Christmas

Christmas used to be my favorite time of the year. When I was growing up, it started on Thanksgiving Day. Mom simply refused to acknowledge that it existed until Santa made his entrance at the end of the Macy’s Day Parade. There were only two exceptions to that rule. One was buying presents. She did that all year long, only buying things that she knew were special to the recipients, when she happened upon them on her travels. The other was the “Wishbook”. As soon as the Sears Roebuck Christmas catalogue got to the house, we were commanded to look through it, dog ear the pages of items we liked, and scribble our initials indicating which of us wanted it. Mom always claimed that Santa liked to get a head start with his gifts, and could magically see every child’s wishes. 

Once the parade was over, things would change. Mom put a stack of about ten Christmas albums (one would have to be Elvis’ Christmas Album, her favorite) on her stereo, and played them from the minute she woke up until she went to bed. I remember how disappointed she was with her eight-track player because she had to change cartridges at the end of each “album”. 

There were very few decorations in the house when I was a small child. It was Mom’s tradition that the tree, and all the trimmings, magically appeared on Christmas morning, brought by Santa himself. In later years, she went a little “Auntie Mame” on us, and decorated every nook and cranny with some kind of Christmas dust catcher. You were totally immersed in it all, whether you wanted to be or not.

Mom baked hundreds of different Christmas goodies every year. They were plated and covered with Saran wrap on her dining room table during the whole season. She covered it all with a Christmas table cloth, which she would whip off the minute the doorbell rang, since the entire holiday season was open house for her. If a treat ran out (She couldn’t keep her famous rum balls on the table!), she went back in the kitchen, and slaved over another batch. I still feel shame about the Christmas I broke her heart. My weight was out of control, so I told her I couldn’t stay at her house for the holidays, if she had goodies out. My coming was more important to her than the pleasure she got from baking. She held back on the goodies, but I think it broke her spirit. She didn’t do as much baking after that. In fact, she even bought some stuff, which to her, had always been about as close to sin as you could get.

When Mom died in 2008, I learned something I had been too stupid to notice. My mother was Christmas for our family. Without her, it lost all of its charm. Now, it seems like we are all just going through the motions, and my only true joy at Christmas, is on a religious and deeply personal level. We still have a tree. We still do gifts. We hit some parties. But, I would be lying, if I said any of that mattered to me. However, in that magic moment during the Christmas Eve service, when we sing Gloria In Excelsis Deo, I get a rush of Christmas warmth. Mom’s name was Gloria, and, as a child, I thought we were singing about her. Now, I stand there in the church all teary-eyed, high on hidden memories, and feeling my Mom standing next to me. In that brief moment, everything is right with the world, and I can breathe again.