Christmas Memories, part 2

The month of December always seemed the longest. We never could fill the advent calendar fast enough for me. But after so many long, slow, wintery days, Christmas Eve finally arrived. And with it, so many traditions. It began with dinner. Our time-honored fare was spaghetti. Yup, this German/Dutch/Irish family rang in the holidays with a good ol’ Italian meal. Though I have had many good meat sauces over the years, nothing tops Mom’s homemade ‘bahsgetti’ sauce. I can still taste it. There was probably salad and garlic bread as well, but it was that delicious tomato and beef topping that has imprinted upon my mind. Growing up, we didn’t have ‘pop’ every day. It was something saved for special occasions like sleepovers and Christmas Eve. The only soda we drank that night was 7-up, festively colored either red or green and imbibed from stemware. And to end this delicious feast, dessert! We had this plastic display that was shaped like a Christmas tree. It held paper cones that were to be filled with green and red Jell-O. We anxious awaited this course, not because it was particularly tasty, but because the gelatin NEVER set! I may be mistaken, but I don’t remember a single year where we could use an actual spoon to eat our dessert. Most years, we just drank it.

          After dinner, the evening slowed down. We would gather in the living room, turn off the lights, and light all the candles. This included the lighting of the angel chimes I mentioned in the last post. In the darkness, we would watch the spinning reflections on the ceiling and collect our thoughts. I’m sure, like me, my sisters pondered the big issues: can we feed the hungry, will the coming year be peaceful, did I get that game I’ve been begging for all season? You know, the important things. Actually, I think this was an excellent ploy to get three excited girls with full bellies to become tired and go to bed. Little did our parents know this was the year it would finally happen. We tried every Christmas and always failed, but this year we would finally succeed in staying up until midnight. Why was this so important? Because at midnight every Christmas Eve the animals were given the gift of speech. We always wanted to stay up to hear the wise words they were sure to impart to us. Alas, it never was meant to be.

          Though we struggled to stay up, like many other children, we never needed an alarm to wake us. We were up long before the sun, eager to rush downstairs to see what wonders awaited us. But there were rules. We weren’t allowed to go downstairs until 7am. We would sit at the top of the stairs, holding a clock, watching its hands slowly turn. When the approved time arrived, we rushed down the stairs. We could only look in our stockings and at the toys left out by Santa. We had to wait until 8am before we could wake our parents and open the rest of our gifts. The reason for this was revealed to me years later. My parents had friends over who didn’t have children yet. They would stay up late putting presents together and playing cards. Hence the requisite time constraint. Once the approved time was reached, we rushed in and jumped on their bed to wake them up. Then came the LONG process of ‘getting up’. There was coffee to be made and then they both had to go through their stockings. Of course, they took their time, gushing over this little thing and that precious item. Meanwhile, there were three girls going crazy with anticipation. Eventually, our patience paid off and we tore into our gifts. It seemed that a season of expectancy and excitement was over in mere moments. A carpet of torn paper littered the floor while we played with our new toys. Soon my mother was busy in the kitchen making breakfast, yet another sacred staple. There was scrambled eggs with chopped chipped beef, but the cherished item were Paris Puffins. They are a simple cake muffin that is dipped in drawn butter and rolled in cinnamon sugar, yet that description does not do them justice. My mouth waters just thinking about them. I understand that they are still made on Christmas morning, though I have lost the tradition. My sister has altered the recipe just a bit by making them into mini muffins, thus creating a mouthful of savory, buttery, cinnamon and sugary delight! Perhaps I should start the tradition again.

          After breakfast was finished, we had to get dressed and ready to leave. On Thanksgiving, we went over the river and through the woods to my father’s parent’s house. On Christmas day we went into town to my mother’s parent’s place. We were allowed to bring one toy or game; however, we always found many more presents when we arrived. The rest of the day seems a blur to me, perhaps because it was no longer solely my mother’s doing. Others came into the picture and brought their own influences. Perhaps we had the same thing for dinner, but I don’t recall. I have few memories after walking in my grandparent’s door. It’s not because I had less fun there. It just wasn’t engraved on my memory as all the things that made up my Christmas at home. Over the years, things changed. My parents divorced and my mom remarried. With this change came new people and different traditions. First one sister left, then the other moved away. Eventually, I left as well. But my mom tried to keep as many of the traditions she had started for as long as she could.

          Unfortunately, I haven’t spent Christmas at home with my family in a very long time. I regret all the holidays and fun times I’ve missed. And I haven’t formed many strong traditions for my celebrations. But I have no regrets. What I have are a lifetime of memories, of good food, and laughter, and lots and lots of love. If I ever do make it home for the holidays again, I know it will be joyous. But it will never be as magical as the years I carry in my mind. Those will always be precious to me. I have my family to thank for all of those wonderful times, but I especially have my mother to thank. She made Christmas the most wonderful time of the year.