“Christmas 1981”

c. 2017 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-17)

The holiday season.

In most households, this point on the calendar is one which brings family members together in blessed moments of kinship and celebration. A pause from responsibilities that weigh heavily throughout the rest of a regular year.

But for the Ice household, in 1981, we were more black-and-blue than green-and-red.

My family had moved to central New York State a bit more than two years earlier, from Pittsburgh. Through an opportunity provided by Cornell University, I served an apprenticeship at the local Community Access Television studio, commonly known as ‘Channel 13.’ There, I hosted a rowdy, local Rock music program. It was an 18-month experience that set the course of a lifelong writing adventure following this creative tantrum. Yet it bruised egos and tested patience within our brood. It did not fit the template of a conservative, Christian home. With time and reflection, I understood the full importance of what had been done in the studio at 519 West State Street. But so many years ago, I still wandered in the aftermath of this brief moment in the spotlight.

My joy was muted by a pervasive sense of guilt.

The year had seen a national slide into economic recession. But more troubling were financial woes visited directly upon my family. Never before had I seen my parents struggle so mightily. As Christmas approached, it did so without any hope of gifts or a holiday banquet. Moreover, we were in the Empire State, far away from any other members of our tribe. Instead of twinkling lights and good cheer, we huddled amid emotional darkness. Food came from digging potatoes out of a nearby university research field. Muddy grocery bags of the spuds were stacked in our kitchen. We literally ate them three times a day. The occasional budget-brand macaroni and cheese dinner looked like gold at that moment.

I questioned myself many times over. Was it reckless pride that brought this judgment upon our group? Doubt and shame blended with worry about the New Year that approached.

Briefly, I grew distant from friends who had shared my television experience. Only one ray of sunshine seemed to permeate the familial cloud of doom – my sister’s meager income from a job with friends. She helped us survive when the foundation of our household shook with uncertainty. Then, her attention turned toward the holiday. I had expected us to encourage each other on December 25^th with kind words and little else. But she had another plan.

From her slight, weekly ration of coins, my sister afforded one gift for every member of the household. She showed uncanny skill in discerning what each of us would want under the tree. We literally had nothing else to unwrap. Yet these treasures comprised a yuletide bounty that has never been surpassed in the rest of my earthly days. After many years having come and gone, I still ponder the power of that minimalistic moment. With perfection, it mirrored the story of the widow who gave two mites as her offering, in Luke chapter 21 of the biblical New Testament.

Sister Becky sat quietly as each of us opened our gifts. Mother and Father were stunned and in tears. Brother was momentarily speechless, not in any way a typical reaction for that rotund fellow. My Christmas package was square and flat. Likely a welcome vinyl platter, I reckoned.

Upon opening it, I beheld the newest album by DEVO, our spiritual kin from Ohio:

New Traditionalists (Warner Brothers, BSK-3595)

1. “Through Being Cool”

2. “Jerkin’ Back ‘N’ Forth”

3. “Pity You”

4. “Soft Things”

5. “Going Under”

6. “Race Of Doom”

7. “Love Without Anger”

8. “The Super Thing”

9. “Beautiful World”

10. Enough Said”

Working In The Coalmine (EP-3595)

7” 45 rpm single

The album was a bit brooding and ominous. I reckoned they intended to make an artistic statement about the rise of Ronald Reagan, something much celebrated at church and on the paternal side of my family. But the subject of debate for the other half of our lineage and across society. Still, it was delivered with the group’s signature style of quirky, futuristic rhythms. Geek humor before there was a sort of coolness attached to such art. I reckoned it meshed nicely with my own ‘Punk’ ethos.

That memorable Christmas Day revived the joy of living in our family. A renewed tradition of genuine charity. A candle-flame never since extinguished. A spirit which has remained long after the memory of tearing into those colorful packages slipped away. No matter what winds of change and circumstance have brought us, the true gift from my sister, one of heart-to-heart affection, has endured. And indeed, resounded so strongly that with each voyage into this time of seasonal celebration, I think not of twinkling lights or theological traditions, but instead of that moment when she-that-had-so-little in my corner of the world, chose to share it with those who she loved.

Bless you, my sister. And Merry Christmas.

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Published regularly in the Geauga Independent