For those who have the luxury, today is the final workday before Christmas vacation, and some may even start their trek to their Christmas destinations.
Growing up, we did not have far to go; almost our entire family lived in or near my hometown of St. Marys, but we still had our destinations to get to, even if the trip took less than five minutes. We had grandparents and even great-grandparents to visit, but the one that still holds a special place for me was Christmas Eve at my grandparents’ house.
Christmas Eve was designated for the Wilson family “Christmas on the Hill” at my Mammaw and Pappaw’s house. The old house was situated on the side of a hill, and parking was at a premium. If you arrived early, you got the good spot. Get there late, and you may have to park on top of the hill at the neighbor’s house and find your way down a steep bank, in the dark.
The house did not have central heating, but it did not need it. Pappaw kept a fire roaring in the wood stove, and once 20 or more people were milling around the house, it was plenty warm. Even on the coldest night, someone would open the sliding glass door leading out to the porch in a vain attempt to regulate the heat in the house.
Of course, as kids, we were not concerned about the temperature; we were focused on the presents. Sitting there under the tree, almost torturing us as we were forced to wait. You couldn’t open the gifts as soon as you arrived. My Aunt Debbie did her best to keep us distracted with games and activities. It worked, for a little while.
Dinner was not a formal affair, but there was more than enough to eat. There was a crockpot full of meatballs. Homemade pepperoni rolls. Even a veggie pizza, just to name a few of the dishes. Cookies, cakes, and any other kind of sweet you could imagine. Finally, dinner was finished, and just when you thought it was time to finally rip into the packages under the tree, someone would announce that it was time for the dreaded family picture.
That was my Aunt Debbie’s responsibility as well. As the family photographer, it was her job to somehow organize grandkids and eventually great-grandkids, ranging from teenagers who were too cool for the picture to toddlers who could barely sit still. Somehow, she would always pull it off and get at least one perfect picture with everyone smiling and looking in the same direction.
Then it was finally time to open presents. It would start organized, but eventually, wrapping paper was flying, and new gifts were scattered all over the room.
After the presents were opened, the kids were occupied and content, and the adults could relax a bit. The men would gravitate to one room where Pappaw would hold court. The conversation almost always included a breakdown of St. Marys football, some deer hunting stories, and my Uncle Terry telling a couple of jokes and asking you to pull his finger.
The women all naturally congregated in another room and talked about, well, I don’t know what they talked about, but I can guarantee it had nothing to do with hunting stories.
All the while, I can remember often seeing Mammaw sitting in her recliner, like a queen sitting on a throne, just watching, taking it all in, and I imagine enjoying every minute of it.
It was perfect chaos.
Eventually, the night would wind down, and one by one we would file out, go home, and get to bed to await Santa’s arrival.
Years later, I can’t tell you what happened to all those presents that we were so eager to open. I’m certain many of the toys ended up broken, and we eventually outgrew any clothes. I now realize what Mammaw knew back then, as she watched mayhem around her. The real gifts were not wrapped in festive paper and accentuated with a bow. They were happening all around us.
The memories of Christmas Eve at Mammaw and Pappaw’s house are the gift that I treasure to this day.
Merry Christmas!