A Last Childhood Christmas
“Wow, the airplane wings are full of ice. Not good.”
The words came out of my brother’s mouth as he sat next to me on a commercial airplane.
It was December 1986, and my first real plane ride at age nineteen. My brother, Matt, was seasoned in flying, just finishing a two-year Army stint overseas. Although spending these years apart, our closeness in age and relationship remained, as did our constant banter.
This time, Matt’s teasing was focused on my flying angst, with him questioning the flight readiness of the airplane we boarded. Like putty in the hand, I provided his desired response with my immediate look of horror.
“I’m kidding! They are just applying de-icer to the wings, which is normal.”
My brother’s reassurance was enough to ease my anxiety. Our interest quickly moved from outside the plane to sharing his Walkman while jostling for elbow space.
Matt and I were at the peak of young adult selfishness, viewing this trip as a quick adventure to visit our newly relocated parents in Arizona. We were more worried about missing our college friends in the Midwest than celebrating our first family Arizona Christmas.
The two-hour flight was quick and uneventful, with the freshly de-iced wings doing their job. We flew into warm southwest skies and were greeted by our dad. Our middle brother, Mark, had also recently moved to Tempe, Arizona, leaving Matt and me as the only ones from our little family of five still suffering through Iowa winters.
Mom often refers to our childhood in Remsen, Iowa, as our Norman Rockwell years. We lived in a picturesque small town surrounded by miles of open farmland. Mom cooked our meals, sewed our clothes, and stayed home by day for most of our childhood.
My brothers and I behaved moderately well within the confines of our small school and church community. But we ran wild in the open air of parks and fields. The town was our playground.
Dad was the town barber. Always hard-working, dependable, and involved in the community. He ushered at church and was in the bowling league. My mom and dad played the traditional 70s parenting roles to a tee.
Christmas festivities were run much the same way. Although Dad would help with the heavy lifting of putting up the tree and transporting us for shopping trips, my mom carefully wrapped the gifts, cooked the meals, and ensured each detail of the holidays was accomplished to perfection.
Every year, we followed a similar routine: Christmas Eve at my maternal grandparents' farm just outside of town. Christmas Day was celebrated at my paternal grandparents’ home just up the street from us. Our own family's Christmas started with mass and ended with opening colorfully wrapped gifts in our living room.
All this changed in the mid-eighties, starting with my oldest brother joining the Army after high school in 1983. With my parents’ Kingman, Arizona migration in the fall of 1986, our Remsen Christmases ended.
Busy with our new adult lives, my brothers and I didn’t understand our family was moving on to a new life phase. One that would now include plane rides and many holidays not spent together. Friends and love interests were more exciting in our young adult minds, and we were content to stay put for Christmas.
But our parents thought otherwise. They bought plane tickets for Matt and me to fly to Las Vegas, a short drive to Kingman, over our holiday break. Brother Mark would join us by car.
Dad picked us up at the airport and drove us to the Las Vegas Strip. We were introduced to the non-Iowa venues of gambling, magnificent buildings, endless buffets, and winter warmth. Matt and I quickly became more enthusiastic about our holiday displacement.
Treating our trip like a new chapter for the Wagner family, Dad assured us that we would enjoy ourselves, but there was no need for the youthful holiday stuff anymore. He and Mom hadn't put up a single Christmas decoration, and there was no need to waste money on gifts. We would enjoy each other's company. We made plans for movies, card playing, and exploring the city haunts.
It all sounded great to us - until Christmas Eve arrived.
Dad took the day off. Mom was working, and Mark wouldn’t arrive until later.
The rest of us planned our day with mini-adventures around Kingman, with Dad leading the charge. Matt and I bantered endlessly as his car passengers, just as we had done throughout childhood. We quickly discovered that our sibling humor and love transported well from Iowa to Arizona.
Soon Mark arrived, joining his sibling trio, and the laughter heightened. Rather than being annoyed by our childlike antics, Dad was clearly happy and gave a declaration.
"We are doing Christmas right. We're all together, so we need a tree and decorations just like we've always done. It doesn't matter that we're in Arizona."
Christmas was back on.
And that was it. Dad made up his mind. Over the next few hours, we ran around town buying one of the last trees left in the lot and whatever gifts were left on the shelves at the discount stores. It was a feeling of complete joy and bliss as we frantically tried to pull off a perfect first Christmas in Arizona.
Mom quickly realized what transpired that Christmas Eve with Dad's proclamation as she walked in the door to our jubilant faces.
"Mary, let's get out the Christmas boxes. We have a tree and decorations to put up."
Mom prepared the dinner while my brothers and I filled the Christmas tree with ornaments we grew to love as children. Our stockings were hung, and our cheap gift purchases were wrapped.
We were no longer in our childhood home on Harrison Street, nor did we have an Iowa white Christmas. With a malfunctioning oven, the turkey didn’t cook properly. But none of that mattered. What mattered was that we were together.
The joy from our childhood Christmases joined us that night. We were giddy with the spirit of Christmas, celebrating just as we did in all our Remsen Christmases of the past.
Mom had the three of us gather for a photo. The boys wrestled for position as I whined for them to stop. A headlock soon followed with a final picture taken of my brothers shirtless, comparing physiques.
Our first Arizona Christmas was a success.
Post-holiday blues quickly came with Mark driving back to Tempe and Mom returning to work. Dad was charged with taking Matt and me back to the Las Vegas airport. Our young adult thoughts were already affixed on college parties and eagerness for the new spring semester that awaited us.
As for Dad, I noticed his misty eyes as he hugged us goodbye. Matt and I reassured him that we would be back soon, waving with shouts of thanks as we boarded the plane.
After a quick exchange of looks, wondering if we should be concerned, brother and sister only looked ahead. We jockeyed for the window seat while Dad waved to us from the terminal window, forcing a smile.
This would be our last Christmas together as our little family of five. Although I now savor my childhood Christmases just like my dad did in 1986, I had no idea how fast the years would fly. I was enamored with my future, with the past a fleeting memory.
Matt and I didn’t know as we took flight that this was a milestone, a transition to a new life chapter. But Dad knew. And that is exactly why he made his Christmas Eve audible—a well-played change of plans.
A video flashback to one of our childhood Christmases in Remsen, Iowa…
