THE EARLY YEARS

                                                   By Eileen Cichello

 

Back in the days when our children were young, Christmas preparations began right after Thanksgiving, as Christmas sales flyers inundated the house.   Money was in short supply and with seven kids, you bought it on sale or you didn’t buy it.  There was a particular dollar limit for each child, the same amount for each, a figure arrived at arbitrarily and never quite adhered to.  I’d try to figure out what toys or games each child would like, then snap them up when they went on sale.  I remember coming home one day in early December, packages spilling out of my arms.  I could see my husband Sam, who had his business in the front part of our house, sitting in front of his office window.  I yelled “HO!HO!HO!" and wondered why he didn’t laugh.  I figured out later that he was probably wondering how he was going to pay for all these packages.

In the early years, Sam made our Christmas cards.  He produced some great cards but home production has its drawbacks.  It all came to a head the year he presented me with a masterpiece, a card depicting our house.  If I remember right, each card had to be folded in eight places (by me) to precise specifications.   The guy’s an architect and fussy about details like that.  It was a few days before Christmas at the time and we were sending out some 200 cards.  As I folded, I gave him an ultimatum between expletives.  “ Present me with the cards by December first or forget it.”  He forgot it.

Our local parish, St. Joseph’s, had an annual bazaar each fall.  For many years, that took care of the children’s Christmas shopping.   Each child was given two dollars with which to buy gifts for dad, mom, four grandparents and each other.  And they managed to do it!     The focal point of their shopping was the White Elephant Table.  I think the ladies working at the bazaar connived with them to make it all possible.  I still have a collection of exotic jewelry from those years.  The piece de resistance was a gift to me from our daughter Teresa one year...a twenty-inch plaster bust of a grim Pope Pious the Twelfth.  It’s still up in our attic somewhere.

We tried different things over the years to keep the emphasis on the real meaning of Christmas, with varying degrees of success.  The Advent calendar went up December 1, if I remembered to buy it in time.  Each day a window depicting a scene from the New Testament was opened by one of the children.  There could be lengthy debates as to whose turn it was.  The Advent wreath, often with last year’s candles, appeared on the kitchen table.  For some weird reason, probably attention spans, we’d decided we’d sing “Silent Night” as the candles were lit, instead of saying the rather lengthy prayers suggested in the booklet.  It almost always ended (sometimes started) off-key.  Nobody minded, although it could get embarrassing if there were guests.

Early on, we bought some terra cotta figures of Mary, Joseph and the baby Jesus.  The Shepherds came later, when we could afford them.  We never did get the Wise Men.  Sam spray-painted a box from the grocery store and built a crib and stalls for the animals.  We got straw from a farmer that we’re still using.  One year, we had the kids put in a straw for every good deed.  We never did it again.  Probably because of the lengthy arguments that ensued over how many straws were being put in and by whom.

Several years, we put on a family pageant, reading excerpts from the New Testament, the older kids playing key roles, the youngest being baby Jesus.

The night before Christmas Eve was generally when we got around to wrapping gifts, a chore that could last until one, two, or three in the morning, depending on when the last child had fallen asleep.  Before wrapping, I’d put each child’s stuff in their pile in the middle of our bedroom floor, then agonize over whether they really were getting enough and whether the spoils were evenly divided.  At this juncture, the dye was cast, so we’d wrap and label, trying to remember to use this paper for “From Santa” and another paper for “From Dad and Mom.”    Then we’d trot downstairs to put “From Dad and Mom” gifts under the tree, back up to hide “From Santa.”   We’d fill seven grocery bags, each labeled with a child’s name, and put in the stocking stuffers, mostly fruit and candy.  The candy was always counted because there’s always one who’ll say “He got twelve and I only got ten.”  We’d hide the bags.

Christmas Eve afternoon, with all children in varying states of hysteria, countdown time began.  Each child had to be dressed in their best clothes for the 5:30 Children’s Christmas Eve Mass at St. Joseph’s.  In church, I’d try to get in touch with the real reason for all this activity but my mind would slide away into “I mustn’t forget...”  “I wonder if I....”

We’d return to the house, the children forbidden to leave the car. 

“I gotta go.” 

“No, you don’t.”

 Sam was on active duty with them.  I’d race into the house, rush upstairs, start bringing down  “From Santa” packages, tossing them frantically under the tree.  Up, down, up, down.  The last trip, bringing down the labeled grocery bags.  Whip the stockings off the fireplace, dump the contents of the right grocery bag into the right stocking.  Grab the plate they’d fixed for Santa, the note they’d left for him telling him how good they’d been.  Dump the cookies and carrots (no time to eat them), make sure there are crumbs left on the plate, dump the milk, write thank you from Santa saying how much he’d enjoyed the cookies, how the reindeer would enjoy the carrots, how proud he was of them, etc.  Put Jesus in the crib.  Collapse back into the car to wails of “What took you so long?”  “I gotta go.”  “No, you don’t.”

Then I could relax.  My part was done.  We’d drive the twenty plus miles to Syracuse, the kids blithering with excitement.  Their aunt, uncle and cousins would be at Grandma’s and Grandpa’s already.  Their lives were more orderly.   The food fest would begin.  Sam’s mother was one of those cooks who could make grass taste good.  She pulled out all the stops on these holiday occasions.  We ate and we ate and we ate, the children at one table, adults at another.  At some point, kids were put to bed, too exhausted to carry on with their usual delaying tactics, dishes were washed and the adults collapsed into bed.

 Christmas morning, breakfast started with lighting a candle and singing “Happy Birthday” to Jesus.   Gifts with grandparents were exchanged.  The adults relaxed over breakfast, not paying too much attention to “When are we going home?” meaning, “When do we get the rest of the loot?”

Then we made the rounds of visits to Sam’s aunts and uncles.  The kids groaned but really enjoyed the fuss everyone made over them, the cookies foisted on them.  Finally, it was back to Weedsport and a stampede into the house to investigate.

This all took place in the real world.  Amidst all the good stuff, there were frayed tempers, strung out nerves, fights, disappointments, hurt feelings, the let-down afterward, January bills and regrets that you hadn’t focused more on “the reason for the season.”   In other words, life as it’s really lived, not life as it’s wished for.

Much has changed in the intervening years in how our family celebrates this wonderful holiday.  The older generation is gone.  Adult married children have two sets of parents to consider and the adult singles may have other commitments.  But as many as can do make it home, bringing the number of house occupants to twenty-one at peak times.

 There are now eight grandchildren under the age of ten to delight in.  I find myself stunned at the speed of life, years now seeming as moments.  I relish the sense of continuity and love, the sense of values passed on, of new generations reaching out and blossoming.

Love, gentleness and peace to you this Christmas season.