Merry Christmas, all. And Merry Christmas and Happy Birthday, Selma.
Many of us know someone special who was born on Christmas Day. For me, that person was Selma Hill. She died more than two years ago, but her memory lives on in the hearts of her friends and family.
Selma, one of my mom's best friends, was a second mother to me. Amongst my family, Selma's name still comes up at least once a month. We miss her that much. We start talking and remembering, laughing and crying as we go.
And Christmas has a bittersweet way of making you miss the departed all the more — especially if they were born on Christmas Day.
I can still envision Selma: Tall and graceful, with silver hair and big brown eyes that warmed your soul. When you were talking to her, she made you feel like you were the only person in the room. I won't go so far as to say that she made you feel like every day was Christmas, but her manner definitely let you know that you were special — and that every day was special.
She was the kind of person with whom you could laugh and cry. Either way, she accepted you and loved you unconditionally.
She never talked ill of anyone. If you asked her about somebody whom she might not be fond of, the worst she'd say is "I don't really know her."
My mother, Hazel Railey, told me last week that "that was Selma's way of not saying anything ugly about anybody."
And maybe it was her way of saying she didn't know enough about what that person had been through to comment on her. She never talked about it, but Selma knew a bit about things in life that could change people, for the better or worse.
Her husband died early, leaving her to raise their three young children. Selma, who had attended Longwood College, took a job at the post office in our small town in rural Tidewater, Va. A lot of women in similar circumstances might have become bitter and withdrawn, or at least too busy to comfort anyone outside their own home. Not Selma. Walking downtown to see her, back in the day when our little town and so many others had downtowns, was fun. You'd walk in the little brick post office, and Selma would give you a big smile from behind the counter. You knew that whatever was bothering you was going to be all right.
"She loved laughter, good books and a good conversation, and always drew a crowd wherever she was," her children rightly said in her obituary.
Once, when my mom was in the hospital when I was in elementary school, Selma took me in for a few days. I had a ball hanging out with Selma, her mother and all their cats. (Selma, as her children once said, "delighted in nature's beauty and loved every living thing that purred, barked or flew.") By then, Selma's children, Scott and Chris (twins) and Susie (known to many as Susan Boisseau) — had grown up and started their own lives. They're like big brothers and sisters to me.
My mom said that the twins "were never dressed alike, and she encouraged them to think as individuals. They still do. And Susie is a lovely woman like her mother."
Selma would have probably said her children were her crowning achievement.
They're as special as she was. But I'd say that her life was the crowning achievement, although I'm sure she'd turn red and say, "Ohhhhhhhh, Johhnnnn," as she shook her head and laughed.
Here's the strange thing: I always think of Selma when I think of Christmas. But I can't remember ever celebrating her birthday on Christmas Day. "She never called attention to the fact that her birthday was on Christmas," my mom said. "She was very modest, and she didn't want to take any attention away from that very special holiday."
That was just one more gift Selma left us, the model of thinking of others more than ourselves. And, obviously, that's what Christmas is all about.
Merry Christmas, readers. Thanks for standing by us through a hard year. And Merry Christmas to the Hill family.
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