As a small boy, my memories of Christmas come out to play every year. I can close my eyes and see my mom in the kitchen, giving new meaning to holiday baking. I remember her making pie crusts. When she trimmed off the excess, she rolled it out, put a heaping tablespoon of grape jelly inside, and baked it until golden brown. It was my favorite treat all year.
I remember her being happy doing her baking. The radio was turned on to a Christmas station, and she sang along. Every once in a while, I would catch her dancing and holding a spatula like a microphone. She got red in the face when she saw me looking.
She loved the holidays, and our house showed that. She insisted on a real Christmas tree that we usually picked out at a local vendor selling trees from Thanksgiving on. Mom ensured we were one of his first customers, having Dad turn a dozen trees around and around. If she liked it, he loaded it onto the car's roof, and off we went, singing Christmas songs all the way home.
Dad's holiday spirit was a lot of work. He hung up the colored lights around the whole house, asking Mom why he had to put them on the back of the house. Her response was so the neighbors who lived behind us could enjoy them, too. I knew he loved her a little more if that was possible. Dad was also in charge of trimming the bottom of the tree, and once again, as he turned it around a dozen times, Mom let him know when to stop. Dad never, well, hardly ever cussed, but watching him try to untangle the lights put away last year in a hurry always got him mumbling something under his breath.
Once the house and the tree met Mom's approval, we kids got our chance to make ornaments that never needed Mom's approval. She hung them where everyone could see, proud of our artistic abilities, which I knew wasn't truthful.
I loved the holidays growing up, and it's all because my parents made sure our home was filled with all the love a home could hold. But it wasn't just the lights and the tree; it was attending midnight Mass as a family, rejoicing in the birth of our savior. Families gathered outside after Mass, shaking hands and talking while the children begged to go home, as Santa would be coming soon.
Christmas morning finally came as we ran downstairs, welcomed by a mountain of presents wrapped in beautiful paper that got shredded with every gift opened. We always seemed to get what was on our list as Mom and Dad sat and watched with tired eyes and the need for coffee.
Yes, sir, Christmas in my house was always special, and as an adult, I tried to copy it. But something is missing now with the passing of both my parents. Their spirits are always with me in memories, and now I turn the tree around and around, finding the perfect one and remembering all that was Christmas in our home.
Merry Christmas, everyone!
Mike 2024
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