They know that Santa’s on his way  He’s loaded lots of toys and goodies on his sleigh  And every mother’s child is gonna spy  To see if reindeer really know how to fly … — Mel Torme, writer, Nat King Cole, the velvet voice  It’s finally Christmas. I’m in a Christmas mood. I’m in a reminiscing mood.  My mother, a product of being born in the1920s, was racially bigoted up to her later years. As a kid I, was perplexed how she could so love Nat King Cole – especially his Christmas songs, and Johnny Mathis, and Ole Satchmo, too. Mom might have had cognitive dissonance: Loving these incredible Black artists, while maintaining a stubborn prejudice that only finally left her during her last few years when she opened up and made friends with Black and Hispanic associates. It turns out their shared life experience as aging seniors overcame all other social differences. One thing was constant through her life: Mom loved these gifted and fine artists, and their voices became a dependable and awaited holiday tradition in our home.  Mom imparted to me a deep love of Nat King Cole, Johnny Mathis, Frank Sinatra, and so many others. These artists had velvet voices and connected so wonderfully with the music they performed. Their art is timeless, and their artistry makes so much of what is today called “music” seem profane at worst, or simply noisy, at best. Call me a grumpy old man, but to the extent that my ears still can hear, I hear the difference between beautiful Christmas music and pop garble.  Even though we were our street’s poorest family on a fairly poor street, the Hortons still performed all the seasonal traditions, complete with house lights, setting up a (modestly priced) tree purchased from Troop 104 in Mission Hills, and even us neighborhood kids caroling house to house! Imagine that!  As to that traditional tree: At some point during the long process of decorating our Troop 104 tree with lights, ancient glass ornaments, and lead tinsel, someone would lose patience, the predictable fights would ensue — not at all unlike those from the now famous movie, “A Christmas Story,” with the grumpy old swearing dad and the kid who was constantly warned of shooting his eyes out with a Christmas BB gun …  Eventually, after all the planning, decorating, hanging the house lights with my near-invalid dad, and some guests or faraway relatives dropping by for eggnog or something stronger – and cigarettes, let’s not forget the massive amount of smoking and ash-filled ashtrays back then – eventually, sister Adria and I would stay awake after some too-late adult Christmas Eve party … and we’d wait for Santa. Yes, like so many others, we predictably and regularly did the “wait up for Santa” thing.  Our modest home didn’t have a fireplace or chimney, so we were unsure of Santa’s mode of entry, but we were certain he’d not pass us by. So, when the coast was finally clear of adult movement, we’d have the audacity to sneak out and cautiously unwrap a present or two of highest potential interest, being extra special careful to do the unwrapping without tearing the paper so mom or Santa wouldn’t know the better of it …  Leading to Christmas, I’d cruise through the toy section of my neighbor’s Sears catalogue: The ultimate collection of the most incredible toys imaginable – and I’d get my hopes up for some bike or BB gun or airplane or rocket or electric kit or who knows. Most were outside my family’s budget.  Our neighbors were better-off “Sears” people. We were “Montgomery Ward” poor. Today, I suspect that would make us a Sam’s Club family blended in with 99 cent stores. Those days, the Montgomery Ward catalogue was about one-third as thick as Sears – and their toy section far less robust. But between the basic stuff in “Monkey Wards” and the cornucopia of desires contained in the phonebook-sized Sears volume, I’d tear out pages and leave them for Mom and Dad to find. I didn’t have the audacity to ask straight up. I sensed our financially stressed situation even as a younger kid. Pancakes for dinner and multiple-patched jeans tipped us off. But still, toy lust turned its tricks on my youthful materialism, and I dropped these torn-paged hints with hope. To be direct was to face certain disappointment. Dropped hints at least left the door open for surprise.  Whether Adria and I sneaked and discovered our Christmas treats deep in the night or we received them legitimately per the rules, usually the results were the same each Christmas morning: First, we’d always notice that Santa indeed drank the milk and ate most of the cookies Mom had left out for him each Christmas Eve. Then, I’d indeed discover one or two of my fondest wishes had come true. (Of special note was my bright yellow solid steel pedal car with the number “5” painted on the grill). We’d also suffer some disappointments that, in good sport, we tried to suppress. Sometimes, one of the four of us siblings couldn’t contain disappointment and tears would ensue. In retrospect, those tears must have torn our parent’s hearts …  and even now I feel regret for the pain I must have caused.  Looking back, Mom was a heck of a good sport and a solid, traditional mom. Maybe we didn’t appreciate just how good we had it, even with the deep trouble existent in our family. Mom and Dad knew how to at least act the part and make the most of holiday traditions and Christmas was generally a fanciful and wonderful time for us kids.  And we’d play those Nat King Cole and Johnny Mathis and Frank Sinatra songs along with other greats like The Chipmunks for days leading up to the Grand Event. A special favorite, as most agree, were the Charlie Brown Christmas shows and music. I still recall that one special tune with Linus at the piano with smiles. I hope Signal readers had Christmas or other holiday traditions at least as memorable and warm as mine. And, whether you did or not, do your best to make these special times indeed special, especially for the youngsters upon whom you will leave lasting impressions – such as I warmly recall here.  “And so, I’m offering this simple phrase to kids from one to 92 … Although it’s been said many times, many ways, Merry Christmas to you.”  Gary Horton’s “Full Speed to Port!” has appeared in The Signal since 2006. The opinions expressed in his column do not necessarily reflect the opinions of The Signal or its editorial board. The post Gary Horton | Make Holiday Memories Count Lifetimes appeared first on Santa Clarita Valley Signal.