THE TRADITION OF CHRISTMAS PAJAMAS

It was tradition! When I was a child, my mother would always make me a pair of pajamas for my Christmas present.  Every year we would go to the Steven’s fabric store in Menlo Park, California. Mom would parallel park the red and white Oldsmobile right in front of the store.

 Having no need to fear strangers, I would hop out, and rush to the entrance without waiting for Mom to accompany me. Inside the store, bolts and bolts of different colored fabricsfrom the floor to the top of the ceiling towered over me..

In the back, right next to where I would sit for hours and look through the patterns for making my clothes—a section of flannel fabrics lined in racks along the wall waited for my yearly pilgrimage. Flannel was always made of natural of cotton fibers. I touched every bolt with my fine tapered tiny fingers. I could feel the difference in texture, or so I thought of every bolt of fabric.

Every year, I got to choose the color. The hue I would choose for the garment I was going to put on every night before going to sleep and dream. What was I going to wear for a full year—pink, yellow, green…? It was a big event! I spent what seemed to be hours going through bolts of fabric looking for that special one that would make it so— I would not care that our house was unheated because the family budget needed to tighten that year for not enough money to cover the families needs.

What I cherish the most, is not only did I pick out my very own fabric, design the pair of pajamas, but I got to decorate the pajamas. This was the most thrilling for me as I got to go into an ancient, stained magical tin box my Grandmother once owned. Inside, were unknown treasures–left over lace, colored glass beads and  scraps of exotic trims from bygone years that my mom inherited from her mom. These tiny pieces of family history would make my pajamas a very special garment that would cover my body and keep me warm, safe and sound.

I touched a yellow flannel to my  cheek. It felt like soft butter. I turned to my Mother. “Please, may I have this one? Please?”

The selection also had to fit the family budget. Mom would take the bolt and carefully study the price tacked to the edge of the cardboard around which the fabric was wrapped. Her brow would furrow. I tensed and held my breath. She would look down at me, and smile.

A truck zoomed past our car, and I jumped in the passenger seat.

“Look out!” I screamed. “Oh, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. I think you fell asleep.”

“Not really. I was remembering something…”

“Oh…”

“You know children these days…” I paused. “It’s really too bad that mothers don’t make their kids clothes anymore.”

I did not realize that, years later, the next generation of children would not have mothers at home sewing their clothes when they came home from school. Little did we know, that what we thought was a family budget problem was a government problem. Now mothers and fathers both had to go work to support the family.

As we drove down the bumpy road, Patti swerved across the traffic into an unpaved parking lot.

“Did I ever tell you about the orphanage?”

“Orphanage…NO! You mean they still have them in Mexico?”

“Oh yea, the director is a retired musician from LA.

My ears picked up.

“A Musician?” I asked.

“Yes. He gave it all up … all the glamour and glitz … He would wander the streets, and pick up abandoned kids”

“Wow, lost children.”

“Oh, yea. Lots of them in Tijuana!”

We entered a building for our church that looked more like a business that had failed in the 80’s.

Just like, Peter Pan, I thought. “A real Peter Pan!”

“Well not exactly that glamourous. Some of the new kids off the street would have scabies, and have to be separated for weeks.”

I could feel my neck begin to itch as Sara talked about the scabies she got when she visited the orphanage. I listened intently as story after story spilled out of her. The child that she would eventually adopt hitchhiked to her from the orphanage at great physical risk to find her ‘true’ mother.

“Well maybe we should do something…for Christmas for the kids!”

“What?”

“ I know just the thing…pajamas!”

“Yes, the children must have pajamas to keep warm,” she said without hesitation.

We looked at each other. In a matter of moments, we were figuring out who would know the ins and outs, and who we need to call to make it work!

As I look out my condo window of glass at the vastness of the Pacific Ocean, the sun is starting to set. It reflects off the flowing sheet of rippling water. The sun will be in my eyes soon. The waves push against the shore as they always do, and the goodness of the human spirit alway prevails. 

During this chaotic time in which we live, we must not forget that tradition is important to pass down to our children. Who knows when a past magical childhood memory will eventually bring a smile onto the faces of another generation of children.