When we were young, my brother, sisters and I, we had our Christmases in Connecticut. And there would be a flurry of activities encircling Christmas Day that remains warm in our memories, more so than anything we would ever find under the tree.
When we were very young, Mother would dress us in our holiday finery and make us sing in the Norfield Congregational Church in Weston. Sitting on the steps in front of the congregation, we would hold baskets of raisins, nuts and figs and sing "What Shall We Give to the Babe in the Manger?" Often we were caught nibbling on our "gifts."
Each year Father would fetch the Christmas tree, and its arrival at the house always signaled much fussing and excitement, for he would drag the tree through the snow, around the back of the house and in through the basement door. The swirling pattern in the snow left by the tree would become a trail of needles up the stairs and into the living room, where we would watch in hushed voices as Father twirled the lights around the tree limbs.
Each Christmas Father would also make his pilgrimage to Macy's Department Store in New York City, and he would fill an entire shopping bag with Christmas sweets. There were chocolate Christmas balls wrapped in colored foil to be hung on the tree, and we would always whisk them away as quickly as they were hung, popping them into our mouths long before Christmas Day.
There would be candy canes as thick as your wrist, these i nlong sticks that bulged from our stockings. On Christmas Day, we would scoop out the jewel-like candies - butterscotch, mints and "red hots" - from the bottoms of our stockings.
Some nights we would bundle up tightly against the glittering northern winter evenings and go Christmas caroling. Our neighbors, the Howards and Lutzes, would go with us as we trolled the ancient Yuletide carols throughout our tiny community. One child would be appointed to bring along the jingle bells and shake them appropriately.
Sometimes grateful listeners would give us steaming mugs of cocoa or a bit of chocolate for our caroling efforts.
Christmas Eve, we would stay up very late and be permitted to attend the midnight services at Norfield Church. These services were for singing, and as we sang our eyes would glisten with the lights of the electric candles burning in the church windows, as they did each year at Christmas time. Or we could stare at the imitation white doves that were the sole decorations fastened to the Christmas tree in the pulpit. After the services, we would scurry home to our bedrooms, being very still and straining to catch the whispers of the grownups as they rushed to and fro downstairs. The grownups were always the last to retire.
The next morning, dressed in long white flannel nightgowns our grandmother had made us, we would squirm through breakfast, anticipating the moment when Father would strike a fire in the fireplace - where the package wrappings would later be burned - and signal the opening of Christmas gifts. Mother or Father would dress up as "Santa Claus" and distribute gifts. We never had believed in the real merry old elf himself, but still we held fast to the magic of what lay before us under the tree, wondering how in one night, it could all be gathered there.
With the afternoon turkey, and always before its presentation, Father would read us the story of the Night Before Christmas in Texas That Is.
The tale always spoke of the prairie without snow; boots, not stockings, at the foot of the beds, and a Stetson-topped Santa Claus. The reading of the story was to become our own, unique holiday tradition, for we were all born in Texas, and although we had our Christmases in Connecticut, there was a certain responsibility to remember one's birthplace.
One season the book vanished - one of the children later confessing she had lent it away - and we carried on the tradition by reciting the story to the best of our collective memories. As with everything else mystical that surrounds Christmas, one year when we were very grown, we located another copy of the Night Before Christmas in Texas That Is, and the tradition was firmly restored.
My sister Charlotte sent me a tall, thin package this year, which I immediately unwrapped, already guessing its contents: my own copy of the Night Before Christmas in Texas That Is.
During the holidays and on through New Year's Day, no matter the lateness of the evening, we always gathered around the piano, and Mother would play the Christmas carols as we joined her in song.
Years later we would be home from college, still standing around the piano and still singing. One of us might shake a tambourine, another would play along on the guitar.
These Christmases in Connecticut were always white. People still scurried, with frosty breath and apple-colored cheeks, as they struggled homeward with their brightly wrapped bundles.
There were always roaring fires in the fireplace, Christmas sweets from Macy's. And always, hearts lifted in joy through song.
Now we're very grown.
My brother Curt is becoming a dentist. My sister Mary has Christmas in Colorado, and sister Charlotte works in Dallas. Mother and Father must trust the postal system to play Santa Claus for me.
There won't be any fires in the fireplace this year; the weather is too warm for scurrying.
But I know I'll be home again for Christmas in Connecticut.
If only in my dreams.
Postlude: As I re-read this column it strikes me as unbelievably mushy - clearly I was feeling sentimental in 1980 when I wrote it. Thing is, I was truly fond of the snow - the kind that sticks to eyelashes and mittens - the caroling, those bags of goodies from Macy's. The reading of The Night Before Christmas in Texas That Is was a real tradition we worked hard to keep up with, especially in the years when we had to recite from memory. Just a few years ago I actually tracked down the author, Leon Harris, living in Dallas. I told my Father I had talked with the author about the book's special place in our memories. He loved it! He loved this mushy column, too. He was a Texan, after all, keeping Christmas up north.
Read The New York Times story about Leon Harris' passing. And have yourself a merry little Christmas now.
(photo of Rosemary Cranberry Christmas cookies tucked inside Dorothy's ruby slippers (almost), in the Singing Wheat Kitchen.)
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