I've been pondering Christmas traditions a lot lately. What makes a tradition truly a tradition? The irony in it all is that tradition cannot be forced. In fact, usually the things you never meant to become a "tradition" are what make the most lasting impact in the eyes of a child. Or at least, that's how it is in my case. I'd like to spend some time pondering how Christmas happened in my house.
The Christmas season never started until December in the Wilson home. One wouldn't think of suggesting getting a tree Thanksgiving weekend. We wouldn't dare! Typically a tree made it's way into our house come the first or second weekend in December, sometimes fresh from a U-cut farm, occasionally "fresh" from the local Rite Aid down the hill. I remember mom requesting we get a Noble Fir on a couple of occasions but each time she was met with severe resistance and an eruption of tears, usually from me:
"How dare she stray from our traditional Douglas!?" Just the thought of it was almost as terrifying to me as the thought of my Dad growing a mustache, which is pretty serious, for those of you who know me well. [Please don't let this leak to my parents, but I must admit, if given the option now, I would totally pick a Noble over a Douglas, as much as I hate to admit it.]
Anyway, so establishing consensus and picking the tree was hard enough in our family, but getting the tree into the house and straight in the stand was
always the worst. Someone cried pretty much every time (again usually me, maybe sometimes my mom if my memory serves me well). I don't know why it was so dramatic, but in the end, the tree would look beautiful, tied and bolted tightly to the wall to keep it from falling over (let's just say we had one bad year and that was the end of "letting the tree stand up on it's own in the stand"). Although this doesn't sound like the most joyful of experiences, I have so many warm memories of our tree hunts and wouldn't change them. They are tradition after all!
Next came
St Nicholas Day on December 6th, when we would wake to find our shoe filled with chocolates, a candy cane, an ornament (2 when my Grandpa and Grandma Wilson were still living) and an mandarin orange. I never realized how much ahead-of-time planning this tradition took until trying to carry it on in our little family. Usually the holiday slips my mind until December 4th or 5th and I end up making a mad dash for the store, in desperate search of the perfect ornament (which can never be found on such short notice and in such dire circumstances).
Oh and let's not forget about the Advent candle! We never had the more-traditional wreath of 4 or 5 candles like you'll find in a lot of households, but I remember having a candle that was similar to
this a few different years. The candle was numbered vertically from 1 to 24 and it was only to burn down one number a day, a countdown during advent. I loved burning it each evening as we sat down together to dinner, the 24 days of December leading up to Christmas. We would eagerly anticipate the lighting of the candle before we ate, but more importantly, who got to blow it out once the meal was finished
("No it's MY turn!! Lani did it last time!"). What sticks out to me now is that I only recall a couple of occasions where we had to burn the candle down 2 numbers, indicating we'd been away the night prior. All the rest of the dinners during the month of December were eaten at home, together as a family. That doesn't happen so much anymore now does it?
Things would slow down over the next couple weeks, as far as the traditions go. We would do our shopping and wrapping and I would usually beg my parents to
PLEASE let me address some Christmas cards. Funny thing was, they totally obliged! :)
Then came Christmas Eve. The morning-of was not unlike a lot of other mornings except that my dad was home from work. Usually he would run out to buy a couple more last minute gifts and later lock himself in the bedroom to finish his wrapping. Around dinnertime was when the real traditions commenced. We never had a consistent Christmas Eve dinner as far as the menu was concerned, but we always had a fancy meal. The table would be set with a Christmas tablecloth, cloth napkins (in gold metal angel napkin rings) and formal goblets filled with Martinelli's. We would eat an early dinner (burning the advent candle down completely), head off to church and then spend some time driving around Bellingham, looking at lights. Upon returning home, mom would boil water and we'd gather in front of the lit Christmas tree drinking not just any hot chocolate but Ghirardelli's
flavored hot chocolate. We'd nibble on homemade frosted sugar cookies, candy cane cookies, frango mints, almond roca and peanut butter balls while my dad read us the Christmas story. Then we'd scurry off to bed (the 3 oldest all sleeping in the same room) and listen to the stairs creak as mom and dad went up and down, carrying presents down to the tree.
It's no wonder we couldn't sleep after our around-the-tree-sugar-frenzy (but again, I wouldn't change it!) I remember trying to count sheep but getting so annoyed that I had to imagine my own sheep, that there was nothing for me to actually count. Lani and I tried reading the dictionary one year but I got so bored that I was even more awake afterwards than I was to begin with. Eventually, finally, we would drift off into sleep only to awaken very early, bursting with excitement.
My parents set a specific time and we were not allowed to emerged from our rooms until that chosen time. It felt like SOOO late, practically noon or something, but I'm sure it was only 7 AM. After the clock struck, we could come out of our rooms and get showered and dressed but we still weren't supposed to go look at the Christmas tree or stockings. Usually though, we'd "accidentally" run by the living room or "forget" and go downstairs and see the stockings. Whoops! When we were really little, it felt like it took my parents FOR-EV-ER to get ready but as the years passed and I hit high school, I welcomed their leisurely pace because it allowed me the time I wanted to make sure my hair and make up were perfect (in case any boys decided to drop by and see my presents on Christmas???)
Once we were finally all ready, we'd head for the kitchen and pour bowls of sugared cereal (since it was a holiday!) to hold off our hunger until our mid-day, post-gift-opening brunch. At last we were allowed in the living room where we'd gasp in awe at the piles of gifts beneath the tree (some of us more realistically than the others who had already "accidentally" seen the tree). Gifts were opened one at a time, youngest to oldest and we'd take turns picking which gift would be opened next by the others.
After presents, we'd all run downstairs to open the gifts in our stockings. The gifts inside were individually wrapped, making the process last longer. I never knew exactly how my parents organized who would buy what, but usually both of them contributed items to each of our stockings. I remember one year, my dad bought nail polish for my sister and I. Mine was the hottest of hot pinks, far hotter than I probably would have chosen on my own, but the memory of it is certainly the most special. It is hands down the most cherished stocking stuffer I have ever received. Why? I've been pondering that exact question over the past few days. There is something so incredibly special about the thought of my dad, an engineer and manly guy through-and-through, shopping in the makeup section for his daughter, in search of something that she'd really like. I'm pretty sure he doesn't really see the point of nail polish. I know for a fact that he finds it horribly smelly. But still, he put it in the cart, knowing that it was something I'd appreciate (though I'm sure he didn't realize just how much). It probably only cost $1.99 but the memory of it is so special, mostly because of the gift within the gift: my daddy showing love for his daughter. Having a daughter now of my own, I realize the tremendous role a dad plays in raising his daughter so I hope this same stocking-stuffer tradition happens in our family between Graham and Isla.
Following stockings, mom would go to the kitchen and start a hot breakfast while dad lit a fire downstairs. We'd eat cinnamon rolls or Christmas tree bread, bacon or sausage, eggs and juice set upon another Christmas tablecloth. We spend the remainder of the day, doing a new puzzle, playing a new game, assembling a new gadget or watching a new movie until it came time to eat once again, another fancy spread on yet another Christmas tablecloth with cloth napkins and goblets of sparkling cider.
These are a just a few of the traditions that are warming my heart as I type today...Merry Christmas!
