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....”
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