Another Christmas day has come and gone. I’m sorry to say that it’s really just like any other day for me, except that I don’t have to work. And I can sit around home all day feeling sorry for myself. It wasn’t always this way….
Before my Mom’s death in 1984, Christmas in our household was a magical, yet fairly low-key event. My family – my Mom, Dad, brother and Aunt Elaine – would celebrate Christmas beginning with attending the Midnight Mass at Sacred Heart Church in Robbinsdale on Christmas Eve.
We would bundle up against the bitterly cold December night, get into the family car and head off to Aunt Elaine’s house. My Dad would check his watch at least a half dozen times before Aunt Elaine was finally settled into the car and off we went to Sacred Heart.
The Midnight Mass actually started at 11:30 pm – with the choir singing traditional Christmas carols. Because of the popularity of the music portion of the mass, the church tended to fill up by 11. The phenomena of “Christmas Catholics” guaranteed a full house. So full, in fact, that the ushers set up folding chairs along the ends of each pew.
The local Knights of Columbus provided their “honor guard” to officiate at the mass. None of the Knights was younger than 50. Promptly at midnight, the Knights filed in through the main church doors, their swords pulled from their sheaths, held upright in front of the faces in a display of great solemnity. In they marched down the aisles, the feather trim on their fancy hats matching the Knight’s steady cadence, the light glistening off the medals hanging on their chests.
To a young child, they were a sight to behold. To the rest of us, our chief concern was that one of them might trip and impale himself on his sword or suffer a heart attack while standing at attention for the long service.
My family always sat in the vestibule where the Nativity scene was displayed, the five of us strategically spaced to fill up the pew. The figures in the creche were almost life size, their detail splendid. The Priest, accompanied by the highest ranking Knights, carried the Baby Jesus to the creche with great pomp and circumstance, while the choir and the congregation sang “Silent Night”, the soprano soloist ensuring that the congregation was wide awake. Once the Baby Jesus was carefully wrapped in his blanket and placed securely in the small crib between the adoring Mary and Joseph, the Knights would escort the Priest to the alter and mass would begin in earnest.
The homily, following the dictum of the Vatican, always forced me to apply various methods to keep my eyes open. I tried every trick in the book to ensure that I wouldn’t doze off – biting my tongue, biting my lip, counting the number of tile panels in the vesitbule ceiling, digging my nails into the palm of my hand, pinching the skin between my forefinger and thumb. The task was made more difficult by the fact that the parents with the young children allowed them to fall asleep – often going so far as to remove their coats and create an inviting nest for them to slumber in – better to have them sleeping than fidgeting.
The music, while certainly not rivaling the Morman Tabernacle Choir, was the high point of the mass (some might say that this isn’t saying much). The Choir Master, a stout man of German descent, reveled in the power that he held over the Priest, Church Council and choir members. Years later, at a time when a top-of-the-line digital keyboard could easily produce the rich sound of a traditional pipe organ (at easily a fraction of the cost of a hand-made, imported pipe organ), the choir master insisted that an authentic pipe organ be ordered. He threatened to abandon the choral program if his demand wasn’t met. The debate that ensued between the Priest, choir master and church council often reached vitriolic proportions, however Herr Choir Master eventually won out. The new organ was installed over the period of a year and a half. And it looks grandly out of place….
After mass ended, we’d bring Aunt Elaine home. Some years we’d stay for coffee, milk and cookies. Other years, with sleep beckoning, we would go home.
I learned in 1970, while attending a showing of the movie “Patton” at the old Terrace Theater with my parents, that Santa Claus was someone only little kids believe in. I was seven when I asked my Mom, in a quiet moment between battle scenes, if Santa was “real”. She tried to worm her way out of answering my question, finally whispering, “Are you SURE you want to know the truth?” I assured her that I was – thanks to one of my classmates at Edward D. Neill Elementary School who felt it his responsibility to destroy the joy of Christmas for a group of us that had the unfortunate luck of sharing a table with him at lunch.
Sure of my desire to know the truth, she told me….
I was crushed.
I’ve also never been able to watch “Patton” since.
This also worked to my parents advantage – since I no longer felt the excited rush to be up at the break of dawn to see what wonderful gifts Santa had brought me.
Christmas Day in our household usually consisted of opening the gifts, followed by a quick call to Aunt Elaine to thank her for her nice gifts, then my Mom would make a nice breakfast. Shortly after breakfast, she would begin the process of preparing our afternoon dinner, readying the turkey for the oven. I was assigned the same task year after year – dust and polish the dinning room table, set the table (with the “good” china, silverware, cups/saucers and wine glasses), make up the “relish dish” (which contained pickle spears – both Dill and Sweet Pickle Baby Dills, black and green olives, radishes and celery sticks). I took great pride in assembling this dish. (I was young, after all.)
Aunt Elaine would arrive promptly at the pre-agreed upon time (usually 3pm), driving up in “Tilly”, her 1966 powder blue Chevrolet Chevelle. (OK, so it wasn’t nearly as COOL as THIS one, but YOU try to find a picture of a 4-door powder blue Chevy Chevelle!) Why couldn’t she have bought one of THESE?!?
Dinner was always a success, my Mom’s love for her family reflected in the care and preparation of the annual feast.
After dinner, nearly comatose, we would gather around the kitchen table to play Scrabble or a card game called “Cheat Your Neighbor” (the irony not lost on our family).
My Mom was the heart and soul of our family. Christmas celebrations after her death were somber occasions, marked most notably by her absence.
After my Dad died in 1994 and Aunt Elaine developed Alzheimer’s Disease (and moved in to a nursing home), the significance of Christmas in our household diminished. Some years we have a tree (this is a pro-tree year). The exterior of the house and the front yard, however, are very nicely decorated (thanks to Kevin) every year.
Feasts and gifts are still fine things, but the faces around the table count far more.
I know that I’m not alone in admitting that I’m actually happy when the holiday season is over. Don’t misunderstand me – I am truly thankful for the love of my brother, my cats and dogs and my friends. It’s just that my gratitude isn’t limited to a single day of the year.
Now, I just have to get through the NEW YEAR….
