed home, making a stop at TG&Y to buy some Christmas lights and some more decorations. When we got home, Daddy pulled two Christmas trees from the bed of his truck—one taller than the other. The taller tree went into a tree stand, and the other was not cut at the bottom. It was in a planter, complete with its roots—it was a live tree.

The cut tree was placed in our living room, where Mama and Daddy strung the lights and put the star on top before we decorated it. The second tree was placed in my bedroom next to my bed and strung up with a set of our older Christmas lights, the colors a little faded and slightly pastel but pretty all the same. Daddy let Mama decide on how to decorate this one with me. Mama asked what I wanted to decorate my tree with, and I said “candy,” not realizing there really weren’t candy decorations at the time. Nowadays, you can buy decorations molded from candy and ones that look like candy packages. Mama worked her magic, jumped into her yellow Pontiac car, and came home with bags of spice and gum drop candy. Mama was always a creative lady and very much loved making something ordinary into something extraordinary. She also bought silver decoration hangers and took me to my room to begin decorating the tree. Mama showed me all I needed to do was bend the bottom of the hanger slightly and push the bottom of the spice and gum drops onto the wire, then hang each one on the branches. This was really fun because, as tedious as the work was, the fact that we could eat our decorations as we went along made it go quicker. Once we were done, Mama asked if it was missing anything, and I told her a star. We didn’t have the money for a new star, and our actual star was on top of our living room tree, so Mama went into her bedroom and came out with something that resembled a baby doll but with wings and a cord coming from behind—it was an angel. This wasn’t just any angel; it was one from when Mama was a little girl. She got a chair, carefully put the angel on top of my tree, and plugged it into the end of the string of colored lights. While it looked pretty old and dated, I thought it was beautiful. When Mama asked if there was anything else we could add to the tree to make it even better, I said popcorn. We were country people, and I remember seeing popcorn strung on other trees, so it seemed like it might have been a good addition. Unfortunately, Mama said we didn’t have any popcorn because we didn’t have a popcorn popper. Keep in mind, these were the days before microwave popcorn was made. Most people, including us, didn’t have a microwave in our homes. I don’t think my family even knew what one was.

Throughout the Christmas season, I spent more time in my room, laying in bed and looking at the Christmas lights in the darkened room, insisting they stay on all night in place of my nightlight. I also wanted to make sure Santa knew there was a tree in my room. When Mama wrote my letter to Santa, I told her to make sure he came into my room to see it. I was so proud of that tree, and to this day, I still have visions of it. After Christmas, my Daddy dragged our living room Christmas tree to the back of our yard where there was a wooded area, but my Christmas tree was put on our front porch and watered each day until the ground was warm enough to dig a hole. My daddy planted my tree in the corner of my mama’s vegetable garden. Every time we went out there to pick cucumbers, cantaloupe, or something else during the summer, I would remind Mama of our gumdrop tree.

Regarding the popcorn idea, even though we couldn’t put it on the tree, Mama mentioned to my dad what I asked for and how much she missed popcorn. On Christmas morning, an unspoken Christmas wish came true thanks to the Christmas tree in my room. My mama opened up a box to find a brand new West Bend Popcorn Maker. She used that popcorn maker for years and probably still had it up until she passed away. Mama’s popcorn maker was a staple in our house. She would make popcorn for us to snack on at night, make popcorn balls for school functions, and sometimes just make popcorn during the day, just to have some.

This memory is a cherished part of my childhood, a blend of simple joys, creativity, and the warmth of family traditions. Each Christmas, I am reminded of the love and effort my parents put into making the holiday special, despite the challenges we faced. The little gumdrop tree in my room symbolized not just a festive decoration but a gesture of love and a source of lasting happiness.

Christmas Caroling??? Adventures: A Scout's Journey

When I joined the Scouts, I went straight into the Webelos, but one of the requirements before I could officially cross over, at least according to the scoutmaster, was to complete the courses in the Cub Scout handbooks for Tiger, Wolf, and Bear. It was a sort of crash course in scouting skills, and while I learned a lot, some of the tasks, especially those from the Tiger book, felt a bit redundant.

One of the skills I needed to master was essentially Community Training. The idea was to do something for the betterment of the community as long as it brought joy to people. Since it was Christmas and I was in the elementary school chorus, I decided to go Christmas caroling with some of the other scouts. Unfortunately, none of the other scouts showed up, so it was just my mom and me.

It was cold that night. Bear in mind, we lived in Florida, so the temperatures probably weren't that bad, but to us, it felt freezing. We bundled up, and I even wore a knit hat under my Webelos cap, which I technically hadn't earned yet. Months earlier, I had been trick-or-treating, so I knew where most of the older people in our neighborhood lived. I strategically avoided any houses with people I knew. The game plan was simple: knock on the door, and the moment it opened, Mom and I would start singing "Silent Night." Mom was my witness and had to sign off on all my tasks. She could have made it easy, but she didn't.

Things didn't go as planned. At the first house, no one opened the door. The second house was answered by a kid with snot hanging from his nose, who told us his mom was throwing up, which we could hear. The third door belonged to a grumpy old lady I remembered from a school fundraiser in the third grade. She snatched the door open and screamed, "WHAT THE F*** DO YOU WANT?" I started crying, and Mom, trying to console me, called her an old biddy as we walked home.

After that, Mom took mercy on me. She signed off on my task and spent 30 minutes making up stories about how we entertained the masses with our voices. Even though things didn’t go as planned, it's a memory that makes me smile because mama had a way of making things seem better when things went wrong.

A Heartfelt Christmas Memory: Daddy Decorating Our Yard

Inside our house, Christmas was a cozy and laid-back affair. My mom, sister, and I would decorate the tree or engage in some kind of Christmas craft, like painting cookie dough ornaments. But outside, it was a different story entirely. Armed with a hammer, nails, and our old Christmas tree lights, my dad would transform our home into a mini winter wonderland. Although his intentions were heartfelt, his patience often wore thin, and he’d drop more colorful language in one night than most people do in a lifetime.

My sister, Becki, holding me steady on the ledge of our house on Easter Lane, circa 1980

Over the years, his vision for our yard evolved. It all started with a few wreaths made from a discarded artificial Christmas tree he found at the dump, with working hurricane lanterns filled with kerosene hanging in the middle of each. He then moved on to tacking Christmas lights to the eaves of our house and building large Christmas trains and presents out of old wood for the yard. He was a true genius with wood. One year, he made life-sized wooden cutouts of Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs—though I never quite understood their connection to Christmas, they were still awesome. My dad's woodworking skills weren't limited to discarded manufactured wood either. He created all of Santa's reindeer, including Rudolph, from logs too green for firewood and thick branches from various trees being cleared from the vacant lot near our house. My only regret is not getting decent photos of my dad's handiwork each year. I don't believe photos exist for every year, just a few scattered among photo albums that my mom and sister had.

In addition to making our yard festive, there were nights when Daddy would load us up in the car or his truck, and we’d drive around Mobile or Pensacola, through neighborhoods admiring the lights on other people's homes, or through heavily decorated parks. Sometimes we’d drive over to see if the USS ALABAMA Battleship Memorial Park was lit up, though I can’t recall if it ever was back then. My memories have faded a bit over the years. I'm not sure if Daddy was just looking for inspiration or if he truly enjoyed taking in the sights of other people's creations, but it seemed like every time we returned home, he’d add something new to his display. He would work from October through December, gathering ideas from magazines like Ladies' Home Journal, Southern Living, Family Circle, and countless others.

By the time New Year's Day arrived, Daddy would have the decorations down and already packed up and stored in our storage room in the house. I dreaded that day because it meant the season was over until the arrival of Thanksgiving.

These memories of my dad's dedication to creating a festive atmosphere are some of the most cherished of my childhood. They remind me of the joy and magic of the holiday season, and the lengths to which my dad went to make it special for our family.

Letters to Santa: A Holiday Tradition and a Deep Personal Story

 

Writing letters to Santa was always a cornerstone of my Christmas season. Mama had a unique way of making Santa seem like he was my real grandfather. It was a bit ironic because I did have a grandfather—Mama's stepdad, whom we called PawPaw. Although PawPaw was distant with me, it seemed a mythical being was more family to me. But as a kid, I never knew any better.

One of my earliest memories is sitting on Santa's lap at Springdale Mall when I was about 3 or 4 years old. I was so shy that I forgot everything I wanted to ask Santa for, except GoGo Boots. I think he misunderstood and I got cowboy boots instead. Years later, at 16, I found myself sitting on Santa’s lap again, this time at Macy’s in NYC. I was homeless then and told him I wanted a place of my own. I don’t think the Macy’s Santa understood completely, but he said he would do his best.

Not me but that was my style at 16, though different hair

Mama loved Christmas, and our house was always filled with Santa decorations. Watching Miracle on 34th Street gave Santa a definitive story in my mind, reinforcing the magical aura around him.
My letters to Santa started out like any other kid’s—filled with lists of toys and gifts I wished for. But over time, they evolved into more. They became a place where I poured out my thoughts and feelings, almost like a journal.

I remember one year, in third grade, our teacher Mrs. Kell gave us an assignment to write a letter to someone. I wrote to Santa. Mrs. Kell, who was supposed to be a family friend, wasn’t pleased. She told me Santa wasn’t real and made me write another letter to someone else. I chose PawPaw, but it was my grandmother who wrote back, not him.

Despite Mrs. Kell’s disbelief, the cookies we left out for Santa were always eaten, and the milk was always at a lower level in the morning. To me, that was proof enough that Santa was real.

One of the most personal letters I wrote to Santa was when I was about 9. In it, I came out to him, telling him I was gay and that I was being molested by a neighbor two doors down from me, the father of a girl in my same grade. I wondered if Santa hated me for being gay. Writing that letter was a vulnerable moment, but it felt safe to share it with Santa, as he would understand and possibly give me guidance to make the abuse end. I never got the guidance, but at the age of 12, it did end.

Even now, though I don't write letters to Santa, I still believe in the spirit of Santa and the magic that surrounds his character. The spirit of Christmas and the joy of those childhood memories fill me with warmth and wonder every holiday season.