Christmas Memories~

As with most families, there are distinct memories that stay with us for many years. One Christmas, when my daughter Cathie was about 3 or 4, all she wanted was a pink kitchen. That's right, a pink kitchen. Now, Cathie is in her early forties as I write this, so this was not a time when plastic kitchens, complete with "microwave" and cell phone, were being produced.

I had found a heavy-duty pink cardboard kitchen set with a double sink, stand-alone stove, a tall fridge complete with "freezer" top, and a pantry. There was no way to set it up ahead of time...the set was much too cumbersome. So there we sat, her father putting together a small two-wheeler bike for our oldest son while I tried to match numbers with slots with pieces of wood that stabilized the kitchen set.

We'd finally gotten our three kids to sleep by encouraging them to listen for those reindeer on the roof. Living in northern California, we couldn't put pawprints in snow, but our whole cul-de-sac was lit up with enough colored lights to guide Santa right to us, I assured them.

Christmas carols played softly in the background as I struggled with what I had thought would be an hour's task. HA! More like 2 or 3 hours. But I did get the kitchen set finished, and surrounded the brightly blinking tree with the pieces. There were small pots and pans, and miniature packages of "food" for the pantry, as well as empty small cans of soup and veggies. I left the tree lights on, enjoying the sight of Cathie's wished-for pink kitchen. WHEW! I wiped my brow, drank my last swig of eggnog, and finally got to bed. The bike had taken nearly as much time, so the kids' father was snoring away.

Something woke me just a few hours later. Soft singing? A gentle clatter? I tip-toed down the hall towards the living room, using the glow of the lights from the tree to guide me.

There, in front of the pink stove, my little daughter stood in her long pink flannel nightgown, ruffle around her bare feet, wielding a pancake turner in her right hand while she "cooked" and softly sang. I went into the kitchen, plugged in the coffeemaker, then joined her in the living room, picking up the camera as I passed the dining room table. Sleep? Nah, I didn't need any more sleep, with such joy going on under that Christmas tree.

Yes, somewhere I have a picture of Cathie, her long blonde curls down her back, as she cooked and sang. But I don't need that actual picture; it lives in my memory. She still has long blonde hair, although the curls are gone, and she loves to cook. She's a better cook than I, by far. She's suffered many trials and tribulations, but that little flannel nightgown-clad barefoot babe still lives inside her, and she has a joyful soul.