Christmas Memories

I’m an old Laguna Beach lady now with memories of more than 70 Christmases warming me at the fireside of nostalgia.

Childhood farm family holidays, scented with fresh-cut pine trees, sparkling with gifts for a huge extended family. The feast: homemade pies baked by a jolly Mrs. Claus-like grandma, laughing aunts and uncles and shrieking little kids sledding in the snow.

Teenage Christmases in Catholic boarding school meant that big family celebrations were over. Nuns sang Gregorian chants in a little chapel scented with incense. Father said mass in his brocade surplice, while Baby Jesus glowed in his crib, lit by stained glass window glow.

Young married couple Christmases were meager. Pregnant with my first child, we had only rent money. Mother brought us canned peas, eggs and bread for meals of French toast with peas, pea omelets and egg sandwiches with pea salad. No tree. The tiniest gifts between drunken jail scenes with my ex-con husband.

Single motherhood Christmases were prettier: little trees, ornaments, baking cookies with my little blond girl who received armloads of gifts from her adoring grandparents after playing in the snow.

San Francisco was a change. No more snow, bright sun shone off tinsel and other garish street decorations. Our railroad car style apartment had lovely trees and gifts—between earthquakes.

My Laguna Beach marriage made us part of a large Irish family, and I gave birth two days after Christmas to another little girl, this one with dark hair, freckles and big green eyes like mine. Iconic Southern California Christmases with sometimes rainy days or bright sunshine were followed by her birthday.

That marriage ended too. The surf sang carols to us in our Gaviota alley apartment. We spent Christmases camping with surfers and their families in the deserts, beaches and hot springs of Southern California and Baja, Mexico, burned Christmas trees in our campfires, drank tequila and listened to guitar music.

Single moms find money is tight. From our upstairs Coast Highway apartment, we snuck down the stairs at night to “borrow” what looked like a pine tree from a group of planters outside the shops below, then returned it after her birthday and New Year’s.

My older girl, her husband and my granddaughter came for Christmases on Ocean Avenue. I made banana cream and spinach pies. A photo of us at the beach on Christmas Day made everyone back east mad. My house was tiny. I hung the tree upside down from the ceiling over the dining table, the decorations hanging down prettily.

One year, my 12 year old was frustrated because we had no tree on Christmas Eve. She pouted all night about me missing the tree lot closing time. Next morning, while she showered, my neighbor asked if I would take her Christmas tree, as she had to travel unexpectedly. By the time my girl left the shower, a decorated tree stood in our living room!

Another year, I flew back to Ohio on Christmas Eve, riding in an empty airplane and arriving to a snowy morning. All was quiet and white and the city felt holy. Evenings, my brother and I walked around his neighborhood enjoying the reflections of the colored house lights on snow. I rebelliously made a snow woman with huge breasts for their front yard.

A few years ago, my belly dance troupe and I did shows for mentally disabled children. We jingled down the halls into each room, sparkling in our costumes, playing finger cymbals, veil dancing and tossing out little gifts.

My Christmas memories in Laguna Beach are bright mental ornaments.

Jheri St. James, a member of the Third Street Writers, has lived and operated a secretarial service in Laguna Beach for 45 years. She is a two-trophy winner in the Belly Dancer of the Universe Competition, teaches and performs regularly, and loves Christmas.