CHRISTMAS TRADITIONS
By Janna, 10th grade,
2002
It was that time of year
again. The month when you prayed for
snow, wrote wish lists to that magical man up north, watched specials on TV,
and decorated sugar cookies. The month
when you sang carols, decorated the nine foot tree, bought a pretty dress and
cute sweaters, and cuddled up to your mother as she read holiday picture books
to you.
The Christmas excitement
began in our own house as soon as Santa Claus was seen gliding down the street
in his sleigh at the end of the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. Watching the parade would lead to watching Miracle
on 34th Street, one of my favorite movies ever. I never tired of watching it each year.
Most families brought
home their trees in the beginning of December.
My family, much to my dislike, got our tree a week or two before
Christmas. My mom said that it was so
it would last after Christmas day and we wouldn’t have to take it down right
away. If it weren’t for me, my parents
probably wouldn’t even get a tree. They
continued traditions for my sake, though, which was good because I loved to
hold on to them. Everything had to go
perfectly because you only got to have one Christmas a year, and I didn’t want
to waste it.
My parents and I would
look all over for a good, tall, healthy tree to fit under our cathedral
ceiling. It didn’t help that by the
time we went hunting for one, most of the good trees were gone. Sometimes it seemed as if all hope was
lost. There was absolutely no good
tree. They were all too short, too dry,
too oddly shaped. It was useless to
look any further; we would just have to be treeless that year. However, we always managed to find one
eventually, even if it wasn’t perfect.
It always looked good enough once it was inside with hundreds of lights
and ornaments all over it.
It took a full afternoon
and often an evening to decorate our tree.
At nine or ten feet tall, we needed a ladder and three boxes of lights
to fully decorate it. We ate cookies,
veggies and dip, bread and cheese and drank hot cider in between hanging
ornaments.
My parents had been collecting unique, often
handmade ornaments since before I was born.
Every year they bought each other and me new ornaments. They put them in our Christmas stockings to
open on Christmas morning. They were carved wooden birds, dolphins, a real
dried porcupine fish, angels, cats, shiny balls with our names on them, picture
frames with photos of me at different ages in them, Santa Clauses, and much
more. We also used white and gold
Venetian paper chains handmade by my mother years ago, shiny red balls, and
paper-wrapped candy crackers that we had to hang up high so our chocolate Lab
wouldn’t eat them. The glittery gold
star at the top was always slightly tilted, no matter how much we tried to fix
it. Once we put the ladder away, there
was nothing we could do as it tilted farther and farther with each day.
My friends came to marvel
at our tree’s splendid beauty. Most of
my friends were Jewish, so they were especially appreciative. My friend Jessie would always ask to come
over as soon as we had our tree decorated.
She bought me gifts of ornaments for the tree. She had plenty of Jewish pride and festivities of her own, but
when she was younger she seemed to always yearn for some of the Christmas
traditions I enjoyed.
Christmas Eve was almost
as special as Christmas Day at my house.
My mom and I would roll out the sugar cookie dough and cut out Santa
Clauses, reindeer, snowflakes, angels, and hearts. Then my dad and I, the artists of the family, would decorate
them. Step one: slather cookie with vanilla frosting. Step two: lick off
frosting on knife—no need to worry about slicing your tongue, it’s a small dull
butter knife. Step three: use colored gels, various sprinkles, and Red Hots to
decorate. Red Hots are especially good for Rudolph noses.
On my 8th
Christmas Eve, we went to the Festival of Lights at Lighthouse Point for the
first time.
“I don’t want to go,” I
complained. “I’m reading Goosebumps.”
But I ended up going, and
it was great. Someone would hand you a
cassette tape and you would drive along the road listening to music and the
commentary on the different light creations.
I really don’t know what to call them; they were large wired sculptures
with colored lights, all sponsored by a different business. They were animated, too. That is, the lights made them seem to be
animated. There were children throwing
snowballs, reindeer flying, a jack in the box popping in and out, and elves
making toys. There was a tunnel made
entirely of lights that you drove through in your car, while getting your first
good view of the beach and the Long Island Sound in the dark. It was very magical and got me in the mood
for the Christmas Day. My poor parents
had no idea it would become my favorite Christmas Eve tradition I would insist
upon each year.
Once we got back from the
Festival of Lights we’d see what was on TV, if there were any classical music
performances on PBS or something like that.
My mom would turn off all the lights and light candles all around the
house, creating a warm mystical feeling.
She would turn the Christmas tree lights on and I would sit on the couch
in my pajamas, just staring at the tree, until it just became a great blur of
bright light. My mom would read me our
old Night Before Christmas pop-up book, which had been hers as a
child. Its binding was falling apart
and you couldn’t make the reindeers fly or St. Nick’s tummy jiggle like a bowl
full of jelly anymore, but I still loved it.
In the morning we opened
our stockings, my favorite part of the day.
I loved all the little imaginative things I got in my stocking--
ornaments, little books, socks, games, collectibles, stationary, candy, small
stuffed animals, and more. Then we’d go
downstairs in traditional youngest to oldest order and have breakfast. I opened up the final window on my advent
calendar, which usually had a Christmas tree, or often a disappointing baby
Jesus in it. I was allowed to open one gift before breakfast to sustain
me. Christmas morning breakfasts seemed
so long, so torturous. I was conflicted
because I wanted to savor each moment, but I really wanted to open presents.
After we finished
breakfast, we’d take turns opening presents.
I would open two or three, Mom would open one, and then Dad would open
one. I got to open more than one
because I had more gifts then both of my parents put together. I wasn’t one of those kids who just cares
about presents, though. Presents were
only part of my favorite holiday.
After two or three hours
of slowly opening presents, it would be around noon. I then would play with my new toys while my parents cleaned up
all the wrapping paper on the floor.
Christmas afternoons were a little awkward because I wanted to do
something special for Christmas, so I had to do something that wasn’t just a
waste of time. In the evening my grampa
came and we had dinner. We had turkey,
but when I was younger I just ate macaroni and cheese or some other type of
mild pasta. I was not fond of “fancy”
holiday meals.
Each Christmas was
special and different, but they were also very similar. Each Christmas followed traditions—decorate
tree to Christmas music while eating snacks, read same holiday picture books,
watch same movies, listen to same music, make same sugar cookies, go to same
Festival of Lights on Christmas Eve, open stockings and eat breakfast and open
presents. Some people might have found
this boring and repetitive, but I thrived on it. It brought back memories of
the past Christmases and let me feel the same happiness all over again. I found security in the traditions, knowing
each Christmas would be a good one. I cherished Christmas because it was all
about joy and love. It showed me that
if you gave love, you would receive love.
I can’t think of anything better than that.