IT WAS ALL SO SPECIAL

Growing up, we all have our own favorite Christmas memories, and there are so many. Mine for some reason have stayed with me and seem to get although more distant, more etched into my mind.

The little things that seemed so important were meaningful to me, important yet, shaping my life and making me whole.

Buying a Christmas tree was Dads job, and he NEVER did it right, but we loved him for doing it. Dad believed that it wasn’t important that the tree looked like it was left for bare, the price was right, and as he climbed the two flights of stairs, the anticipation became great in the hopes that he did it right for once. If you couldn’t see his face as he ascended the stairs, it meant he DID do it right, but if you knew who was carrying up that tree by looking and seeing whom, he got another bargain, and you put away a few strings of lights and a couple dozen balls.

Pretty close

Of course if you wanted to see where he bought the bargain, all you had to do was follow the fallen needles until they stopped. Aside from the anemic look, the smell was always right, right for the spirit and right for Christmas. Dad would walk into the dining room and place it between the dining room and the parlor, while he went down the cellar to get our tree stand. The balls were all the same, coming in; gold, green, blue and red, with these large bulbs in the same colors with thick electrical cord that was black and white. The star that weighed down the top was of the same colors, each color bulb on a silver star.

that's what they looked like back in the day!

The tradition in my house was for my older sister Tess (Much older) knocking down the tree at least once and Dad having a swearing fit in Italian. We would put up most of the tree and THEN she would do something to knock it down. Dad who was watching his favorite child and his second born work together, standing on kitchen chairs as we decorated the tree, and he would of course have to come and rescue the whole thing.

Mom was never part of this routine: instead she would wait in the kitchen for Dad to jump up, my sister to say ‘OOPs!’ and Dad to do his Desi Arnez routine in Italian. “ANTHONY, WATCH YOUR LANGUAGE! IT’S CHRISTMAS!”

Mom was the religious fanatic in the household, and Dad was the sinner, or so I thought. Tess my older sister (much older) would wake me up about 1:00 am from a deep sleep and announce that she thought: “Santa was here!” “Go in the dining room and see.” She said. Me, like the developing schmuck I would later in life perfected, did as she suggested once she untwisted my arm. We would tip toe out to the dining room where we would find empty boxes scattered in the kitchen and the toys under the tree. The suddenly there would be a sound at the front door and we would jump, thinking that Santa was taking back the stash, when it was Mom returning form Mid-Night Mass.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING UP!!!???”

“Who, us? We heard a noise.”

“I’ll give you a noise, go to bed.”

Of course we never did, but Mom HAD to fire a shot before going down.

A few nights before Christmas, Mom would do her shopping along Broadway under the Broadway Junction. She would darn her fur coat and take me along for the walk. As she window shopped, I would see a toy store, all lit up with a set of American Flyers and another set of Lionel trains, running through this incredible scenery, making we want them so much, in their magical wonderland, the smoke coming from the engine, the little man with a lantern standing close enough to the oncoming locomotive I was afraid it would knock him on his plastic ass! For the rest of the evening wanting and dreaming of having a set of trains under my Christmas tree if it was still standing was all I did.

Then the next morning when the trains were under the tree, and I was happily playing with them, Mom would make her announcement.

“GET DRESSED. We have to go to church!” She was pulling me away from my trains and making me go to church!! Tess, my older sister (much older) had to do the same thing, so at least I wasn’t miserable alone. This meant I had to sit quietly and listen to a boring sermon and try not to dream of my trains. When the Mass was over, they marched us all over to the school, to our classrooms and they took attendance, and who went to communion! God how I hated them all in spite of what great good they did do for me!

Dad got to stay home and in bed, and I suspect to this day, once we left for church, he was busy playing with my trains. (At least it wasn’t my sister’s dolls. I hope)