I don’t remember visiting Santa or sitting on his lap probably by the wisdom of my mother since the store Santas were always so fake. But I wrote him a reasonable wish list every year from about age 7-10 even though I was just fooling that last year. I distinctly remember at around age nine when my friends Marty and Patty “let the cat out of the bag” thinking I wasn‘t a “believer”. The real proof of the pudding came when I discovered that Santa’s handwriting matched my mom’s. (See the story, The Shopping List Mystery.) But Santa wasn’t at the heart of my childhood Christmases...

It was the big get-togethers with nine or ten of us, when my favorite aunt, Ginny, and Uncle Joe arrived and sometimes brought along their lady friend, Bola. Sometimes they drove to Cincinnati and other times arrived by train at the huge, bustling Union Terminal. There is one vivid memory of a year the terminal was teeming with family scenes of arrivals and farewells of service men. That would have been during World War II. I can see those people hugging and crying with the young men in uniform. That terminal was incredibly huge with a movie theatre, restaurants, gift shops, a Travelers Aide station with beds for people to sleep and there were Red Caps everywhere pushing luggage carts and guiding travelers through the maze of people. They were always black men with neat black uniforms and red hats so they’d be easier to find and call or whistle to.

Once Ginny and Joe arrived, the partying began, laughing, joking, and snacking. Mostly we would sit around and talk and make little trips out to Bernie’s Clifton Cafe where Uncle Pete would take the other grownups (and me on special occasions). Mae, Grandma and Papa never went. They quietly disapproved of drinking. In fact Grandma had been a leader in Women’s Christian Temperance Union (WCTU). Any drinking that went on at Pete’s house was done in the cellar at a simple kitchen table with straight chairs and a bare bulb overhead. Otherwise, the cellar was where the canning and washing and ironing was done--and it looked it.

Holiday and Sunday meals were fabulous there. Mazie or Grandma would prepare them in turn. My mother would always help and I was proud to feel like I was helping too--unless I went walking with the men after dinner. Grandma’s chicken dinners with dumplings and mashed potatoes and gravy were my favorite. There would always be pie and homemade bread and plenty of leftovers to carry home. Mazie’s specialty was spaghetti with antipasto, homemade sauce that simmered for hours. Also there would be Italian bread and olives which Pete would buy special from a delicatessen near Findlay Market downtown.

After dinner on Christmas Eve Pete could usually be coaxed to play several tunes on his cello as we sat around their living room in a big circle of chairs. Then it was my job as the only child to pass gifts and everyone, in turn, would open one, “oh-ing” and “aw-ing” about each gift and carefully keeping the gift card for the thank you notes which would be expected later.

When I was a teenager, I was able to talk Uncle Joe into attending the Catholic Midnight Mass at St. Monica’s Cathedral. It was near Mae and Pete’s house, about 1/2 mile walk. I remember my pride in being with him, my favorite man after my dad, and the sheer beauty of that big sanctuary “dressed” with white lights and red poinsettias. In my mind it was like the church in the beloved story “Why the Chimes Rang”.

Around ten p.m. after the gift giving, Uncle Pete would go out to the garage and warm up his faithful little green coupe. Then Mom, Dad, and I would pile in for the trip home. I would be happy, excited about Santa coming in the morning and sleepy. I loved watching the colored Christmas lights on people’s porches and windows but toward the end of the drive home, I would fake sleeping, wishing someday that somebody would carry me inside but, of course, that never happened. In fact, from age five on I was tall and gangly for my age. Instead, Mom would gently shake me, saying, “Up and at ‘em, Suzy. We’re home.”

“Come see my tree.”

On the first Christmas day I recall, I was about seven years old showing my gifts under the tree to my neighborhood girlfriends. Then we would move on to another friend’s home. We called this activity, “Seeing our trees” but it was really a chance to show off our loot--and compare with our friends. In retrospect, I cringe at the pressure this activity placed on our parents, most of whom had to save and shop for months in advance to give us these Christmases.

It seems that most years my gifts were about the same--but seeing what I got Christmas morning was always exciting. In fact, most Christmas Eves I would go to bed with a nervous stomach from the excitement of Santa’s coming, sometimes I‘d even “upchuck“ as my mom put it. It happened so many Christmases that it was expected and my parents knew it wasn’t flu, just Suzy’s Christmas jitters.

Under my tree there would usually be a game or two, a handcraft kit, a carefully-chosen book which I knew I would love reading although far and away my books came from the neighborhood library. In the clothes category they might be a pretty blouse or sweater, and usually a new purse in the current style. I can still picture one made of colorful suede patches. One year there was a beautiful pair of brown bunny fur mittens which I enjoyed for years. I can still remember how I‘d warm my nose with that fur.

Until I was about nine there would be a new doll and sometimes a newly-sewn outfit for each of my best old dolls. As an only child, my dolls were my friends and my children and I would, occasionally, take the notion to be a very conscientious parent. On one particular Christmas I convinced Mom to make them little stockings. There were 13 tiny stockings taped in a row to the mantle. She had sewed them from red knit cloth which she found somewhere or dyed for the project. That Christmas morning each doll’s stocking held a piece of hard candy. Some of those lucky little dolls were actually quite old and bedraggled, especially my rubber baby doll, Ducky, to whom I gave shots in the arms, and some were stuffed animals. But most years they each were cleaned up or repaired for Santa’s coming.

“Gifts for Everyone”

I like to think that my parents treated me as an equal although I’ll admit they spoiled me just a little. The three of us spent lots of time as a threesome complete with three-way hugs, “All for one, one for all” which came from the three musketeers. Without being told, I came to feel that I shared in the responsibility and privilege of giving gifts too and I loved that part of Christmas and wish it for every growing child.

My “big” gifts were for Mother and Daddy (as I called them). Hopefully, I would have saved a dollar or two in my piggy bank (a clear glass jar shaped like the Planter’s Peanut Man’s head which originally held peanuts--might be worth a lot if I had it today) and I’d shop for something “nice” for them at the neighborhood dry goods store that we kids called “The Old Maids” or the Five and Ten Cent Store which was a farther walk, maybe a mile. Notable among my mother’s gifts was a circular gold pin which read MOTHER in script.

The nicest, hand-made gift for my mom was hand-painted Christmas tree plates--the biggest challenge being to make four alike. Another year I sewed ruffled kitchen curtains like I thought she was wishing for. The year I went away to Miami for my sophomore year college, I had so little money to spend that I even recorded spending money for coffee and a donut (probably fifty cents). But I managed to buy a lovely, brown wool plaid dress that I thought would be perfect for Mom. It was a huge surprise since she knew how little money I had. She loved that dress and I was immensely proud of that.

One year, I bought a blue crockery cookie jar for my dad which I promised to keep filled with cookies and I tried to keep that promise, at least for some months. The best gift ever for my dad, to my way of thinking, was a short-sleeved plaid sport shirt which I made him at around age 15 for Fathers Day. I was SO proud of that but it was a new concept at that time making it a challenge to get Dad to wear it. Most men were still wearing long sleeved dress shirts, the only concession to casual occasions was to roll up the sleeves and loosen the tie or remove it. A plaid shirt--even short-sleeved--was very big doings for my conservative dad. But he finally wore it for a summer trip to Coney Island but he convinced me that he was very proud of it.

By the time I was ten I began handcrafting gifts for everyone in the family, probably inspired by Camp Fire Girls handcrafts projects and the handmade jewelry or leatherwork gifts from Aunt Ruth, or Grandma’s quilts, hooked rugs, cloth clowns and sock monkey dolls. Since I had little money, lots of ingenuity went into these handmade items for the family members. There were Grandma and Papa, three sets of aunts and uncles, Mae & Pete in whose home Grandma and Papa lived, Ginny and Joe who lived in Charleston, West Virginia and Ruth and Curtis in Tacoma Park, Maryland and their three children, Charles, Dean, and Bonnie, my three cousins, a bit older than I, whom I seldom saw but admired from afar.

One year I made aprons for many of the relatives, other years personalized hot pads, another year quilted cotton scuffs, and once, best of all, I decorated a set of drinking glasses for all 13 on my list. I wish I had a photo of even one of those. They were painted Pennsylvania Dutch characters resembling each family member in activities appropriate to each one. Uncle Pete’s was playing a cello, Grandma’s was baking a pie, etc. I can still recall the pleasure of laying out all the completed gifts before wrapping and mailing them off. What fun, what satisfaction at their completion. No wonder I developed my weaving business. In fact, by the time I was thirteen I was making shell earrings for gifts and for sale in my friend, Ann’s, mom’s beauty shop. That was really fun, then I had money to buy fabric to sew.

“The Tree”

We would always have a little pine tree, for many years it was chosen to be about the

height of me--that’s a sudden remembrance. A small tree was good since we usually had to carry the tree home from Albers food store about four blocks away, usually Mom at the back and me carrying the front. When we got it home, there was the chore of placing it in the tree stand which would be covered by a sheet and, if the tree had bare spots still showing (after lodging it in a corner) Mom would, cleverly, take branches off the back and wire them into the bare spot.

First the string of lights would be carefully placed on the tree after seeing that they would light. In those days if one bulb was out, they all were out until the bad one was

discovered and replaced. Then Mom or Dad would tie the angel on top. She was called Angelina and was made by Mom from a clothespin. Years later, I made my own Angelina while visiting with Mom one evening.

Next the paper chains from past years would be draped on and the colored glass balls and the homemade paper ornaments made in the “War Years” which Mom let me help her make from used Christmas cards and silver paper from inside cigarette packs. Last, the icicles would be draped very carefully on the branches. These were always kept from year to year. Several years when I reached twelve or more I would string popcorn and cranberries for the tree as we listened to Christmas shows on the radio. I remember particularly one year when I talked my dad into helping with this project. I’m sure he felt put upon but I treasured that evening.

As a child I enjoyed watching the lit tree as we sat in the dark. This is still one of Bob’s favorite activities. I’m sure he muses and meditates as he enjoys the simplicity of one of the more beautiful symbols of Christmas. In those years having a live tree it would last for about a week then the needles would begin to fall to let us know it was “time” to say goodbye to the holiday for another year. We would untrim it, gently return the ornaments and the nativity figures to their boxes. Then the tree would be wrapped in its sheet for the trip down the apartment stairs to the street. Then one of us would sweep the needles off the steps.

Then it was time to write thank you notes (on stationery that was another yearly gift) and time to make New Years resolutions. My first resolutions, found recently among old keepsakes of my mom, were dictated by me to my mother. I wonder how she felt about that as she looked back at it. “I will remember my manners....”