A Christmas Eve Memory
1970s America Suburbia
Kiki Coll
In my childhood home the Christmas tree didn't go up until Christmas Eve, and came down on January 6th, the Epiphany; being enjoyed for the whole twelve days of Christmas.
My mother, like most mid-century housewives, handled all the expected holiday increments from post Thanksgiving up to December 24th almost single-handedly. Wrestling the boxes of colorful decorations up from the basement, painting the interior of the house, front porch, and the yard with as much Christmas kitsch as could be unpacked from said boxes, barring any casualties that had been haphazardly packed the prior year. Marathon cookie baking, present wrapping that surely out- did even Macy's Department store professional wrapping station, hand sewing school Christmas pageant costums that we children always seemed to not remember needing until the eleventh hour, even though Sister Mary Anthony spent everyday reminding us that Jesus was counting on us solely to relay the story of His most holy birth! Volunteering for special assignments needed during Christmas Mass, and of course the Ladies Church Luncheon presented annually for the seniors in the community. And finally hanging the homemade felt stockings with care. And anything and everything in-between! I'm tired just writing it.
My father on the other hand, had but two official holiday duties.
1. Stringing the extra-large glass Christmas bulbs over the front of the house, at least after an hour or more was spent detangling and testing the dead bulbs while we girls giggled at our father's colorful adjectives for the task at hand. Silently I imaged Sister Mary Anthony's shrill voice, blasphemy! And that took my giggle to full on laughing fit. Daddy was to hang enough lights to outdo Mrs. S, the young-ish neighbor whose husband spent entirely too much time away on business, leaving Mrs. S. entirely too much time to play damsel in distress to the other homebound husbands on the block, but not so many lights as to come off as pretentious to the neighborhood Bunco and cocktails crew. After all, a good reputation is more valuable than money, as my mother would say, or more like, deliver like a sermon.
2. Secure a worthy Christmas tree and set it up in front of the living room bay window. Christmas was one of the few times throughout the year that we were permitted entrance into my mother's living room. Normally we were regulated to the family room. The living room was dressed in plush, royal blue carpet, a gold Chesterfield sofa and undented, scratch-free tables. Quite contrary to the brick designed linoleum flooring and wood paneled walls of the family room. There were no damp coats piled high on a rocking chair next to a bundle of snowy boots, in the living room. It was like going to church while the family room was like a Saturday at the roller derby.
Once the lights were adequately strung the older girls went off to help my mother in the kitchen. Mostly they sipped warm cups of milky tea and snuck Christmas cookies for dunking while my mother expertly prepared foods for our Christmas Eve dinner, served after midnight Mass. Their laughter and chatter hummed through the house rising and falling with a steady rhythm.
For as long as I could remember, I accompanied my father on the search for the perfect tree.
Go bundle up, and let's blow this pop stand, my dad would happily bellow at me. The weather always was wintery cold in my youth. Gloves, and scarves and hats and boots and big bulky jackets were the norm and the necessity. Rushing to the driveway was more of a speedy waddle. I would climb into my father's 1968 Duster while he loaded the trunk with thick rope and a bow saw.
My dad spent a lot of his time working and rarely took a day off outside of our yearly summer vacation. Having a large family made it necessary for him to do so. But Christmas Eve was a special day. He always made sure to be at home. I especially loved it because it was our day, just the two of us.
We drove slowly on the usually icy roads leaving plenty of time for me and my dad to exchange silly dad/daughter bantar. The car smelled of Mentos peppermints, leather, and menthol. Everytime we approached a patch of ice the pop from my father downshifting rang over our conversation, sometimes we swayed softly with a little fishtail from the back end of the car.
When we arrived at the Christmas tree farm we would make our way through the snowy landscape in search of "the one". Usually by the time we had agreed on that one special tree my nose and cheeks were as red as Rudolfs'. And my father would declare, you always find the biggest one! With a big smile he would grab his saw and make a little girl's day magical.
On the ride home, the smell of fresh pine took over the air. Dad would stop at a local hot dog house were we ate foot long hot dogs and washed them down with frosty birch beer. Slipping back into the car for the final trek home was one big smile. The radio hummed out holiday tunes by the likes of Bing Crosby, Doris Day, and Frank Sinatra. My dad sang along in his deep, Celtic voice. And we both felt it. We smiled at one another. It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas.
~Kiki Coll
Share one of your own Christmas or Hanukkah memories in the comments.
And have yourself a happy little holiday ❤️
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