Christmas Madness and Mayhem - and Joy. (Part 3)

Just about the time my sister, brother, and I had nearly wet our pants or broke out in hives - which my brother did one year, but it was more likely the chocolate he had purloined on the sly - someone made the announcement that Santa was on his way. The tradition required us to fly up the stairs, huddle under the covers in our beds and pretend to be asleep while Dad, playing Santa, slammed the front door, loudly hailed a hearty "Ho, ho, ho!" in the best baritone he could muster, and stomped around the living room, jingling some sleigh bells. We were told ahead of time that because of the fire in the fireplace, Santa had to use the front door. In the meantime, Mom hurriedly consumed the cookies and milk we had left for Santa. Pulling wrapped gifts from closets, cabinets, and from under dirty clothing in the basement's laundry chute, they piled our brightly wrapped gifts under the tree as quickly as possible. When we heard the front door slam again, we knew that was our cue Santa had left and we nearly killed one another getting down the steps. I knew Santa wasn't real. I didn't care. I huddled in my bed and on this one night, and this one night only, I allowed my baby sister to huddle with me. Her fat, little toes always bare because she refused to wear her socks while in bed felt like small balls of ice nestled into the base of my spine. However, on this night I was filled with big sister compassion and did not complain, knowing gifts would soon be my reward.

Once we had landed in the living room, it was a free-for-all. No one followed any kind of protocol. No one waited for the other to open his or her present. There were no sounds of "ohhh" and "ahhh" over what someone else was lucky enough to get. Hell, no. We were only interested in those packages with our names on them and to heck with what anyone else got or didn't get. We tore into the gifts like wild beasts, ripping paper as fast as we could, screaming with delight, tossing whatever gift we had just opened across the room to grab another. As orderly and meticulous a man my father was, on this one night, he waded through ripped wrapping paper and bits of ribbon, stepped over toys strewn across the floor, and took pictures while tears of mirth wet his cheeks. He loved the mayhem and actually encouraged it. My mother, on the other hand, watched the craziness from the safety of her corner on the couch, smoking her cigarettes and covertly munching on the chocolates from the box hidden beneath a throw pillow, probably the pieces she had already poked with her finger. After all, this was her time for fun too. Once we had opened every gift, we played for an hour or so then got dressed for church and walked under a blanket of stars in the black wintery night to the Presbyterian church just a few short blocks from our house where we quietly listened to the choir's midnight performance of Handel's Messiah. It was the least we could do after our greedy gift opening madness.

The next morning, everyone slept in late, one of the reasons, I believe, my parents allowed us to open our gifts on Christmas Eve. They surely must have treasured the precious extra couple of hours in the sack but by noon, Mom could be found in the kitchen putting our Christmas Day feast together, Dad busied himself building a fire in the fireplace while we waited for our aunts, uncles, and cousins to arrive. No one minded the snow; a white Christmas was always considered a blessing and as people piled through the door with their wet boots and snow-laden coats and hats, they laughed and joked in high spirits as if the snow was nothing more than a delightful happenstance. Whenever someone knocked on the door, everyone in the house ran excitedly to answer it and behaved as if none of us had seen the other in years, even if they had been in our house just the week before. Everybody was just so damned happy. "Merry Christmas!" we all shouted into one another's face as children of all sizes and ages tumbled, shoved, and rolled through the doorway. The house filled with music, laughter, and familiar voices. Kitchen sounds traveled through the downstairs as the women joined my mother to give her a helping hand. Mom had set the table before going to bed the night before and it gleamed with her best bone china, crystal, and silverware. The tablecloth and napkins were linen with borders embroidered in red poinsettia flowers. Candles glowed on the table and the chandelier glimmered above. The meal was served around three o'clock after the adults had had several drinks too many and a chance to talk.

After the meal, the women all helped clear the table and clean the kitchen before joining the men in the living room. At this time, my mood changed. I became gloomy and anxious because every year, after dinner, my parents and aunts and uncles wanted each of the children to perform. I hated it. I had no special talent. I was skinny. I wore glasses. The metal braces on my teeth resembled the Chain of Rocks Bridge that crossed the Mississippi River. In addition to not being able to sing on tune or remember the punchline of a joke, I suffered from performance anxiety. Rebellion set in by the time I was thirteen and it was only then that my mother excused me from the agony, but until that time, these people were no longer my family; they were the audience. These people stared at me and demanded that I do something. So wrapped up in the festivities, I never had enough sense to plan some small trick or joke beforehand, even though I knew to expect this Broadway Showtime every year. Truth be known, none of the adults cared what the kids did to entertain them, so long as they were entertained. They were usually three-sheets to the wind by then and found whatever we chose to do hilarious, whether it was any good or not. Even singing Silent Night risked being met with hilarity if the poor child forgot the words or got them wrong. However, there was an exception. A couple of my cousins had lovely voices and after they sang, the laughter died and my Uncle Dick, and father of those two cousins, would weep (usually into his alcoholic drink). I can see him, head lowered, shaking his red curly hair over his glass of booze and emotionally wiping tears away, saying, "God damn, that's just the best. Did you hear that? Can those kids sing or what?" The language . . . well, it was Christmas and it was the alcohol.

One year for my performance I decided to tap dance, but living room carpet and tap dancing is an oxymoron. I did it, but it didn't go well. My toe caught on the rug and I fell, slamming to my knees. Embarrassed, I decided to make it into a comedy routine, so I rolled across the floor like a dog with my legs up in the air and inadvertently displayed my underpants. When I finished, I jumped up, threw my arms high into the air like Judy Garland and shouted, "That's showbiz!" I had no idea what that meant, but I thought it sounded theatrical. The adults laughed so hard they had to end the show, and the rest of the kids were off the hook. My extemporaneous comedy routine was a hit, and I became a hero to the rest of the kids who didn't enjoy performing any more than I did. The following year, however, my mother pulled me aside and gently told me that I was too old to participate in the entertainment. My talents were no longer required. I heaved a huge sigh of relief. Thus, the carpet-tap dance was my last Christmas performance for the family. Maybe mom didn't give me an exemption, after all. Perhaps she thought I couldn't top my outlandish act, or she deeply feared I might try. Furthermore, I had turned into a teenager and Defiance was my middle name.

My parents never lost their love for Christmas. Growing up in the Great Depression, they did not consider this time of the year to be a burden, too much work filled with endless tasks, obligatory activities, or annoying relatives. For them, food, a tree, family, and presents for their children were truly miracles. They did, however, work hard and spent a great deal of time and effort to make our Christmas holidays special, but not once did I ever hear them complain. They did not worry about whether they would win the neighborhood "Best Light Display" because there was no such contest then and besides, dad already felt his tree was spectacular. No one read articles about how to survive nutty family members over the holidays. They already knew who was and who was not nuts, and those that were legitimately nuts were already left alone; Christmas was no time for hypocrisy. No one bought gifts like automobiles or watches that cost as much as one. Gifts came from the heart and were appreciated no matter what form they took - and, sometimes, they were sparse. I can even remember a couple of ugly gifts I received and loved them just because I got to unwrap a present. Some years, mom and dad's bank account financed better Christmases than others but it made no difference in our joy; the Christmases were treasured equally. Traditions evolved. They came from deciding within the family what they loved best about the holiday, whether it was what foods were to be served, which outings were most fun, or what we did together to enjoy each other and laugh, such as kids tap dancing on carpet in the middle of the living room floor. And because these rituals were what the family loved, the memories of them are loved. My parents were not perfect beings. Their lives were fraught with the same fears, disappointments, and struggles that everyone experiences. But on Christmas .. . well, on Christmas, all of that was put aside, if just for two days, and to me, those times and my parents were indeed perfect. My memories of Christmas on Overbrook Drive remain cherished and truly loved.

4505 Overbrook Drive, Pasadena Hills; St. Louis, Missouri. My father bought this 1900+ sq. ft. home built in 1928 for $25,000, a fortune in the 1950s. I remember my mother and I going to look at this house before telling my father she was even house-hunting. She and I were so excited about the prospects of moving into the neighborhood and into such a big house that he really didn't have much say-so in the matter. Eventually, he reluctantly capitulated, but it took a great deal of persuasive argument on my mother's part. I remember he was mostly nervous about the cost. Looking back, he was only about 32 at the time. Buying a house of this size with a steep price tag was a huge step up from the little $5,000 home he and my mom purchased just a decade before, but mom won. Dad bought the house and they both ended up very happy in it.

The entrance hall in the Pasadena Hills house I grew up in.

The pool in our back yard. At nine months old, Frank - my first-born - learned to swim in this pool.

The neighborhood pond where we ice skated in the winter and snuck away to smoke cigarettes in the summer.