This was the Christmas Eve tradition in the basement of my maternal grandparents’ home for as long as I could remember. Though it is now over fifty years since my childhood, the memories are vivid and endearing.
My grandparents’ home was the family meeting place for Sunday dinners and all holidays, birthdays, anniversaries, christenings, weddings, funerals—you get the picture. Grandma cooked, and her five sons, two daughters, their families, and extended families ate. Christmas Eve was the culmination of the year’s feasts.
Though my grandparents’ home was large, all meal preparation, eating, and socializing took place in the basement. There was a full kitchen, bathroom, small seating area, and the biggest table in the world. Now, remember, my memory of this table is from the perspective of a very young child. However, as I look back, it had to be a very big table to seat the number of people in the family.
The furnace was in the middle of the basement. In a vain attempt to hide the furnace, my grandmother had placed her curtain stretcher in front of the furnace. The curtain stretcher always had a lace curtain stretched from end to end that was held to the easel by small nails around the frame.
Family and friends began arriving early on Christmas Eve. The adults drank homemade red wine (prepared by enterprising neighbors) and exchanged stories. They toasted to each other’s good health and wished each other well.
The children (siblings and cousins) grouped together on the far side of the basement, trying to figure out where the presents were and what they would receive. We played games, ate, and ran around the basement. Our parents, aunts, uncles, and grandparents ignored us, knowing there was no place for us to go, or to get into trouble, for we were rarely out of their sight.
Grandma called us to the table, and Christmas Eve dinner began with a hearty antipasto. Platters filled with roasted peppers, hot peppers, fragrant cheeses, lettuce, and artichoke hearts were passed. The passed platters were followed quickly with baskets of hot Italian bread and homemade bread sticks.
The antipasto was cleared from the table, and the pasta was next. Grandma preferred regular spaghetti—nothing fancy like linguine, fusilli, or ziti. She thought thin spaghetti wasn’t “real,” so we feasted on regular spaghetti topped with a delicious marinara sauce and lots of parmesan cheese.
Throughout the dining experience, conversation continued, and with the addition of more wine, our voices grew louder. The children sat at the end of the table on benches brought in from the outdoor picnic table. We were seated closely to make maximum use of the benches. Since we weren’t trusted to pass the heavy platters, our dishes were prepared by nearby adults.
Fried fish and steamed shrimp filled the next course, accompanied by fresh vegetables cooked to perfection. More bread, more wine, more conversation . . . what fun and noise! Hours passed, and it was time for dessert.
The children were given ice cream in cups, topped with whipped cream and a cherry. The adults enjoyed espresso coffee with plates of fresh fruit and cheese. Soon, plates of Italian pastries filled the table—cannoli, napoleons, rum cakes, and cookies topped with pignoli nuts. Diet? What is a diet?
The children soon tired of sitting and were excused from the table. The women cleared and washed the dishes, while the men began loading the table with gifts that appeared mysteriously. Since the children were busy in another part of the basement, they were not paying attention to the ever-growing gift table. “Children, close your eyes,” one of the adults would announce. We stopped playing and quickly closed our eyes.
“We will come and get you, but you must keep your eyes closed. Okay?”
“Yes, yes, our eyes are closed.We are ready!” we shouted in unison.
As we were led to the table, the overhead lights were turned out. As we opened our eyes, the lights went on, and there was the treasure. The biggest table in the world no longer held food, but instead gifts piled high to the ceiling. What wonder! What more could any child want? This was truly a dream come true.
And then it began. Gifts were passed out by one adult after another to each other and to the children. Most presents were real, but some adult gifts were gags—fun packages presented from brother to brother or sister to sister-in-law containing an item that represented a private joke or an inappropriate style, size, or color. Everyone laughed and eagerly awaited the next presentation.
Hours passed, and the table was still piled with gifts.
“Let’s take a break,” said one of the aunts, “and sing some carols!” The basement filled with the glorious sounds of family singing. Even if you did not know the words, you hummed along just to be a part of the fun.
We began opening the gifts again. As we received a special toy or game, we wanted to play. We would back away from the table and sit on the floor to see how our toy worked or our doll cried. Some of the smaller children began to fall asleep. Grandma would put two or three chairs together, place a blanket and pillow on the hard surface, and create a makeshift bed in the middle of all the chaos.
Soon, the last few gifts remained, and one of the uncles would announce, “We always save the best for last and the best for the best! The best wife, mother, mother-in-law, and grandmother in the world now gets her presents.”
Until that moment, I did not realize Grandma had not received any of the presents. She received her gifts at the end of the evening. That was also a tradition—a tradition that was kept until her last Christmas Eve.
The biggest table in the world was now empty—no food, no gifts, nothing on the table. The tablecloth was removed for cleaning and ready for the next day’s meal. Some of us went home; others stayed at our grandparents’ home for the night. All of us returned the next day for Christmas dinner.
Many years later, when my grandparents had passed away and their home was torn down to make way for a newer home, I wondered what ever happened to that table. No one seemed to know for sure. It didn’t matter. I knew where it was. The biggest table in the world lived in my memory forever.
Helen Xenakis
All I Want for Christmas
I am on the phone with my daughter, Margot, who lives in San Francisco.We are embroiled in our annual Christmas conversation.
“I’m cutting back this year.”
“Mom, you say that every year. I’m thirty seven years old. Just do it. I can cope. So, what do you want for Christmas?” Margot asks.
What I don’t want is another large book. My coffee table runneth over. And, please, no high-tech gifts. Three years’ worth of pictures languish in my digital camera, never to see an album. And don’t even think about an iPod. I have no idea how all those songs find their way into that tiny container. I have three remotes for the TV, VCR, and DVD player. I’m sure one of them records stuff, but I haven’t a clue which one. The remote governing the stereo is lost.
Good riddance. And messages pop up on my computer screen warning me that my memory is low. What am I to do? I’m from the on-off generation. I don’t need any more buttons to push.
You ask me what I want. I want you to come home. I want to wake up on Christmas morning and watch my grandchildren tear through bright wrapping paper. I want to hear your laughter from the kitchen as you and your siblings prepare breakfast, like you did many Christmases ago. I want to cook you roast beef, pour you red wine, and see your face in the candlelight. And I want you at the table when we all join hands as we thank God for this food and each other.
“Mom, did you hear me? What do you want for Christmas?” Margot’s voice pokes through my musings.
“Oh, a cookbook would be nice. Or maybe an apron.”
Alice Malloy
Milestones in the Boughs
Yesterday is history.
Tomorrow is a mystery. And today?
Today is a gift. That’s why we call it a present.
Babatunde Olatunji
I’ve taken a few days off work to ready my home for Christmas. The only thing left is decorating the tree, and I’ve saved that for last. While a pot of cof
fee brews, I turn on my favorite carols, build a small fire in the fireplace, then place boxes of ornaments on the couch.
Most of my ornaments are old. Some were painstakingly created by hand. Some were gifts from friends and family. Others, I bought on a whim. But my dearest ornaments, by far, are the dated ones.
I married in 1980 and couldn’t wait for Christmas. I wanted to buy one of those ornaments that said, “Our First Christmas Together,” a romantic and perfect touch.
While shopping one evening, I found it—a young couple snuggled together in a sleigh, while a black stallion pulled them through the snow. Across the bottom it read, “Our First Christmas Together,” and was dated 1980. I carried the glass ball home, carefully hung it on the tree, and a tradition was born.
Every holiday since, I’ve purchased a Christmas ornament that symbolizes an event or milestone during the year. It’s always something we can look at and easily say, “Yeah, that was the year we. . . .” Sometimes the ideal ornament isn’t dated, so I mark the year on it myself.
The routine for hanging them remains the same. I start with the oldest and work up. I’ve repeated this ritual since 1980 and still enjoy the familiar rhythm of placing each ornament on the tree. They represent the years of my life.
Let’s be clear. Some years are quite unbearable. They present challenges that try our very souls and rip our hearts apart. Like 1982, when I had my first surgery and heard doctors say that conceiving a child was unlikely.
But here’s the dated ornament from 1982, bearing the image of a young girl in a blue dress. To me, it signified hope.
Four years later, with our hopes fading, my husband and I received an opportunity to adopt. We knew it was a miracle, and when the doctor called and said, “You’ve got a girl!” I cried tears of joy and thanksgiving, as I do every year when I uncover a small heart-shaped ornament, with a rocking horse and the words, “Baby’s 1st Christmas 1986,” embroidered on it.
The following year found us between houses, living in a cramped upstairs apartment with no windows. I purchased fabric, trim, and patterns, and made dozens of ornaments while living there, all in an attempt to stay sane.
But thank God for fun years like 1994.We bought a used camper and vacationed in the Smoky Mountains. How fitting to discover a Christmas ornament shaped like a tent and titled “Campin’ Companions.”
Sometimes I find ornaments in unlikely places. When my dear mother-in-law died, I saved a tiny brass music note from a funeral floral arrangement and penned the year on it. She was an accomplished musician, and it’s a perfect reminder of her life.
There was our first SUV, a visit to The White House, a trip to New Orleans, the loss of our beloved collie, our daughter’s graduation, and the horrifying events of 9/11.
Now, as evening shadows gather at the windows, one ornament remains—an elegant porcelain heart, marking twenty-five years of marriage.
Steadying it on the tree for the first time, I am filled with a host of emotions. I know what it took to get here. The joy and the pain, the laughter and the tears, the memories and milestones—it’s all on the tree.
My ornament collection affirms that life is full of seasons. People die; babies are born. Just as hope fades, miracles happen. Not every year is a good one, but no matter what the year brings, if I look carefully, there’s always something good to remember.
Dayle Allen Shockley
“You can hardly see the tree. Next year, why don’t we just make one big pile of ornaments!”
Reprinted by permission of Stephanie Piro. © 2006 Stephanie Piro.
Taking Down the Christmas Tree
The house is now quiet. The process of taking down the festive decorations, and especially the Christmas tree, always brings a wave of sadness. It marks the end of a point in my life that cannot be experienced again. A flood of memories comes rushing back, and I savor those times when my children and I experienced such joyous times. As I take down each ornament and lay it away for another year, I remember the significance of each one.
There’s the little brown lion my son made for me in the third grade. Over the years, it lost one leg, but it still hangs proudly on the tree year after year. I remember the ornaments my daughter made by hand for me when she attended college and didn’t have enough money to buy a present. Sometimes, those presents are the most cherished.
I remember the good times. I remember the lean times when there wasn’t enough money to buy a tree on which to hang the ornaments. Somehow, things always turned out all right. I remember when the children were young and so excited to hang the ornaments on the tree. But I also remember the teen years when they could have cared less.
Life is made up of memories, and as I once again take down the Christmas decorations, I have yet another Christmas to put into my very special memory bank.
Dr. Lyla Berry
Christmas Found
Christmas is most truly Christmas
when we celebrate it by giving the light of
love to those who need it most.
Ruth Carter Stapleton
Preparing amid the hustle and bustle for the upcoming Christmas season was truly maddening. Schedules to meet and deadlines to attend were pounding at the doorstep. A whirlwind of anxious forgetfulness flooded down like endless packages frantically begging to be wrapped. The stores were jam-packed with people of all kind. Grocery stores, clothing stores, bookstores—it didn’t matter—the buzz of the season was in the air, in symphony with souls “on edge.” The freeways, highways, main roads, and back roads seemed to fill as quickly as the opening of Disneyland’s theme park. Where was everyone off to? one would wonder. This was supposedly the season of giving and loving, one to another—when hearts emerged a little lighter with joy and arms opened with giving affection. At what point did all the magic cease? What happened to the enchantment of Christmas? Perhaps it was tucked away back in the days of childhood, never to be regained. Something needed to change—but what?
Suddenly, a request from the local radio station playing in the background caught my attention. “This year, they’re forecasting a record for cold temperatures. The local homeless shelter is in desperate need of clothing— hats, scarves, and gloves especially. A three-day window has been set up to receive donations into the late hours of the night.” Something pulled at my heartstrings that very moment—a tinge of a feeling almost forgotten. This is the answer! I immediately thought. Then, as if flying on wings, I packed up my three-year-old son and headed out to the local discount store.
The crowds in the store didn’t budge my determination. Four sets of hats, gloves, and scarves were found within a matter of minutes and purchased before I even knew it. Four small brown paper bags were also bought, each with an orange inside and a copy of an unforgettable story of some orphan boys who received only one Christmas gift—an orange. How fitting, I suddenly realized. We were on our way.
Back in the car, the same radio station was playing holiday music, but this time it seemed to capture my senses. The previous announcement came on again, asking for donations and stating newfound information:
“The number of homeless men sleeping outside in the brisk icy cold reached a record of 200 last night. The shelter is packed to the walls, exceeding its maximum occupancy with women and children. Still more at the door need to come in.”
My attention was again brought to the present as my patient three-year-old son finally asked where we were going. I explained that certain people needed warm gloves, hats, and scarves. They didn’t live in a house of their own and needed us to help. His face held a look of puzzlement. How does one explain such a thing to a three-year-old? Restlessness got the better of him as he pleaded with me to go to the candy store instead. He carefully retrieved from his pocket his very first dollar bill. It had been given to him a few days earlier—a possession so precious that if anyone even looked at it, he immediately retreated out of sight with the dollar in hand. It had become his priceless treasure. I promised his pleading eye
s that we would definitely go to the candy store after we dropped off the bags. Though he whined a little, he seemed okay with it, as long as we hurried.
At last, we reached the entrance to the drop-off center.
The scene before me took my breath away while jump-starting my dormant heart. A line had formed with about five cars in front of me and more coming in behind me.
Trunkloads of bags were being retrieved and put into an enormous truck for the shelter. Nearing our stop, I noticed countless men and women staggering along the sidewalk. A woman was crying with joy—hand tomouth—vocalizing again and again her disbelief at what was happening before her. I, too, felt the awe of what was transpiring. Within the slums of the city, hearts of goodness were answering to a call in need.
We finally reached the head of the line. I helped my son out of the car and handed him one of the bags. He was a little hesitant and questioned the surroundings. I could see his eyes taking in everything, yet somehow knowing that he was helping these people in need. The worker’s broad smile lit up his face as he bent down and slowly took the gift from my son. He thanked us repeatedly and assured us many times how ever so grateful someone would be for these little bundles.
With a wish of “Merry Christmas,” I turned to go back to the car, reaching for my son’s hand. He looked up at me with the most solemn brown eyes as he simply said,
“Wait.” Digging into his pocket with his sweet, little dimpled hands, he retrieved his dollar—his most beloved treasure—and very slowly gave it to the worker, wishing him “Merry Christmas.” The man tenderly took it, somehow sensing that my son was giving everything he had ever possessed in his innocent little world. The worker again repeated over and over his grateful thanks, telling him that it would be put to use for something very special. I was completely stunned, looking into this little face of beaming innocence. He knew he had done something extraordinary, and that same feeling magically found its way to me. This innocent act of charitable kindness far surpassed anything I had ever witnessed. Among all the annoying chaos of the city—the hustle and bustle of the season—the true meaning of the season was found! I had found what was once lost, dwelling within the heart of a child.