Parts of Christmas magic remain unknown

It was my secret. For decades no one knew that as a child I had tiptoed down the stairs in the wee hours of Christmas morning, plugged in the big blue lights on the Christmas tree and surveyed whatever I could see by their dim illumination. (Big blue bulbs don't give off nearly as much light as tiny white lights; you can't see much.)

I don't know why I did it. To a child of the '50s, this sneaking a peek at Santa's bounty was what passed for dangerous rebellion. I suspect I did it partly to make sure I was prepared to look delighted with whatever Santa left even if it was not what I had hoped for. And just maybe it was nice to have any secret at all. Children are closely monitored. Adults know almost every move they make, so a secret is a precious possession.

On the Christmas I remember best, I crept down the stairs hoping the squeaks would not wake anyone. I went into the living room, fumbled around and found the plug for the tree lights and stuck it into the socket. I brailled around the fireplace where stockings had been hung and gifts laid out and came upon a tiny radio. Transistor radios were a new invention. This little rectangular plastic box was cream colored on the front and turquoise on the back. It had a dial on the left side of its face. I turned it on ever so quietly and turned the dial and got a station! It was a thrill to realize that somewhere nearby was someone else who was awake in the middle of the night, talking to me and playing music. I took the radio back upstairs and crawled in bed with it. I hunkered down under the covers with my ear to its little speaker. What an amazing invention this was! I don't know how I managed to disguise the fact that I had taken it when morning came and we descended to see our Santa stuff. Probably, I just made sure I got downstairs first.

My secret was held closely and treasured for decades. I did not know that in the next bedroom my parents had their own secret. That Christmas after all the Santa things had been carefully placed and my parents headed off to bed, my mother told my father that she was worried that I did not have enough under the tree. I was at the awkward age, too old for toys but not old enough to appreciate the kinds of gifts adults might like. My father confessed that he had bought her a little radio. Would she like to put it under the tree for me- Yes, she would. Only recently did I learn my parents' secret, held just as closely as my own.

I have come to realize that there are so many secrets I don't know. There are so many stories that connect to my own that I have no idea exist. Even the people I know best are probably three parts mystery to one part my knowledge of them.
Christmas comes with two ancient narratives that don't fit together too well and don't make much sense to modern people. I used to worry about that some, but I don't anymore. I can find delight in mysteries I will never comprehend and secrets that I will never know.

I do understand the love of parents who will sacrifice the fun of giving and receiving a little radio to make sure their child isn't disappointed on Christmas morning. I do understand why people long for some kind of Christmas magic to come over them making them feel charitable toward others "as if they were fellow-travelers to the grave and not another race of creatures bound on other journeys," as Dickens put it. 

The little radio is long gone. I wish I had it back, but like Christmases past, it is a memory. It is more than a little consolation that now I have the story that was a secret for so long, and I can reconstruct in my mind those tired parents digging out of a closet this present meant for them and sneaking downstairs to add it to the Christmas pile for their daughter to find when, just a few hours later, she sneaked down those same stairs. 

Patricia Hunt is a Mary Baldwin College chaplain and Staunton resident.