One day, in conversation with my father, the topic of Christmas came up and I mentioned how much I love the holiday. He said, “Wow, you must have had some pretty great memories as a kid, to love it so much now.” Hmmmm. That got me thinking, because within my own childhood home, I can’t say many things in particular stood out as being “extra” special.
Of course, I absolutely appreciated our holidays for what they were: family traditions of both wonderful food and company. But, if I’m being completely honest, the real Christmas fun happened outside my home. My grandmother on my mother’s side was the daughter of Italian immigrants and was one of 24 first cousins ! so there were LOTS of older people around in my growing-up-hood. And they were a hoot. I remember visiting each of their homes at some point over the holidays; I loved all those crazy old folks.
I loved their camaraderie. Yet they fought and criticized and yelled at each other as well – and everyone else! And had no problem telling you, with that hand gesture – thumb on top, fingers all enclosed, cupping an imaginary meatball, wagging it back and forth, generally close to someone’s face, – “Mah-what-the-hell are you doing with your hair?” “Sit down and eat!” “Why aren’t you eating? You not hungry?” “Minnie, stop fussin’!” “Eat!” “Carmel, put that cigarette out!” “Wow, that Laurie is a tall one!” (I’m 5’5, but in a family of Southern Italians, I might as well have been 7’ tall.)
In order to get a better glimpse into my love affair with Christmas, I think it’s important to introduce a couple of these rather influential sets of cousins (previously mentioned in my essay, “the ‘Nuts. not about food…”). First, we have “the Aunts,” – Minnie, Carmel and Dora, my grandmother’s sisters – where, at their house, heaven forbid you put your fork down for one nanosecond, your plate was whisked away and the place setting spotlessly cleaned. We used to joke that to prevent said swooping in and swiping, one had to keep a hand on their plate AT ALL TIMES. These are the same ladies who woke up at dawn each day to clean their house. (You could seriously eat off of their basement floor.) And then we have, “the Walnuts,” – my grandmother’s cousins who lived on Walnut Street – whom my husband affectionately refers to as, “the ‘Nuts;” they made the most beautifully delicious cookies, and they could crochet like beasts. To this day, those little ladies still influence my life; they were a little crazy and a lot of fantastic. Stories of their lives could make up an entire book of their own! But this story is about Christmas…
All around Vandergrift, we would go visiting – the Aunts and the Walnuts, being two stops – each family generously sharing whatever special treats they had on hand, whether homemade or not. And what did we do during visits besides eat? There were no electronic devices to be played with, or TV to be watched. I mean there was TV, but we didn’t watch it. No. We sat around kitchen tables, squeezed in like sardines, where we always made room for whoever swung by, and we talked and listened and told stories and laughed and – you guessed it – ate. We just kept eating. And talking. Many times over each other. And from these gatherings I learned how sacred the act of visiting is, and how precious is the time spent whiling away the hours together.
Church was also a big part of our Christmas; not because we were incredibly religious, rather to be Italian meant we were also Catholic, as the two went hand in hand. We ate. We prayed. We went to Church. For me, as a child, Church was a safe haven, where my family didn’t get caught up in the Catholic rules and regulations. Going to Church was a consistent weekly tradition, where even the building itself felt welcoming and like another extension of home. Is was comforting. Today, however, things have evolved and I don’t necessarily share those same sentiments, but I do appreciate my fond memories.
We didn’t always go to Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve, but when we did, boy was it funny. Picture it: It’s almost midnight, in a small town, with lots of Italians – many related, most of whom had just finished dining on “The Feast of the Seven Fishes,” (thanks, Aunt Norma) and were now piling into St. Gertrude’s Roman Catholic Church, reeking of garlic, and fish, and red wine, hoping not to doze off during mass. Whew. I can’t imagine going to that mass if you didn’t like fish or garlic because – oh the smells! But hey, Dracula was nowhere in sight! I do remember there was lots of singing, too. Loud singing. Loads more than at Christmas Day Mass. If you went to Midnight Mass, you then had the joy of sleeping in on Christmas Day, in the hopes that the fish and garlic smells in your clotheshaireverywhere would start to fade just a little before the day’s festivities began. Again. It’s a holiday, after all, and there’s more food to eat!
As entertaining as Midnight Mass was, the aforementioned visiting was probably my favorite thing to do over the holidays. Or anytime really, because we kept it up all year-round: December or July, it mattered not. The difference at Christmas was the presence of abundant, decadent food – fish, cookies, mmm pizzelles, honey balls (struffoli), cheeses, salami, olives, olives, olives – along with a general air of festivity.
I’ve learned a lot of things from those 24 first cousins. Family isn’t perfect happy schmappy bright and shiny all the time. As much as I remember the very entertaining times we spent together, there were not-so-fun memories as well, where we would hear stories about a long lost relative who mysteriously disappeared, or we’d worry over cousin so-and-so’s blah blah blah, or we’d remind ourselves that two sets of first cousins married each other. (It’s true, and it explains a lot.)
But more importantly, our time together taught me that family is love and is most certainly not defined by blood. Family grounds us to this earth. Family has each other’s backs. Family is always there, no matter what. Family might yell and tell you you’re crazy, but they will always love you. And they are always happy to see you. I remember that so very clearly… It didn’t matter which house we visited; these lovelies were always happy to see us, no matter if they just saw us the day before. Wow. What a gift.
And that is what Christmas is all about, too. Unconditional love. Sacred togetherness. Forgiveness. Every day miracles. And sharing all of it with our fellow humans. And that is why I love Christmas so much, because it conjures up all those warm, gushy feelings. Sheesh. I need some knot cookies and wine right about now!
As I journey through life as a wife-mother-sister-daughter-aunt-neighbor-friend-stranger, I’m doing my darnedest to create as many warm, fuzzy memories as I can for my kids, by keeping these stories alive and by making new traditions of our own. The 24 first cousins are long gone, but their essences remain. And if I’m lucky, one day I’ll also get to be one of those “old Italian ladies,” who cooks and bakes and swears. Oh yeah, those old folks would swear in Italian all the time, too. And I wonder where I get it.
photoscript:
Photo is from Christmas Eve ’22, during our Feast of the Seven Fishes – which always amounts to more than seven fishes, with the inclusion of Swedish Fish and Goldfish crackers. ☺️ Pictured front and center are my father’s smelts, along with shrimp, smoked salmon, and bagna cauda behind the smelts.
laurie sliben, writer 