by Marilyn Gaa, Dec. 11, 2020
On this frosty, dreary Friday morning, the Christmas shirt emerges from the stored garments and linens that come to life once a year. There it is, in all of its glory, with history and heritage in its folds. Spread out on the bed, I admire the festive Guatemalan textile, red and black stripes interspersed with orange, yellow and green, finished with a tidy fringe.
Like a personal parody of Dicken’s Christmas Carol, the shirt takes me back to revisit “Christmas past”. I return to the log cabin in Missouri where Jim and I were spending a romantic and productive 1974. Jim was writing his philosophy dissertation and I was, among other things, gestating our first child. We were 25 years old, in the fourth year of our happy marriage. I suddenly saw my future as a wife and mother closing in, and I yearned for one last flight of freedom. With Jim’s loving support, I purchased a bus ticket for, what was possibly, my last independent adventure.
With a small backpack, containing a novel, knitting, snacks and a few changes of clothes, I boarded a Greyhound in Houston, Mo., with my ticket to Los Angeles in hand. Travelling alone, I made acquaintances along the way. Those of us who were going the distance together shared stories and support. At a late-night depot stop, our elderly gentleman companion was robbed in the washroom, and we all chipped in to make up his loss. I saw the western half of America for the first time, prairies, farms, mountains, and deserts, in the bleak early winter. When the bus stopped in Barsto California, I jumped out to admire my first sighting of a palm tree. I spent two and a half days and nights, sitting upright, dozing with my head against the window frame.
Judith and John met me at the Los Angles depot, and took me directly to their Venice apartment to refresh. Mindful of Jim’s mom’s sage advice ”guests and fish smell after three days,” my plan was to visit for only three days, “What do you want to see and do while you are here?” was the question of the day. I wasn’t too concerned about imposing on our friends, because only a year before, Judith arrived in St. Louis to visit us. When we met her at the airport we were surprised that she had such a large amount of luggage. She hesitantly explained, “This is not a visit, I have left John and hope that I can stay with you until I figure out what to do next.” We welcomed and comforted our friend in crisis, helped her find work and friends, and eventually she moved from our folding cot to a live-in nanny position. Before the year ended, John and Judith had reconciled and reunited. She resumed her graduate studies for an MFA in print making, he was pursuing a degree in architecture. They settled in picturesque Venice, in a creatively furnished apartment with a comfortable couch for me. I was a welcome guest and they were eager to show me the sights.
First on my list: “I want to see the ocean!” Dipping my feet into the choppy Pacific waters was a peak experience for me, a Midwestern girl, born and raised in Michigan. As the days sped by, they took me to the wharf, populated with strolling hippies, buskers, and vendors. An admiring stranger stopped me and asked me what I did to get such outrageous hair? Evidently, my long, thick, unruly hair was right in style in Venice.
We went to Knotts Berry Farm, the “Hollywood Wax Museum” and the adjoining, “Palace of Living Art” where great works of art, like the Last Supper, were displayed in 3D wax relief. A highlight was Watts Towers, the gorgeous sculpted and ceramic encrusted property that was once the home of an Italian immigrant stone mason, famous enough to merit a page in my Janson’s History of Art textbook.
I gave John and Judith time off from their tour guide tasks, and I wandered the Venice shoreline browsing in boutiques and sampling café fare. I discovered a shop specializing in Central American and Mexican textiles and art. My Christmas shirt reached out to me from a rack of colourful clothes. I knew it had to be mine! It was a full smock with long sleeves, neatly sewn at neck and cuffs. I thought that it would be perfect to wear for the remainder of my pregnancy, our baby was due in early January. There was no hem, the bottom edge was roughly cut, but I planned to make a knotted fringe on my long trip home. 
My California adventure felt complete and I was happy to return to Jim’s embrace after my nine -day absence. Soon it was December and there were occasions to wear my Christmas shirt. It was so bright and unusual, it attracted attention in rural Missouri and even on visits to St. Louis.
I mark the age of this shirt with the age of our oldest’ son, Charles, now 45. I have worn this shirt on Christmas mornings every year since then. Our family grew to five, and, living in Canada in a “century home” we could accommodate grandparents, an aunt and uncle, or other guests visiting over the holidays. If anyone remarked on my shirt, I would retell its origins with pleasure.
In the spirit of “Christmas present”, I observe that, now I am 71 years old, I must say that my Christmas shirt and I are quite well preserved. We show small signs of wear, but we are both quite presentable and serviceable. It is December, 2020, the year of the COVID-19 Pandemic, and we are obediently living with restrictions that will, hopefully, prevent the contagion that comes with Christmas celebrations. In isolation from family and society, Jim and I find comfort in shared memories and gestures. We decorate our home, inside and out to create an atmosphere of cheer. We mail Christmas cards and gifts, feed the birds and make charitable donations. We will spend our evenings enjoying classic Christmas movies on Netflix. Jim plays his once a year CD collection of pop, jazz and blues versions of holiday music on the stereo (no Bing Crosby). When the 25th dawns this year, the two of us will enjoy breakfast in the living room, admiring our decorated tree, accompanied only by our loyal dog and cat. I will be wearing my Christmas shirt.
The spirit of “Christmas Future” conjures more questions than answers.
Life is interesting 