There are so many things that I am
only beginning to understand now. I
guess I’m a slow learner.
I have always loved Christmas.
I just didn’t really understand why
until very recently. Like so many
others, I felt a special magic at the end
of every calendar year. It overcame a
lot of negatives for me, especially my
aversion to the cold weather.
It would usually start with a
trip to Grandma’s for Thanksgiving
dinner. She and “Pappi” (Grandpa)
and Uncle Joe would always put on
a magnificent feed for us that lasted
pretty much all day. We would watch
the Macy’s parade, and as the eldest
of four boys, I recall many a tense
moment as at least one of us waited
breathlessly for our first glimpse of
Santa Claus on TV.
From that day on, excitement
would build. We celebrated the
season openly, in church, and even,
heaven help us, in school. Frequent
excursions to shopping malls marked
each passing weekend, there was a
manger scene displayed out in front
of the firehouse, and my brothers and
I stealthily made plans to surprise
each other with gifts.
The most fun part for me was the
preparations at home. Decorating the
house and the tree was a very serious
business. Dad would always take
the boys out to choose a tree, until
the year when we finally bullied our
mother into accepting an artificial
tree into our home.
Mom was born in Germany, and
her traditions included a freshly cut
spruce, decorated in silver and gold.
She was the only person I knew who
wanted all white lights on the tree,
and as I got older, this appealed to
me more and more. I never realized
how hard it must have been for her
to be separated from her parents
and her brother at Christmas. My
maternal grandmother did the best
that she could to alleviate that. Every
year, “the package” would arrive,
sometimes more than one. She would
find the biggest box she could find,
and fill it with toys and trinkets
that shipped easily. She would bake
traditional cookies, and also include
several different types of “lebkuchen”,
a spicy German gingerbread. In later
years, there were electric trains, which
I still have to this day.
I wish I could tell you how much
those packages from “Oma” mean to
me now. She found a way to ship love
in a corrugated cardboard box across
3,500 miles of ocean. I’d trade just
about anything I own to get just one
more.
While we anxiously awaited “the
package”, Mom would keep us busy
helping her bake Christmas cookies,
and as we got older, building the
traditional gingerbread house. Most
of the gifts that I received back then
are long forgotten, but when I think
of Christmas today, I am transported
back to Mom’s kitchen and the
baking, decorating, and whispers,
with Bing Crosby singing carols in
the background.
Despite my efforts, I never felt as
though I gave likewise to my own
children. No matter what I did, it
never seemed to revive that old feeling
in me. What I didn’t realize was that
it did give it to them. It wasn’t the
same, but now I suppose that it wasn’t
meant to be.
When my son, Alex was 9 years
old, he came to me sometime before
Thanksgiving and told me a story.
He spoke of how my wife, Jo-Ann
had mentioned a tradition in her
family that involved a Christmas
ornament in the shape of a pickle.
This would be kept apart from the
rest of the ornaments, and sometime
after the tree had been decorated,
one of her parents would hide the
pickle ornament somewhere on the
tree. The first child to spot it would
get a prize. The pickle would then be
removed from the tree, and the game
would begin anew.
Apparently, his mother had told
Alex that she had searched in vain
for years trying to find such an
ornament, so that we could continue
that tradition in our home. He was
sure that this was very important to
her, and he asked me to help him try
to find one that he could give to his
mother as a Christmas gift. I could
tell that this came from the heart;
it was obvious that this was a sacred
mission.
He turned my life upside down
every couple of days over that pickle.
I lost count of how many trips I made
with him to various shopping areas all
around the lake. I can’t tell you how
much fuel we burned in our travels,
but I was so impressed with Alex’s
determination to please his Mom
that I didn’t care. Finally, with only a
few days remaining before Christmas,
we found our quarry at Pier One
Imports in Roanoke. I wish I could
describe the way he made me feel as
we carried his prize home. It was as if
he had found the Holy Grail.
Predictably,
Jo-Ann
was
thoroughly pleased with her present.
As much as she loved getting that
pickle, the love that was behind it
was the real gift. For me, the gift was
that the sweetness and innocence
never left that little boy as he grew to
manhood, and it endures today in his
memory. In much the same way as
with Oma’s packages, I would trade
almost anything to experience it just
once more.
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