by Jo Campbell
The trip home from visiting my children and grands in California last year was like experiencing Ellis Island at 39,000 feet.
It was not so surprising to
see young mothers and fathers schlepping bags of gifts mixed with diapers,
worrying and scurrying after kids.It was hard, however, to see
oldsters being unloaded in wheelchairs or on sort of upright gurneys - semi-stretchers
to which they had to be strapped under the arms. The more able just leaned
on sturdy young flight attendants. All these old travelers looked weary
beyond words.My first reaction to their
wan, strained appearance was harsh. What kind of heartless families made
these folks travel in this brutish fashion for the hectic holidays? How
jolly could it be? Then it came to me that the grandparents probably have
nowhere to receive company. Suppose they live in nursing homes. Suppose
they live in marginal independence, determined "not to burden the children."Anxious families may have sent
fare, fearing that each holiday together would be the last. Gone are the days when the
farm where grandma and grandpa lived with the farmer-offspring was the hub
of family gatherings.Celebration no longer means
warming up those cold little bedrooms on the top floor of the farmhouse,
and doling out the handmade quilts. (How many kids were conceived during
the cuddles of those frosty visits? I wonder.)Festivity doesn't mean dealing
leaves into that incredible table which spans the 16-foot kitchen like the
one where I - an only child! - first met my husband's family.As apple-jack loosens tongues
at the cleared-away table after dinner, no one worries; "Where are the kids?"Everyone knows they are
listening to a relative's outrageous stories, or watching animals do things
you'll be answering questions about all the rest of the year.Today, Christmas starts with
plans sometime in September, plane reservations made in October and a
final descent on the family member who has the most space.Today, the holidays mean
opening up the sleep sofa, the futon, the loft in the kids' room. It means
asking a late arrival if she brought her sleeping bag.It means either almost
stepping on a kid for the umpteenth time, or causing a major panic when a
missing one is feared loose in the street outside. (She's asleep in the
only quiet corner - with the dog.)It still means seeing the
loved family - immediate and extended - that we've been missing so much. It
means remarking about growth to some who want to hear it -- and to some who
don't. Maybe it means ruffling some feelings on issues we had all but forgotten;
smoothing, soothing, tendering the ruffles away.It means realizing again that
the telephone just doesn't equal this. Reaching out doesn't work unless
you can actually hug someone.Where is home, now that
grandma's farm is gone?Well, the physical stuff is definitely not the same. But we are, and so is our love and our ingenuity! And these are important.