Though we don’t celebrate any of the religious aspects of any of this season’s holidays, we do exchange gifts. Why not? Everyone loves gifts. Every year we say we won’t, but I love to buy gifts and every year I think of something. Oh, by the way the “we” is D and I. I buy for the rest of my family each year because in theory (so, yes, not in practice) they celebrate the religious aspects of Christmas – but more so the commercialism. Holidays used to be steeped in tradition. I became nostalgic after reading my sister’s holiday blog. She is a number of years younger than me, so our versions are just slightly different.
Every year since I could remember until the late 1990s, my family invaded my grandparents’ home. My youngest memories are of just my cousin and me. I remember each of us was normally in a holiday dress. We opened stockings, went to “midnight” mass (never actually at midnight), and waited impatiently for my aunt to show up. The youngest aunt, still single and without kids, was always ridiculously late for everything. Actually, I may have been the only impatient one. Sitting in the living room with my mom and uncle, I’d jump up each time the front door opened, hopeful it was my aunt. My grandparent’s welcomed a myriad of people into their home on Christmas Eve. Their home was tiny, well below 1000 square feet, but that night it annually held anywhere from 10-25 people. The living room had the tree, hearth, velvet Jesus painting, television, and in-laws. The adjacent kitchen doubled as the dining room, and around the table sat my grandparents, aunts, and anyone else staying long enough to play or watch the ongoing euchre game. There were snacks on the counters that lined the room and a cloud of smoke overhead. Each year the liquor came off the shelves and the laundry room’s appliances became a makeshift bar. The soda lived in there too – for both mixed drinks and underage drinks. The master bedroom was the coat room, the bed was always piled high. I liked to hide in there. The door always stayed closed so the smoke stayed out - plus it was much cooler. When I got overwhelmed, I headed for the coat pile. The last room (other than the bathroom) was a spare bedroom officially designated the playroom. I don’t remember being barred to that room until more kids arrived on the scene when I was four - first my cousin, then my sister. Eventually, there were a total of six of us that were there all day/night (from afternoon until nearly dawn). Barely awake (or not awake), we’d pack into our cars and head home. The party was often still going, but eventually all the children needed to be taken home. Overall, the whining, boredom, waiting, exclusion, and smoke have been forgotten. Instead, I fondly remember the laughter pouring out of the kitchen, guests arriving one after another, peaceful mass, homemade kolachi and pizzelles, growing anticipation for gifts, and a home bursting with joy.
Christmas Day was quiet, as if an after thought (though I know it certainly was not). I only vaguely remember the years I’d jump out of bed to see if Santa had come. Mostly I remember being old enough to want to sleep just a little longer. My sister and brother would always wake up and that was the end for everyone’s sleeping. We got to open our stockings while my father struggled to get up. Then it was food – lots more food.
Year after year that was the tradition. Fortunately, many of my holiday memories include my grandmother. The parties continued after her death, but they were not the same. Once my grandfather became too ill to care for himself, they stopped. I’m not sure when they started up again, maybe they always kept going. My aunt has the party now. I rarely even drop in. It’s not the same, and most years I’m not in town or I have dogs in tow.
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