This time of year makes for the brightest narratives. From our family to yours, we hope this holiday season you craft stories as cherished as those shared in this annual post. Bon Noel!
During the earliest years of my life, my family spent every Christmas Eve at my grandparent’s house. Since I was so young at the time, memories of those holiday nights come scattered and far between. It’s kind of like dusting off an old jigsaw puzzle. Some of the pieces are bent and dull. Others are missing altogether. Still, the fragmented scene that does come together is something beautiful, and makes me thankful I lived those moments.
I grew up an Italian Catholic in a suburb of Pittsburgh Pa. Anyone raised under similar circumstances knows that Christmas Eve is kind of a big thing. In fact, it took precedence over Christmas Day. It was the pinnacle of the entire season, and we cherished those telltale signs that it was upon us.
On that day, family would start showing up at my grandparent’s house around 2 p.m. Aunts, uncles and cousins would spill in from Virginia, West Virginia and around town. Us kids would shed a heavy skin of winter wear – add to the coat pile on the backroom bed – and make a B-line for the dining room table. A couple of boxes of cherry cordials, mixed nuts, mint leaf gumdrops, black olives, cheese, salami and a random bowl of fruit made up Round One of the antipasto. It was an odd spread, but a plastic table cloth with poinsettia print helped pull it all together.
See, that was the standard fare… something to get the pallet prepped for a day of gorging. Then there were the cookie platters. These things were stacked three high, covered in Saran Wrap and scattered across the better part of a table. A powdered-sugar landscape of Italian wedding cookies, pizzelles, tarallucci, thumb prints, spritz, peanut butter buckeyes, chocolate chip and other sweets filled several trays.
As family would nosh on the welcoming spread and settle in, my grandfather would plate up a platter of fried smelts (a tiny fish you consume bones and all), fried cauliflower and Panada (bread soup). Of course, pasta and other seafood dishes would come out of the kitchen later in the day. Add to the mix several gallon bottles of Ernest and Julio Gallo, and the table was set.
The eating was plenty, constant and came with its own soundtrack. In the front sitting room, a record player spun scratch-laden Christmas standards. Melodies from an eclectic chorus of folks like Mel Torme, Dean Martin and Jim Neighbors (Gomer Pyle) served as a musical backdrop to the holiday. The voices of these passed crooners carried into every part of the house.
In the back den, a pine tree always stood tall. It was strewn with silver tinsel, ornaments from my mother’s childhood and large C9 bulbs. From beneath its branches, mounds of presents poured out into the center of the room.
As a kid, that’s what I cherished most… the site of all of those gifts. As an adult, it’s the aesthetic memories of that moment. There was something special in the way that den changed when afternoon transitioned into early evening. As late-day ushered in the dim of a northern winter, hues of pink, orange and gold cast through the windows. Gradually, the room would take on an aura of its own. Outside the whole sky melted. Inside, the oversized C9 bulbs – painted red, green, blue and white – casted a phenomenal light show on the walls. We were lucky people… and we knew it well.
Still, I must put romanticism aside and be perfectly clear – we weren’t a Rockwell family by any means. We were emotional Italians. Holiday get-togethers – at times – consisted of arguments regarding politics, religion and accuracy in storytelling. This equaled a hell of a lot of people talking loudly at each other.
On occasion, all of the adult debate, laughter and noise would come to a halt. This usually happened when one of us kids would venture up from the basement for sweets. My folks, aunts and uncles would unify for a single moment to open the floor to the parent of the scavenger child. “You’ve had enough damn candy. Go downstairs and play or we’re going home.” We’d still always get away with something of sugar value.
Downstairs consisted of concrete floors, a random shower pipe protruding from the ceiling, cabinets loaded with enough canned goods to survive several apocalypses, and workbenches. It was an odd, wide-open space, however, it had its perks. First, there was a fridge full of pop (soda) that we weren’t “supposed” to drink; a black-and-white television that seemingly had the Smurf’s Christmas special burned into its circuitry; and a structural pole perfect for climbing. It might not have been the safest place on earth, but it was the ideal clubhouse for us kids. My cousins and I would spend hours down there.
As nightfall came, we’d break away from that basement playground and head upstairs to the den. “It’s time to open gifts.” An aunt or uncle would pass out presents to the kids, whom would shred through wrapping paper with the ferociousness of a cornered animal.
“You need to clean up all of this damn wrapping paper and put it into that trash bag,” pap would yell and point. He did his best to appear the stern patriarch, but an occasional smirk would tell that he enjoyed seeing his grandchildren celebrate all he worked for in life.
The excitement eventually waned a bit. Another batch of cookies, candies and coffee would make their rounds amongst the adults, who would retire to the dining room. As for the kids, we’d put our new toys away and gather around the window for the best part of the night. On the sill, we’d slide aside the plastic candle – with its electric orange glow – and smudge our faces up against the glass. Scanning the sky, someone would yell “I see him,” and we’d have our first Santa spotting. It was usually a plane… usually.
And that’s how it always was when celebrating those Italian Christmas Eves. The food, the music, the games – they were all terribly predictable, yet so unexpectedly magical. A few years after my grandmother passed away, we started holding these get-togethers at my aunts’ and uncles’ homes. The prep work was clearly becoming too much for my grandfather to handle.
Ultimately, the traditions moved across town and new, wonderful memories came with the change. Still, it’s those frigid winter nights in the glow of my grandparent’s home that set the scene for decades to come – a scene of warmth, honesty and family.
Merry Christmas.