Tutuila was a small island and there was only one plane arriving that night. I felt like a child waiting to hear the sounds of Santa’s sleigh and reindeer land on the roof. Each time we heard a sound outside we’d run out to see if it was the plane. Finally, the plane flew over our heads and it was time to go to the airport. The airport was the social center of Samoan life, it was the place where the teenagers would hang out, waiting for the flights from the mainland to arrive twice a week. That Christmas Eve it was bustling with activity as families awaited their loved ones to arrive so that the real Christmas activities could begin. At long last my Mom stepped off the plane onto the tarmac and we watched as she made her way through security towards us.
Accompanying my mother was a young man whom we didn’t know. He was there to visit friends on the island but they had not met him at the airport. He didn’t have a phone number for them as even in the 1990’s phones were scarce in
I don’t remember what I got for Christmas that year, I simply remember my Mother’s example not wanting anyone to be alone on Christmas. My memories of childhood Christmases are filled with those moments. Our house was always an open welcoming place and for years it wasn’t Christmas unless we had a visitor staying with us. My family wasn’t wealthy but somehow Mom always managed to stretch what we had to include last minute visitors.
