I only spent one Christmas at my maternal grandparents’ home in Pacific Grove, California. That was in 1965 when I was nine. I seem to recall many Christmases with these grandparents in Klamath Falls, Oregon, where they lived before they moved to Pacific Grove in about 1962. But in fact, I probably only spent a few Christmases in Klamath Falls, and at least one of them I was too young to remember. Most of my Christmas holidays as a child were spent at home, and grandparents came to stay with us (or at a hotel nearby before my parents had a house that could accommodate guests).
I remember very little about 1965 Christmas festivities—what we ate, or what presents I received. But I remember the trip well because it differed from all our other trips to Pacific Grove.
That December was the only winter trip I made as a child to Pacific Grove. Our trips to California were usually in the summer, when we could enjoy the beach. This time, the weather was cold. I had never worn a winter coat in California before, and I didn’t like having to do so. But the coat was definitely necessary.
We couldn’t go to the beach. I think we walked to the beach once because my brother and I wanted to. But when we got there, the summer sunbathers were gone. The sand was empty. The Sno-Cone vendor was nowhere to be seen. And obviously, we couldn’t swim. So what was the point of going to the beach? We stayed close to my grandparents’ home after that, though there wasn’t much to do without trips to the beach.
Another difference was that this stay was far shorter than our usual California trips. We were gone a total of about ten days, and that included the two days of driving each way there and home. When I grew up, I realized my dad only had a week or so of vacation (not to mention my brother’s and my limited school holiday). But at the time I wanted to stay a month, as we did in the summer. Summer visits were relaxed and enchanted, until the last few days when I realized my paradise with grandparents was about to end. This trip felt rushed.
Moreover, I could tell my parents weren’t happy while we were there. In December 1965, my grandfather was ill. The primary purpose of the visit was to check on him and my grandmother. As a nine-year-old, I knew Papa was sick, but I didn’t understand what was wrong with him. He seemed okay to me, though he got a lot of nosebleeds and took naps. I heard the word “cancer” mentioned, and I knew that was bad—I’d had a classmate die of cancer a year earlier. Still, I did not know how ill he was.
I later found out he had colon cancer. In fact, he died before the end of January 1966, though what killed him was a stroke, not the cancer. My parents returned to Pacific Grove that January for his funeral and to help my grandmother. But my siblings and I stayed with friends while our parents were away.
Our family made later trips to Pacific Grove to visit my grandmother, again always in the summer. My last childhood trip was in June 1967, just before my grandmother remarried. After that, I didn’t see Pacific Grove until I was in law school more than ten years later. I’ve been able to visit as an adult also. But I will always remember Christmas 1965—the only Christmas I ever spent in California.
When did you have a Christmas that broke the usual pattern?
