CHRISTMAS TRADITIONS
Do you hear what I . . . Well, look
at who just walked in: My wife’s Ho-Ho-Ho holiday traditions. Hi guy’s! I have
to shout because some of them are six decades old. For those of you who
struggle with the metric system, that’s sixty years.
My wife gave birth to them in
1955, the year we wed. During our first glorious Noel together, she did all the
shopping, wrapped all the presents, and bought our first Christmas tree. She
performed these tasks so well that I authorized her to continue doing these
things for me in perpetuity. That’s how traditions are born.
I will never forget the night
she purchased that first tree. We lived in San Mateo , California
“Stop!” she commanded. That one
glass of wine she had earlier made her think she was the boss. Obediently, I pulled over. She jumped out and began
bargaining to buy the last tree available. It was no contest. She got it for one
dollar, marked down from its original price of two.
Every year thereafter my wife
bought our tree at the lowest possible price at the last possible minute. And yes,
there were years when I had to drive all over town, frantically looking for a lot
still open for business. And yes, I would have bought one a week earlier, regardless
of cost. But I had learned: You don’t
mess with your wife’s traditions.
A brand new one arrived in
1960. We had moved into our first home that year with four strangers the
neighbors insisted were our children. Just before Christmas I had set up our
tree in the rec room. Now, that word begins with the letter “W.” We were ahead
of schedule. All that remained for her to do was to find and wrap all the gifts
she had bought in July and had hidden under our bed, in the garage and out in the
shed. My remaining tasks were quite simple: Assemble one rocking horse, two baby
doll carriages, a tricycle, and a cardboard replica of a San Francisco cable car big enough for our
entire family to gong around in at the same time. There was plenty of time. It
would be a snap.
Then, a crisis arose. We had
run out of diapers. My wife dashed off to nearby drug store to replenish our
supply. Imagine my surprise when she came home with them and another Christmas tree,
an artificial one made of aluminum.
I frowned. She smiled. “It
only cost twenty bucks. It rotates! In either direction! And, it came with a
revolving four-color light wheel.”
I began the tedious job of
sticking 100 branches into itsy-bitsy little holes drilled at a slant all the
way up this one inch diameter six-foot tall wooden pole. Oy vey. What a job. When
I finished, she started decorating it, putting two or three ornaments on every
single branch. It took forever. I was not happy. But when that tree began circling
in our darkened living room for the first time, aglow in the beauty of the colors
cast by the spinning disc, I became entranced and fell under its spell.
We placed it near our fireplace
and surrounded it with toys. My wife told me to tape a large red plastic
shopping bag to the bottom of the chimney to suggest that Santa had left it behind
on his way back to the North Pole. In the morning, when our toddlers tumbled
out of bed and saw this tangible evidence of his visit, they became true
believers.
In 1967 we moved from San Mateo to Scottsdale . By this time, we had two
more children, completing our family of six, four girls and two boys. We
carefully crated the aluminum tree for safekeeping during its dangerous journey.
Thank goodness, the tree arrived unscathed. Come to think of it, so did the six
kids.
We moved into a multi-level
home that allowed us to continue her tradition of enjoying two Christmas trees.
Upstairs, the aluminum one stood guard over the packages containing our brood’s
new supply of socks and underwear. Downstairs, the fir tree patiently awaited
the arrival of Mister Whiskers. Every year, Santa gave our offspring oodles of new
toys, choosing to ignore school report cards that documented their bad behavior.
What a softie.
Over time, my wife became a
tireless tinsel tree trimmer. She spent countless hours draping one strand of
tinsel on every square inch of every single branch until she had transformed what
had once been a green tree into a silver statue. One year, I retired early,
exhausted from watching her strive to achieve a new level of perfection in this
art. She joined me much later. We were awakened by an odd sound. We discovered
her tinseled tree had toppled over, wiping out numerous gifts. I will not repeat
the words uttered at the time.
Wouldn’t you know it? Our
children grew up. Five married and produced nine grandchildren. They were soon
introduced to my wife’s Christmas Eve traditions: Attend the six
o’clock version of Midnight Mass; dine out at a Chinese restaurant immediately
afterwards; and at the stroke of midnight , illuminate the plastic
figure of the Infant located in our outdoor Nativity set. She was a stickler
about this as she opposed His premature birth.
On Christmas Day, her best
traditions unfolded. The whole gang would come to our house, gather around the
aluminum tree and exchange gifts. Of course, I could not open mine until
properly fortified. Yes, I imbibed. The day was not complete until after I had
a glass or two of my renowned concoction, a Brandy Alexander. No wonder I love
tradition!
Later on, we would feast on
my wife’s traditional multi-course Italian dinner. Naturally, a number of elves
helped her out. They all wanted to know, how did she make that sauce? I never
learned her secret, but I think she added one of those little garlicky things to
a couple of cans of Campbell ’s tomato soup, something like that.
After eating, the real fun
would begin. At a signal from me, the grandchildren would parade downstairs to
find their new supply of VIP ’s (Very Important Playthings) piled up around the fir tree. I
determined the order in which they marched, some years by age, some by height,
and some by gender. It was my tradition.
Much to our feigned surprise,
my wife and I would always find special gifts downstairs given to us by our
children. Mine were invariably things of great value such as a Rolex – make
that a Timex. My poor wife always got the
same old thing, a three day stay in Las Vegas.
Digital time
passed. No more Timex tick tock. Now we have six great grandchildren. Santa’s
headquarters has moved to the home of one of our daughters whose two girls
continue to set up the aluminum tree every year. On Christmas Day, our entire
family now gathers there to exchange gifts. Later, we dine, buffer style, on
the Italian dishes my wife taught others how to prepare. It’s at this moment,
when the familiar aromas of her recipes waft past my nostrils that I turn and
look at the aluminum tree. It makes me feel nostalgic. It symbolizes all the lovely traditions my wife
forged over the years that have helped bind our family in love.
A Brandy Alexander toast is in order:
Happy holidays, dear wife.
And to think, none of this might
have happened had we not run out of diapers!
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