Publisher’s Point Of View
Robert Allan Hooftallen

My earliest memory of Christmas is playing vividly in my mind today.

It was probably 1974 or 1975 and incredibly the memory is captured and saved in my mind in that soft, retro, Polaroid-like color that defined the 1970s.

My mind’s eye can see it now. It is a motionless, worn photo.

Boxes of those old, fragile glass bulbs in the classic Burl Ives colors of silver and gold are in boxes on the floor. A few didn’t survive the 11-month stash in the attic and their pieces litter the box’s bottom. I am staring down at them, Mom is on the front of her chair, behind me to the left, my older brother and Dad are hanging bulbs. I am plucking the bulbs from their square, cardboard chambers and handing them to the guys big enough to hang them.

There’s Christmas music playing, but I can’t recall what; probably Elvis or Bing Crosby. Our Irish setter, Shanna, is lying contentedly a few feet from the action.

The tree is in front of the picture window, exactly where it’s been for nearly every year of my life; exactly where it is today.

I am wearing light blue pajamas that are one piece. They even have the little feet in them. The ones with plasticlike bottoms.

It is the beginning of the greatest time of the year. I am as happy as a little kid could be.

That’s all I remember.

Now, a generation later, my kids are the ones staring into the boxes of decorations, helping with the work the best they can. They are energy unrestrained.

The house is torn upside down with the trinkets that are going away and the ones that will replace them.

Thinking from the standpoint of a clear-headed adult, adding

this kind of madness, by choice, to a mid-life already marked by too many challenges, seems selfdefeating.

But, no. Christmas music is blaring and even the adults are taking part in reindeer and snowman worship. The children are having the time of their lives.

It is a similar scene a generation later. And it is the scene that I hope will play as an “old” movie in my children’s minds 30 years from now.

Memories like these are evidence of generations past, but not lost.

Because, as my brother reminded me, as parents we are memory makers; we are the ones who make the choices that affect how our children will recall the days of their lives.

To get that right, I’ll suffer any amount of madness, even the strands of lights that work for one season, only to taunt you the next.