A Polaroid Christmas
That sound. I’ll never forget that sound, especially at Christmas. It usually came during one of my family’s early-morning Christmas “traditions,” which involved my parents shuffling my brother and me into their room to await the arrival of what for many were stockings, but for us were beautiful wooden shoes stuffed with fun, smaller presents. (My mom traveled abroad in her younger years and was apparently inspired by the Dutch along the way.)
As kids, we would sit in our PJs, bedhead galore and sleep still in our eyes, rummaging through the shoes to see what Santa brought the night before. My PJs were usually something my grandma made personally for me, announcing that “they are all wearing them,” yet I never seemed to see anyone wearing anything that looked remotely like what was on me.
And then it would happen. My grandma, Ann, and her sister, my Aunt Lil, would soon arrive in the doorway wearing their handmade terrycloth housecoats, or moo-moos as I think they called them. Both originally from Brooklyn, N.Y., they always had a way of making their distinct personalities known at any occasion, and Christmas was no exception as each vied for the perfect spot in the small space to use their favorite toy — the old Polaroid camera.
“Ann, I can’t see the presents. Move over!”
“I am moved over, Lillian. Stop it!”
“Hold up what you got there,” my grandma would keep asking. “Higher. Hold it up higher!”
“They already did. Pay attention. Didn’t you get the picture?” my Aunt Lil would bark back.
“Oh for crying out loud, Lillian! Hold it up again kids.”
Flash! Zzzzzz. Flash! Zzzzz. Flash! Zzzz.
“Now you made me move, Lillian! Let me take another one. Smile!”
And on it would go throughout the day, with stops in between only to change cartridges and to wave each of the instant images in the air in hopes of speeding up the drying time.
The pictures would then go on a table to be admired. With child-like awe, we would stare at each picture, examining our half-closed eyes, awkward smiles, and hair reminiscent of a bad ’80s perm. Ah, the memories. Can’t imagine why none of these shots were framed.