Oh my heck, the
stuff I could tell you about my family. I might have mentioned some of it
before. We have a rich, documented history. My father's side of the family
(Owen-Owens) lived in the highlands of North Carolina and Georgia for several
generations; since before the American Revolution (with the exception of one
soldier who also eventually settled in North Carolina after the Revolution). My dad, the youngest, was raised in Detroit,
but his siblings lived in the hills for a great deal of their childhoods. My
ancestors knew how to read and write, so please, don't think they were ignorant.
My people held positions such as postmaster that required one to be literate.
People in Michigan always thought that I talked differently, but I thought I
sounded fine, since I spoke like my father's family. We used a lot of what I
later found out was considered Shakespearean language; words like “ya’ll”, “learnt”
and “amongst”, or a request such as “go fetch that hen for me, she done escaped
her coop again!”
My Aunt Lynn,
born in 1919, adhered to the belief that a Stuart must hold the throne. She
used to show me illustrations in books about Bonnie Prince Charlie. Mary, Queen
of Scots was Lynn’s hero. She had a deep love for Scotland’s Queen Mary. Even
into the 1970s my dad and family still hated "Tories" and I heard how
those scoundrels hid in Canada after the war. Just tonight I was telling my
husband and children some of my Owen Family traditions and how my uncle always
wanted a little red truck for Christmas when he was a boy – but he never got
one. The family story went on that my grandparents didn't go in for the
holiday. In fact the aforementioned Aunt Lynn did not celebrate Christmas. Her
husband and children gathered at Thanksgiving and had their big dinner and present
exchange at that time. Life had moved on in Scotland and Ireland, but not for
my father’s Appalachian family. His people were isolated. The region’s lore was
very Scots-Irish, too, as were the songs. Even my German-born mother thought my
dad's relatives were a little odd. That doesn't mean that they were screwy, but
up until many families moved north for work or the men marched to Europe for
the World Wars, entire communities lived in isolation. You don't know just how
much the Outlander book series tugs at my heart. Call me crazy if you wish, and
maybe there was my aunt's influence, but much of Scottish history was not
taught in public school and I felt a little less informed because of that lack
of instruction. (According to the history books, suddenly the Colonists wanted
freedom from King George—it was spontaneous after all, wasn't it, in our way of
thinking?) I learned later that the Revolution had been simmering all the way
back to Scotland, a nation that resented the English kings and their desire to
control all people from their own isle and beyond to other nations, creating an
empire that up until recently, stretched to continents such as Australia, North
America, Europe and Asia. When I read the Outlander stories, I felt like I was
living them. I had dreams long before I’d even heard of Diana Gabaldon’s novels,
long before I knew there were such books—things I could not know. I truly
believe, that some of those memories were passed down, cellular memories you
could say. (I will post one particular eerie
story in weeks to come.)
Back to Christmas
and the Scots, the people in that country did not celebrate the holiday until
it became legal in the 1950s. The church in Scotland had outlawed any Yuletide
celebrations for nearly four hundred years claiming them to be influenced by
the Catholic Pope. Yes, the Scots believed in the birth of Christ, but
Christmas as we know it in the United States for the last 150 odd years was not
celebrated across “the Pond”. We here in America gradually took on several rituals
brought over from Germany and crafted our own traditions around their lore. In
the meantime, the Scots and Irish who had come to the USA in the mid to late
1700s still believed that ceremonies and feasts centered around trees were
pagan and somehow distasteful.
My father, uncles
and aunts were not raised to observe Christmas. My own papa taught me to
remember that Jesus was most likely born during the Holy land’s lambing season
in April. He, being an atheist, believed in the history of Christ the man, not
His claim to deity. Add to that, I’d heard that the good Christian people in
the Blue Ridge and Smoky Mountains would not allow a tree in their homes let
alone fancy decorations. My mother on the other hand was rich with tales from
Germany. She and her sister Maria got hand-crafted dolls with dresses hand-sewn
by my Oma (German for grandmother). My Opa (grandfather) used to melt down
metal to make soldiers for my Uncle Heinz. Decades ago I was told the sad tale
of how, as a child, all my Uncle Edward wanted was a little red truck. He’d
begged and begged for one since the Owen family moved to Asheville in the late
1920s. Some of the city kids actually observed Christmas. Not my grandparents
or their offspring. It just was not a part of their culture—and why should they
participate, just because a few fancy people wanted to sing and dance around
trees and boughs? I don’t believe my father and his brother Harold, who was
closest to him in age, celebrated Christmas at all until after they’d moved to
Detroit in the late 1930s. Harold died having only enjoyed one, possibly two,
real Christmases. Luckily my other uncles,
Edward and Eugene, both married women who embraced the holiday and all its
trappings.
As a man nearing
his forties, and as the father of his first and only child, Edward finally
settled into Christmas with his wife Agnes. They battled dry trees, needles and
sap on the carpet, and waded into the deep waters of parenthood. They bought my
cousin Gregory presents, some of which I was lucky enough to get when he
outgrew them. I got gifts from my parents, as well: dolls, jumping mechanical
frogs and puppets. We ate sweets sent from Germany, too! These are memories I treasure.
Recently I ran
across a tiny red, metal truck. Right now it’s tucked beneath my little
Christmas tree. Come spring, I want to take a trip out to the Michigan Memorial
Cemetery south of Detroit. I’m going to take the little toy and put it on my uncle’s
gravestone. Merry Christmas Uncle Edward.
Merry Christmas, to all of you.
