My childhood Christmas was full of traditions. First was picking the tree. This was a long and arduous process that one year, when my mother was still trying to maintain our standards on a post-divorce, Reagan de-regulation budget, took us to five lots, one as far away as Huntington Beach. The tree had to be just so-- Fluffy, no gaps, over six feet and under $18. We would cry if we didn’t get to see the live reindeer and then we'd go to IHOP for dinner.
Why we were always looking for trees at night is a puzzle to me. Were we waiting for Dad? Mr. Bah-humbug himself! Probably.
The only thing Californian about my Christmas was a trip to Roger’s Gardens to see the lights and luminaries, and the boat parade. The boat parade is a two week spectacle of floating lights and drunken Santas shouting ho-ho-ho to people sitting on docks and the suburban island beaches. From our two story house you could see the lighted masts go by at night.
I love the way my mother decorates for Christmas. Mantles, banisters, buffets are loaded with greenery and garland, berries, pinecones, and beautiful ribbon. Then there has to be sheen--a glint of silver vase, or old gold ornament, a bronze candlestick donning sprigs of pine and a plaid bow. We were never flocked tree or all blue ornament people.
My Christmas memories are mostly Dickensian. My mother read us stories Christmas Eve about a child lucky to get an orange in the toe of her stocking Christmas Day. My father towered around trying to read us A Christmas Carol, embodying Ebenezer Scrooge with spittle flying as he got into character.
I would fall to sleep to the sound of my mother's sewing machine as she worked long into the night finishing up doll clothes, dresses, or a puppet theater.
We were allowed to wake up as soon as the Street lights went off. Then we would pile onto our exhausted parents beds and delve into our stocking plunder.
While my mother was still practicing her husband’s Catholicism, there was dressing for church and then undressing after. There was breakfast of "sticky buns", a half grapefruit with a cherry, Christmas eggs, and frizzled ham. We could not open our gifts until church and breakfast were finished. It was excruciating, but it was worth the wait. I always got something I really wanted: Roller Derby Skate Queen roller skates, an Easy Bake Oven, a Chrissy Doll with her trashy hair that pulled out of a hole in the center of her head. You could give her a bob or make her hair fall straight to her waist. I know my mother did not want me to have that floozy doll in her butterfly-wing burnt-orange lace mini dress, but she got it for me anyway.
Then we ran around. We were let loose on the neighborhood. Nobody went to Colorado or Hawaii or Back East. We would meet somewhere in the middle of the street and compare loot and then go play. Not inside. Outside. Our mothers were busy making six course dinners; our fathers were nursing hangovers and busy lying on the couch. There was no ESPN. There was no Internet. Dads fluffed through the newspaper until they dozed off just in time to complain about all the mess and tell us to wash our hands before dinner.
Dinner was extreme. Old fashioned. Prime Rib, horseradish, Yorkshire Pudding, brussel sprouts, creamed onions, parsnips, cubed potatoes (from my father's side), salad with oranges and slivered almonds, and string beans. There was a sleigh on the table that my mother had filled, sometime in 1957, with tiny boxes wrapped like gifts. She still has them. In the early years I remember pies, mincemeat, pecan, and apple. But later it was always Buche de Noel, or Berries in the Snow for dessert. My sister replicated this meal exactly here in Oregon last Christmas. She even had a little apron around her waist, sweat on her brow, and the "Get Out of my Way Dear, Can't You See I'm Busy!" look down pat. I was proud of my sister for not deprecating her own cooking. My mother is always the first to critique her own food. Too salty, too dry none of us ever noticed. It was all delicious.
I tried to carry on some of these traditions for my own family. But I married a bit of a bah humbugger myself. My husband prefers the illusion that we have no traditions. But my children love them.
On nights when Dad is catering or bowling, I let the boys put on their jammies, grab their blankies, and we got to see the Christmas lights at Greystone Manor or Harry and David. Sometimes we bring Cocoa. We make cookies. Yesterday there were five children here decorating gingerbread men and rolling out sugar cookies. Tonight they will get to open the books we will read before bed. Each of them gets a Christmas Classic every year. We always read the Night Before Christmas.
When the kids wake up in the morning there will be a pile of presents wrapped under the tree. Santa will have hung candy canes and chocolate ornaments (on the years he can find them), eaten the cookies and left them a new snow globe.
The table will be decorated for brunch and the house will be clean. Really.
I’ve already received the best Christmas gift of all . . . For years I have done the tree myself. And it has always made me sad. This year, after coming home from my eldest child’s matinee performance at the Craterian, he and his brother and a neighbor child we were watching decided it was high time our tree got decorated. They were absolutely right.
So, while I made dinner they did the whole thing. First they put on their jammies, then they put up the lights, the garland, and all the ornaments. They poured over the ornaments asking questions about those from my childhood and questions about the ones from their own. My freshly minted ten year old got the honors of putting on the star. They sang songs throughout and once it was done they got out their “guys” and invented a game called “prison cell”.
My tree is a bedraggled mess. Garland hangs off to the side like a bad toupee, lights spread mostly along the front, and the usual kid-clusters of ornaments all hang in one spot. But the kids played “Prison Cell” in the tree for five days. Sometimes Rey Mysterio and Captain American even spent the night in their “cell” in the tree.
I have not ‘fixed” the tree. I haven’t redone the lights, moved any ornaments, or restrung the garland. The magic is brief. I want it to last. So for this shining moment luchadors and superheroes will be part of my Christmas Décor. The holly and the Ivy, the bronze, blown glass, and the gold will have to wait.
Merry Mysterio Christmas
Why we were always looking for trees at night is a puzzle to me. Were we waiting for Dad? Mr. Bah-humbug himself! Probably.
The only thing Californian about my Christmas was a trip to Roger’s Gardens to see the lights and luminaries, and the boat parade. The boat parade is a two week spectacle of floating lights and drunken Santas shouting ho-ho-ho to people sitting on docks and the suburban island beaches. From our two story house you could see the lighted masts go by at night.
I love the way my mother decorates for Christmas. Mantles, banisters, buffets are loaded with greenery and garland, berries, pinecones, and beautiful ribbon. Then there has to be sheen--a glint of silver vase, or old gold ornament, a bronze candlestick donning sprigs of pine and a plaid bow. We were never flocked tree or all blue ornament people.
My Christmas memories are mostly Dickensian. My mother read us stories Christmas Eve about a child lucky to get an orange in the toe of her stocking Christmas Day. My father towered around trying to read us A Christmas Carol, embodying Ebenezer Scrooge with spittle flying as he got into character.
I would fall to sleep to the sound of my mother's sewing machine as she worked long into the night finishing up doll clothes, dresses, or a puppet theater.
We were allowed to wake up as soon as the Street lights went off. Then we would pile onto our exhausted parents beds and delve into our stocking plunder.
While my mother was still practicing her husband’s Catholicism, there was dressing for church and then undressing after. There was breakfast of "sticky buns", a half grapefruit with a cherry, Christmas eggs, and frizzled ham. We could not open our gifts until church and breakfast were finished. It was excruciating, but it was worth the wait. I always got something I really wanted: Roller Derby Skate Queen roller skates, an Easy Bake Oven, a Chrissy Doll with her trashy hair that pulled out of a hole in the center of her head. You could give her a bob or make her hair fall straight to her waist. I know my mother did not want me to have that floozy doll in her butterfly-wing burnt-orange lace mini dress, but she got it for me anyway.
Then we ran around. We were let loose on the neighborhood. Nobody went to Colorado or Hawaii or Back East. We would meet somewhere in the middle of the street and compare loot and then go play. Not inside. Outside. Our mothers were busy making six course dinners; our fathers were nursing hangovers and busy lying on the couch. There was no ESPN. There was no Internet. Dads fluffed through the newspaper until they dozed off just in time to complain about all the mess and tell us to wash our hands before dinner.
Dinner was extreme. Old fashioned. Prime Rib, horseradish, Yorkshire Pudding, brussel sprouts, creamed onions, parsnips, cubed potatoes (from my father's side), salad with oranges and slivered almonds, and string beans. There was a sleigh on the table that my mother had filled, sometime in 1957, with tiny boxes wrapped like gifts. She still has them. In the early years I remember pies, mincemeat, pecan, and apple. But later it was always Buche de Noel, or Berries in the Snow for dessert. My sister replicated this meal exactly here in Oregon last Christmas. She even had a little apron around her waist, sweat on her brow, and the "Get Out of my Way Dear, Can't You See I'm Busy!" look down pat. I was proud of my sister for not deprecating her own cooking. My mother is always the first to critique her own food. Too salty, too dry none of us ever noticed. It was all delicious.
I tried to carry on some of these traditions for my own family. But I married a bit of a bah humbugger myself. My husband prefers the illusion that we have no traditions. But my children love them.
On nights when Dad is catering or bowling, I let the boys put on their jammies, grab their blankies, and we got to see the Christmas lights at Greystone Manor or Harry and David. Sometimes we bring Cocoa. We make cookies. Yesterday there were five children here decorating gingerbread men and rolling out sugar cookies. Tonight they will get to open the books we will read before bed. Each of them gets a Christmas Classic every year. We always read the Night Before Christmas.
When the kids wake up in the morning there will be a pile of presents wrapped under the tree. Santa will have hung candy canes and chocolate ornaments (on the years he can find them), eaten the cookies and left them a new snow globe.
The table will be decorated for brunch and the house will be clean. Really.
I’ve already received the best Christmas gift of all . . . For years I have done the tree myself. And it has always made me sad. This year, after coming home from my eldest child’s matinee performance at the Craterian, he and his brother and a neighbor child we were watching decided it was high time our tree got decorated. They were absolutely right.
So, while I made dinner they did the whole thing. First they put on their jammies, then they put up the lights, the garland, and all the ornaments. They poured over the ornaments asking questions about those from my childhood and questions about the ones from their own. My freshly minted ten year old got the honors of putting on the star. They sang songs throughout and once it was done they got out their “guys” and invented a game called “prison cell”.
My tree is a bedraggled mess. Garland hangs off to the side like a bad toupee, lights spread mostly along the front, and the usual kid-clusters of ornaments all hang in one spot. But the kids played “Prison Cell” in the tree for five days. Sometimes Rey Mysterio and Captain American even spent the night in their “cell” in the tree.
I have not ‘fixed” the tree. I haven’t redone the lights, moved any ornaments, or restrung the garland. The magic is brief. I want it to last. So for this shining moment luchadors and superheroes will be part of my Christmas Décor. The holly and the Ivy, the bronze, blown glass, and the gold will have to wait.
Merry Mysterio Christmas
2 comments:
Lovely, Marcia. You'll all remember that tree for years.
Merry merry!
Christy
Marcia, you're the Super Girl of Christmas!
Somewhat of a bah humbug myself, I was really inspired by your piece! It's all in the wonder, isn't it?
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