The Ghosts Of Christmas Past

Making sense of the omnipresence of people I’ve loved and lost helped me confront my fear of death

The opening words of Charles Dickens’s classic novel, “A Tale of Two Cities,” summed up my young life. It was the best and worst of times.

Being with extended family over the holidays was the best time. We’d trek to my grandparent’s farm in southern Illinois each year.

It counterbalanced a type of Dickinson-related experience that unfolded in my classroom. A teenage demon who was belched out of hell made my days in middle school the worst time.

For the first 13 years of my life, we celebrated Christmas with my mother’s six siblings and their children. Nearly 50 years later, the memory of Granny and Gramps’ idyllic home looms large in my mind.

We’d lounge around the house, stomachs stuffed with an array of tasty soul food. An uncle or aunt would recall a story from back in the day that would make me laugh so hard that I nearly busted a gut.

Ensconced in a cocoon of love, the outside world ceased to exist. Our shared experience was the glue that bound us together. Low-key, I’m a talker born into a family of motor mouths. I vividly remember my only frustration was frequently being unable to get a word in edgewise.

In retrospect, there’s no lovelier sound than the boisterous animated banter between family. The volume would start at a normal level during breakfast. As the day unfolded, the noise level incrementally increased.

By the time evening rolled around, the cacophony of voices had reached a crescendo, born of over-talkers who yelled to be heard. Those sounds still ring in my ears, and constitute heaven on earth.

When I got back to science class, all joyful noises were silenced. I’d found myself in hostile enemy territory ruled by a hulking figure. Renee was the very definition of a bully. She was a giant of a girl… armed with a lethal arsenal of vitriolic words.

My bully was scary. She was taller and larger than most women twice her age. I was a wisp of a girl in sixth grade. My height was less than five feet, and I weighed 100 pounds soaking wet. Renee towered over me. I was terrified that if she sat on me, I’d be a goner.

Time off school was the antidote to the fear that greeted me five days a week. The excitement of packing for the trip to visit my grandparents was palpable.

A huge smile replaced the frown that was permanently plowed on my face; because the holiday offered a welcome, albeit brief, respite. For the first time, in a long time, I exhaled.

Though my parents sensed that something was amiss, I deflected their concerns, “What’s wrong sweetheart?” My dad repeatedly asked. There was no way I could share my shameful secret without looking like a coward.

Mortally embarrassed by my inability to speak up, I held the hurt inside. Since I’ve always worn my emotions on my sleeve, it was easy for my parents to see something was bothering me.

My father was a brave man. When the chips were down, he stood up. I adored him for it. Dad wasn’t afraid to stand up for what was right. He’d traveled to the South to join sit in’s at lunch counters for our civil rights.

I’d seen him advocate for my half-sister, confronting police during a road trip to pick her up. On the ride back home, she needed to use the facilities. We pulled into a gas station in a town called Yonkers, New York.

In what seemed like it couldn’t be happening in the 70s, a gas station manager wouldn’t give Michelle the bathroom key. She came back to the car shaken and told my dad just to keep going. He was infuriated.

Dad got out of the car and went back inside. He told us to stay put. We didn’t. The manager called the police, and three squad cars arrived with lights blaring. My father didn’t flinch.

Dad’s anger flared when the man dared to own up to refusing to relinquish the key. That’s when my father quoted the Civil Rights Act of 1964. That’s all it took to de-escalate the situation.

The police officers wrestled with the weight of my dad’s recitation, which reflected their apparent racism. The key was handed over, and a stare-down ensued. Walking out, head high, I felt a surge of pride.

Unlike my father, I couldn’t find the courage to replicate his example. Instead, I muted myself. When the time came for me to stand up… I shrunk. Fear froze my lips shut. My psyche absorbed her poisonous words, which leaked acid into the lining of my stomach.

Because demons always seem to roll in pairs; mine was egged on by a bug-eyed, buck tooth minion. At least, that’s the way I caricatured her face on my sketchpad.

The other girl at the table was nice enough. She pretended not to see or hear what was going on. Our science teacher ignored the only four brown girls in the all-white class, consigning us to a table in the back of the room.

Looking out the window on the drive to the farm instilled a sense of euphoria. Each mile put distance between me and my aggressor. Her name was forgotten when I crossed the threshold of my grandparent’s home.

The love that permeated every corner of every room vanquished the heaviness in my heart. It was a relief to drop my defenses and no longer be the weird girl who doodled cartoons and liked Mad magazine.

On the other hand, my family encouraged the glimmer of talent they saw. My Granny, used to pray over my hands, emphatically praising Jesus for the gift his father bestowed upon me.

Granny was a hardcore Christian who was animated by the spirit of love. Her heart was a deep well that overflowed and nourished us all.

To be seen, valued, appreciated, and loved is the greatest gift on earth. Nothing can approach the feeling that your presence is a present from God.

Two weeks into 1978, our familial cohesiveness would be forever altered. On Friday, the 13th of January, my mother’s baby brother (Uncle Donald) was instantly killed in a car crash at age 30.

Metaphorically, a fragile glass ornament on our family tree shattered. A few months later, my Grandfather was snatched from our lives when he succumbed to a stroke. Losing two precious heirlooms in succession had a profound impact on my life.

At my Grandfather’s funeral, I was terrified by my Great Aunt’s foreboding comment. “Death visits in threes.” As much as I’d wanted to forget what she said, I couldn’t get her words out of my mind. I harbored thoughts about who would die next.

Then the oddest thing happened.

My Uncle and Grandfather came back for me. To this day, my mom claims it was a dream. I’ll go to my grave, swearing it wasn’t. I was awakened by a knock on the back porch door. When I opened it, I saw my Uncle.

He was standing on the top step, and my grandfather stood just behind him. Uncle Donald said they’d come for me, and I had to decide to go then.

Before I could say anything, I felt my mom’s hand on my shoulder. I turned to relay that they weren’t dead. When I turned back to show her the proof, they’d both disappeared.

Mom said I was sleepwalking. Yet I’d never sleepwalked before or after. I’ve been alive for 59 years and recognize their presence for what it was. The ghosts of my dearly departed loved ones were dispatched to wake me up.

Though I can’t explain why, from that day on, I knew life doesn’t end when you die. It was the message that motivated me to find the courage to push past fear.

The first thing I did when I got back to school was confront my bully. I figured, what’s the worst thing that could happen? If she killed me, I’d be reunited with two people who were still alive on the other side.

Obviously… I didn’t die. Renee did beat me to a pulp. But that’s a story for another day.

❤️️About Me ➖ Toni Greathouse (moniker) Toni The Talker ➖

Racing toward age 60. Living every day like it’s my last, but planning like I’ll be here 60 more years. Rewriting my reality in ways that will leave a legacy that outlives me.