Christmas Reminiscence

Childhood Christmas – The Italian Christmas Eves of my childhood were huge gatherings of cousins, aunts, uncles, and Nonni.  Because meat was not allowed on this day, the feast—and it was a feast—featured all types of seafood, prepared by my Italian grandmother.  Succulent shrimp, copious calamari, and Pesce Abbondante tempted the revelers just back from visiting the incredibly beautiful crèche at St. Callistus’ Church down the street.  Sometimes we would leave early and hurry to my Irish grandmother’s home, replete with Uncle Jim’s aluminum Christmas tree lit with revolving spectra of color from his holiday light wheel. We’d arrive just in time to take my Grandmother to Midnight Mass. She especially loved the Christmas Mass with flowers, special hymns, and angels announcing the birth of the anointed babe. The Christmases of my childhood were filled with loving people, savory scents, and snow.

Old-Enough Christmas – When I was in second or third grade I became eligible to join my older girl cousins, aunts, and my mother on the special holiday trip to downtown Chicago at night. We would catch the nearby streetcar, bursting with expectations of an exciting evening spent at the Chicago Theater’s Christmas Stage Show.  How we laughed at Billy de Wolf and swooned over Dick Contino. The stage settings were glorious and the dancers dazzled.  The “girls” were having their special Christmas treat and I was old enough to join them!

Young Love Christmas – Hubby and I became engaged over Christmas break of my senior year in college, despite the embarrassing Christmas present mix-up when I mistakenly gave him the wrong gift—a pair of pink petti-pants intended for me! He, however, was not blameless in holiday protocol. During vacations I worked at the University Medical Center and he would pick me up when work was over.  He was there, earlier than usual and very nervous.  The reason?  He proposed marriage as soon as we got into his car. Unfortunately he was parked across the street from the Cook County Morgue—making me an offer I couldn’t refuse!

Our first Christmas as man and wife centered on our first real tree, strung with cranberries and popped corn. That first Christmas, in our very own apartment, glittered with holiday lights, the spicy smell of Christmas cookies, and a lifetime of love just beginning.

Christmas for the Children – Such excitement!  By the end of October the Sear’s Wish Book was well thumbed. Was there any toy my daughter didn’t want? With eager anticipation we planned the tree trimming party never knowing which was best, decorating the tree or being together for the treat-filled party afterward.  I baked all month!

The children surprised us with ornaments made at school and increased our trove of tree hangings with homemade shrink-dink figures of Snoopy and the gang. Each year our son destroyed another Styrofoam gingerbread man ornament, thinking that I wouldn’t notice. Keeping presents secure was a full time job. Each child tried to extort the other saying that they “knew what you are getting for Christmas.” Christmas morning discovered sleepy parents supervising the unwrapping. Dad prepared his special waffles for breakfast.

Empty Nest Holidays – There are no small children bursting with curiosity and anticipation now. There’s no real Christmas at all anymore. Our daughter, who adored Christmas, is dead. There are no children of hers to delight. And besides, cookies are unhealthy…

One must be careful about the holidays now for our remaining family does not celebrate Christmas; Hanukkah does not really belong to us. Even though our granddaughters enjoy “double dipping” it’s a time to tread carefully.  We try to recapture some of the magic for our girls however. One year we rented an apartment in Orange County for a lengthy stay. I sent out a small, artificial tree and asked if it would be OK for the girls to help us decorate it. The happy pair was excited to see the tiny tree. Dani had made a special ornament in school and the girl’s ballet teacher had given all her students special ballerina ornaments. The girls set to work on their task, carefully considering where to place each piece. This was all new to them. Finally the last ornament was placed and I laid the small red velvet tree skirt around the base. The early December darkness supplied the final touch. We turned off all the lights and then Grandpa plugged in the tree, the tiny lights dazzling young eyes. The oohs and aahs were all the presents I needed to make my spirits bright. The Holidays of their childhood will be filled with loving people, savory scents, and no snow.  Let’s bake some cookies, organic of course.

Merry Christmas and a Healthy, Happy New Year.

Old Photographs

When my father died I “inherited” my extended family’s photos.  There must have been at least a thousand pictures, dating back to the beginning of the 20^th century. In addition, there were written records and sundry other mementos. My parents never threw anything away.  Such fascinating information can be coaxed from those records. For example, it cost my parents $2.35 a day for my mother’s maternity stay in the hospital when I was born. Automobiles were priced in the hundreds, not ten thousands like they are today. 

There are WPA notices and old ration books.  The ration books brought to mind one of my most trying experiences. When I was in the terrible twos I tore up the ration stamps, requiring that my parents bring the torn stamp remnants and the naughty child before a judge to replace them.  It was years before I could deal with the trauma. The memory is sharp nearly 70 years later.  To this day I get panic attacks when called for jury duty! Not all inheritances are pleasant.

After sorting through my photographic legacy, I put some aside and attempted to relieve my embarrassment of riches by giving hundreds of photos away. I gave the oldest person in each of the families the photos to keep or to distribute amongst their children or siblings, or perhaps to toss.  I still have several hundred pictures, wonderful and painful memories of people loved, feared, dead.  When I die the memory of many will die with me; they truly will be gone.  No one will want, or even care about, the smiling, laughing, crying faces that meant so much to me. 

Old photographs are a responsibility. Which can I keep a bit longer?  Which should be tossed? I know most must go, holding no illusions about passing the photos on to my son. He does not care about those strangers. Yet I know these mementos could mean something to the right person. I feel that I have a last responsibility to the dead to find that right person. Sometimes I get lucky.

 In a recent rummage down memory lane I found a song written by my great-uncle, the owner of a formal wear establishment. It was funny, written in broken English, an advertising ditty. But it was my Uncle Frank speaking out one more time.  I sent it around to my millions of cousins via email and was amazed at the response amongst Uncle Frank’s grandchildren.

The emails whizzed back and forth with wonderful memories of young children gathered around the radio on Saturday, waiting to hear the ad so they could sing it along with their grandfather.  Their memories gave us a glimpse of family life we never knew existed.  Efforts were being made to locate a tape recording so younger descendants of Francesco could once more hear their grandfather singing and playing the mandolin.  That sheet of music with its lyrics meant a great deal to my cousins who had nearly forgotten the fun they had had with a grandpa once more alive in their memories. 

What of all the other pieces of family history and fond memories?  I believe that a person is never truly dead while someone remembers them. It has been the privilege of the 20^th century to retain memories of the common man in ways never experienced before.  Since then ways and means multiply and subsequent generations will have the capability to store and access memories of parents, grandparents, friends, children in new media. If they so choose.  Will 21^st century lives be shared and preserved?  I hope so.  I fear not.