Cookies, Carols, and Christmas (Traditions)

          Traditions. That’s what I think about this time of year. Every family has them, and my family is no exception. My parents are fruits from the Tradition Tree, if my childhood is any indication, and they took the time to cultivate the rhythm and rhyme of the necessity of rituals throughout life in each of us kids.

          It seems like, looking back, that every holiday had a routine. July 4^th brought with it a cookout with however many people showed up. Halloween involved the famous black cat in the window (you can catch up on the shenanigans of All Hallow’s Eve in this post–Pumpkins, Black Cats, and Ghosts, oh my! – Books By Beth). Thanksgiving Eve (still) involves us going to my uncle’s house and carving up turkey and laughs with my daddy’s family. Birthdays require a dinner out somewhere—birthday guy’s or gal’s choice—and Mama bringing a homemade cake, which I did not, ahem, get this year, I would like to point out. (However, I did get cannoli, so we’ll call it pat.)

          And then there’s this time of year—Christmas. The traditions that go along with this holiday are specific and time-honored, and no one would ever think of breaking with them (except that one year when my parents broke them to go stay with my sister in Cleveland. Whatever. I had Christmas Eve tacos that year, so it all worked out.)

          Christmas Eve is the day in my family. From the time that I was a little girl, magic was the key ingredient in the recipe of that twenty-four hour day. As children, my sister and I would gleefully pull out the LPs and blast Christmas music throughout the house on the old stereo system’s record player. John Davidson’s My Christmas Favorites was our album of choice, and she and I would sock-skate around the living room while he sang one of the peppiest (and best!) versions of “Winter Wonderland” ever. It was this album that gave us our favorite songs; Kathy loves “Silver Bells” and I love “The First Noel,” and all because of this album.

Once we had wearied of our make-shift skating rink, we would head into the kitchen with our trusty boom-box and put on a mixed tape of Christmas carols that included Ms. Mahalia Jackson belting out “It Came Upon a Midnight Clear,” and it did. It really did. If you doubted that “glorious song of old” by the time the Ms. Jackson had finished singing, you were not listening. Anyway, Kathy and I (and Mama until she decided it was much safer anywhere but in the kitchen) would make cookies. Flour, sugar, and chocolate chips, and most of it in the bowl. We would make snowflakes (peanut butter Ritz crackers covered in white chocolate) and haystacks (Chinese noodles covered in butterscotch), and soon the kitchen counters would be covered in wax paper full of candies and cookies. Sometimes we had to dodge exploding soda bottles because Kathy liked Dr. Pepper (enough said there) or because one of us (not me) dropped a two-liter Coke bottle on the floor with the lid partially unscrewed, and it bottle-rocketed across the floor, soda spraying everywhere. It was the only time in my life I have ever hurtled anything.

The best part about these Christmas Eve kitchen adventures was that Kathy and I learned both the power of the words “Nothing” and “Okay.” Mama, like I said, made herself scarce while Kathy and I were in the kitchen because, well, exploding soda bottles and all. When she did check in with us, usually by yelling from another room, my sister and I were always ready with our sword and shield:

“What are you two arguing about?”

“Nothing!”

“What was that noise?”

“Nothing!”

“Wah-wah-wah!”

In a whisper: “What did she say?” Shrug. Out loud: “Okay!”

“Make sure you girls wah-wah-wah!”

“Okay!”

“How did Coke get all over the floor?!”

“It fell.”

          Sisters united. Always. Those times in the kitchen were some of my favorites, but the traditions did not stop there. This was Christmas Eve, after all, and the night was coming. That’s when the magic truly came alive.

          We would have our big lunch on Christmas Eve—turkey, pulled pork, dressing, sweet potato casserole, corn-on-the-cob, the works. Mama would play the piano, and we would loudly sing carols (and only a few neighborhood dogs would howl). Then we would get ready for church.

          Our church began doing a live Nativity, which it continues to this day. My family was one of the original families to sign on to participate. Every year for twenty minutes on Christmas Eve night, I was a perfect angel. Kathy and I along with a random third person would act as the Heavenly angels. The challenge for all players was that we absolutely could not smile, laugh, or move. Everyone had to stand (or sit, as was Mary’s case) perfectly still for twenty minutes. Then we rotated out with the next group.

So Kathy and I would stand on top of the stable, hands folded, perfectly still and blank-faced. (Well, at least until the incident with the dog, but more on that in a minute.)

          My brother Johnny played the shepherd boy, and Daddy played a Shepherd or a Wise Man, depending on the need. Mama played the Guardian Angel. She stood inside the stable with the holy family and the bald-headed Cabbage Patch baby Jesus. (Cue giggles from Kathy and a lot of lip-biting from me, for we could just see the manger from our position and the bald head of the baby. It did not help matters that Kathy had the same bald-headed baby at home, whose name was J.R.) We could also see the tips of Mama’s hands, for she and Mary were the only ones allowed to move. Mary could touch the baby Jesus, and Mama could fold her hands or raise her arms up in a Hallelujah stance. (Cue more giggles from the not-so-Heavenly little angel standing next to me when we would see Mama’s gloved fingers appear seemingly out of nowhere.) It was always cold on these nights, and the directors had hooked up the music system so that it played instrumental Christmas hymns. The Nativity was positioned right out in front of the church, so that all the downtown traffic could see. It was such an amazingly peaceful part of my childhood Christmas, and it was the kick-off to our family festivities.

          Now a sidenote, for the dog incident simply must be mentioned. It is so engrained in my family’s memory that we cannot reminisce without someone bringing up the dog.

          In the early days of the live Nativity, we actually had live animals. The shepherds had a donkey in the pen with them as well as a sheep or two. From where Kathy and I stood atop the stable, we could see the crowds, the cars, everything even though we were supposed to be looking down at the manger. On this particular Christmas Eve night, as my family stood with the other players in our respective roles, a gentleman walked by with a dog and stopped to look. I remember making an “Uh-oh” sound with my throat right before the dog found the donkey.

          Barking ensued. The dog scampered over and into the pen, which only consisted of boards nailed together in a square, and then into the stable. Mary laid her hand on the baby Jesus (protectively), Mama’s hands went up in “Hallelujah” (or maybe it was a prayer that the dog didn’t pee on her in its excitement), and the donkey danced sideways towards my little brother, who did break character long enough to glance at the agitated animal because, let’s face it, getting kicked by an ass would have put a damper on the whole evening.

          The man took off after the dog. The crowd was alive with murmuring and laughter. The three Heavenly angels were trying quite hard not to be wide-eyed and giggly, but I’m not sure we succeeded, especially when the man had to pick up the dog and hurry away with it. Surprisingly, the whole thing lasted just a minute or two, and no animals or actors were harmed in the incident. Still, I remember the laughter and the boisterous talking once we were back in the wardrobe room after our shift was over. Everyone had something to say because everyone had a different perspective on it, especially my poor brother, who decided a life working with live animals was not in the cards for him.

          After our participation each year in the live Nativity, which did away with live animals after that eventful season, we would drive around for a while and look at Christmas lights. Daddy always seemed to know the best places to go, neighborhoods where everyone, it seemed, had put their Christmas spirit on display. We loved to see the varying degree of lights, candles, and Nativities while Christmas tunes played over the radio. These drives lasted for maybe thirty or forty-five minutes, and then we made our way home.

          Once we got home, everyone participated in setting up for the evening. The table was laid out with ham or pork biscuits, chips, the candies and cookies Kathy and I had made earlier in the day. The radio was tuned in to the Christmas channel, we all fixed a plate of goodies, and then we all claimed a spot in the room. Mama took photos of us under the Christmas tree, and then presents were passed out. We have always opened family gifts on Christmas Eve, and that is a tradition that continues to this day.

          Then we took turns opening presents. Usually, we started with the oldest (Mama), although every once in a while we would switch it up and start with the youngest (Johnny). It never mattered to me because I was third whichever way we went. 😉 Mama would open her first gift and we would all ooh-and-ahh over it before Daddy took his turn. We would go through each person over and over until all the presents had been opened and appreciated. These would easily take a couple of hours, and then it would be time to get ready for bed.

          I had my own little routine to Christmas Eve, which I continue to this day. Unless it is raining, I go outside and look up at the night sky. There is wonder to be found there on this holiest of nights, and I always try to find the Bethlehem star and, yes, a sleigh. I also turn off all the lights in the main room and look at the Christmas tree all aglow. It’s a peaceful moment full of beauty and possibility, and I look forward to that feeling all year.

          Then Santa comes.

          Christmas Day had us inspecting our toys from Santa and digging with glee through our stockings. A fancy breakfast would follow—eggs, bacon, grits, toast, sometimes pancakes, juice, coffee—and many times we would have guests for breakfast, friends and neighbors and even the occasional straggler. Afterwards, we played with our toys, played family games, and took family naps. By the time we fell into bed Christmas night, we had fa-la-la-ed ourselves into the merriest of sleeps.

          Fast-forward many years later and some of the traditions have changed or fallen away all together. For example, as we are no longer members of that particular church, we do not actively participate in the live Nativity; however, we do ride by each year and look at it. We do still get together at Mama’s Christmas Eve and exchange family presents, and we still have a big lunch, although this year I managed to convince everyone that tacos were the way to go. Christmas carols still loudly get sung (and neighborhood dogs still occasionally howl). I still search the sky and watch the tree lights every Christmas Eve night.

And then there are those little traditions that my husband, son, and I do, such as watching a Christmas movie every single night the whole week before Christmas. Each year, I get a new Nativity, and my son gets a nutcracker, our favorite decorations. Wesley helps me (sometimes) bake cookies before he gets creative in the kitchen and bakes us a surprise dessert (he has some intriguing concoctions which aren’t too terrible, if you want to know the truth). On Christmas Eve, Wesley gets to open one present from us and the rest from Santa the next morning. My husband and I exchange our gifts to each other Christmas morning, and there is, of course, the fancy breakfast.

My husband is not much of a traditionalist; however, he has learned not to fight against the tide just as I have learned not to be so rigid in my expectations. Every family operates to their own rhythm and rhyme around the holidays, whatever those holidays are. And even though we’re all a bit older, some things never change, like favorite songs, get-togethers, and the magic of the Christmas season.