I stood aside and waited for Momma to tell me where to sit. I glanced at my grandfather, who was standing in his place at the head of the table. Dad would sit at the other end, with Mom at his left. She needed an easy way out to return to the kitchen if something was needed.

I’d already decided I wanted to be just like the new member of our family, my new brother-in-law, a Marine, all dressed up in his colorful uniform, and I wanted to sit by him. He and my sister had arrived earlier that morning to partake of our Christmas dinner.

That year, 1944, was the third year the whole world was angry and ablaze in war. It was also my family’s first Christmas without my brother, whose untimely death at the age of 14 had broken our family’s heart. Only years later did I realize how badly his death had lingered in my mother’s mind and in her life.

The sun was hidden that Christmas Day by deep clouds, and the light through the tall windows in the dining room was pale and murky. I could smell the ashes from a dwindling fire in the fireplace, which was all we needed that day to keep the room comfortable.

I looked at Momma, and she pointed to my place next to Grandfather. When I glanced up to his face, his blue eyes were scanning the group; by then, everyone was standing in their places around the table.

My older sisters would sit on the other side with the Marine between them. My little brother was already sitting to my right, and my mother stood beside him. He was 3 years old, and his curly blond hair and sparkling blue eyes consistently brought attention to him.

His eyes were like our mother’s, and his hair was like our Dad’s once was. As for me, I sported black hair like our mother’s and common brown eyes. As far as I could tell, neither my hair nor my eyes ever garnered anyone’s attention.

“Bless this food, O Lord,” my grandfather said in a bold voice that shattered the quietness that awaited his prayer. “And bless the people who prepared it. Grant thou blessings on your servants, and give us the will to continue to fight for the freedoms so dear to all of us.” I was sure he would offer several well-chosen words for the fighting man at our table and for certain, words about the war. He continued: “And may this gallant young man here with us today, be sheltered by your gentle care.” I glanced down at my little brother, whose eyes were turned up to my face and grin was devilish. Grandfather’s blessing continued. “Thank you for the good in our lives this day, tomorrow and in days to come, and bless those, O Lord, who are in the midst of the fighting and the suffering caused by this hellish war. In Christ’s name, we pray … Amen.”

My thoughts every day centered on the war, and at the moment when Grandfather said “Amen,” I wondered about the Marine across from me; would he make it or would he die in some far off place. I figured that one day I might be a soldier, too, like him. I thought of my brother and figured had he not died and the “hellish” war would continue, it wouldn’t be long that he’d be a soldier in some far off land. But he was gone now, from our family and from his place at our Christmas Dinner.

Through Grandfather’s entire prayer, my thoughts swirled like dry leaves in a wind. I glanced to Grandfather’s face and sighed, knowing that sitting at this wonderful Christmas Dinner and listening to his prayer, was not enough to make the bad things in my mind go away. The sound of chairs scuffling on the floor signaled that it was time to start, and the chatter began.

After we sat, I continued looking at Grandfather, and I could feel in his glances at me that he owned everything that made up a knowledgeable old gentleman whose many years of life gave him the ability and permission to know the minds and hearts of every member of our family. Often, his words and advice to me seemed as a forecast of my thoughts, and it was his duty to keep my actions within the bounds of what he considered proper and right. My frown and looking directly at him apparently caught his attention.

“Slow down, young man,” he said softly as he leaned toward me, and then he whispered, “There is no way to run away from the war or the bad things you might face every day.” His blue eyes were set on mine, piercing as he lightly smiled.

“Yes, sir,” I said, and then shyly looked down at the plate in front of me.

“That beautiful plate and your life, too, will quickly fill, and you must be watchful and first, be thankful for all the good that’ll come your way,” he said, and continued, “Millions can’t celebrate Christmas now days, and the blood of this Great War may reach us one day, and we will face it as we must, but don’t dwell on such things … you’re much too young to be so enlightened and concerned.” I couldn’t help but worry, to think and to wonder often about how others lived and died in this terrible war. He continued: “be in love with these beautiful faces around this table, young man, and begin planning your future,” he said. “Maybe a doctor one day. You’re kind and thoughtful, and you’re a smart fellow.”

I didn’t want to be a doctor. My mother wanted a preacher in the family, and my dad wanted me to be a farmer like him. I sighed and decided right then and there that I didn’t want to be anything or anyone but myself. And I knew that day I didn’t really know who I was, except a kid who’d just turned 10, but even at that early age, I figured I would never be what other people wanted me to be, anyway.

A few days after that Christmas dinner, the young Marine who’d become part of our family, left to fight somewhere in the great Pacific as an anti-air craft gunner aboard the Saratoga Air Craft Carrier. And my grandfather lived to see the end of that hellish Great War but died two months before our Christmas dinner the following year.

Since that warm Christmas Day in 1944, I have seen many Christmas dinners in my long life. Through the years, the people around the table have changed many times over, and my place and other places have been relegated to new faces and new voices, and they, too, we have loved.

That is the way of Christmas dinners.

And that is the way life goes.

— Hunt, an Athens author, is an occasional contributor to The News Courier. He can be reached at billbunkyboy@gmail.com.