One of my favorite memories of childhood Christmases is one I’ve written about before. It’s about our Christmas Coconut. I thought I’d share the story again for those who haven’t heard it. My grandmother kept her Christmas ornaments and figurines in a little closet underneath the stairs in the front hallway of her house. She had a bea.jpgul collection of Victorian ornaments.
I was especially fond of a figurine of a little country church with stained glass windows and a light inside that made the colorful windows shine. My brother Taylor and I weren’t allowed to bother the decorations, so when Nanny and Mama pulled them out at Christmas, we were suppose to admire from a distance and not touch them. That kind of self-control was very difficult for me and downright impossible for Taylor, who is four years younger than me.
Every Christmas, Taylor would end up breaking one or more of the ornaments and figurines and get a whipping. Mama was at her wit’s end about how to keep the destructive toddler away from the Christmas tree, where they were displayed. Being the mischievous big sister, I lived to taunt my brother. Once when my grandmother purchased a fresh coconut from the store to make a cake, Taylor saw it in the kitchen and wanted to know what it was.
I convinced him the coconut was a shrunken head, and he was horrified. At first, Mama frowned on my chasing a screaming Taylor around the house shaking the coconut at him. Then, she had a brilliant idea. The next Christmas, Mama placed a fresh coconut under our Christmas tree, and Taylor wouldn’t go near it, assuring the ornaments remained intact from then on. The tradition of placing a coconut under the Christmas tree continued in my family until my parents passed away.