'Twas the Night Before Christmas

This year, more than any other, I welcomed the Christmas holidays.  With open arms.

Let’s face it.  The year 2020 has been quite memorable, but for all the wrong reasons.  So as soon as the Thanksgiving dishes were done, we pulled the Christmas decorations down, and pronounced the start of the Christmas holidays at das Miller Haus.

I wanted to be reminded of all the feel-good feelings that come along with the holiday.  I wanted to soak up all the joy that comes with sparkling lights and shiny, wrapped packages under the tree.  To feel the warmth of a fire, which makes the glitter on the stockings glow.
 

For most red-blooded children, a visit from Santa is the highlight of their year.  

No doubt, I spent many a sleepless Christmas Eve, listening intently.  For hooves on the rooftop.  And the jingling of bells.  For the thump of a big, red bag, hitting the floor.  And the crunching of cookies and slurping of milk.

Sitting back, admiring our tree, with a fire burning in the fireplace beneath the stockings, I couldn’t help but wax nostalgic on Christmases past.

I was raised Catholic.  As such, we attended church on the holiest night of the year.  Sometimes we went to Midnight Mass (when I, as the youngest, was able to stay awake through the service).  But others we went to evening mass on Christmas Eve.  It was during these services, that I prayed the sermon wouldn’t surpass five minutes.

Before you pass judgement … allow me to explain.

Christmas Eve meant being with family.  My mom’s side of the family, to be exact.  My Grandmother (Oma), my aunts and uncles, and 9 of my 11 cousins (because sadly, the youngest 2 lived out of state) all together under one roof.

There were presents under the tree.  Goodies on the table.  And tons of memories to be made.

The cousins drew names each year.  And of course, everyone had gifts for Oma.  In return, Oma always made sure there was an envelope under the tree for each of us.  An envelope with cold-hard cash tucked inside. 

As a very young child, I received a whole $5, which was a lot for a child in her first years of elementary school.  The amounts then increased in increments of $5 every few years. 

Look out, Winn’s, here I come!

When I was older (maybe 14 or so), my aunt, who was also my Godmother, gave me a jade ring.  One given to her by her Godmother.  And to her Godmother’s Godmother before her.  One that someday, I would pass on to my own Goddaughter.

Oma and Aunt Ginny (my Godmother)

I was never lucky enough to have a Goddaughter but hoped that one day I could pass it along to a Granddaughter instead.  That precious piece of jewelry was stolen a few years ago when our home was broken into.  Along with a gumball-machine ring which was given to me by my Opa.  While getting most of my jewelry stolen was devastating, it’s these two pieces that I miss the most.

We always had (what I think of as) the traditional Christmas meal:  turkey, dressing, and all the trimmings.  And pies.  And cookies.  Oh, the cookies! 

Oma made my most favorite cookie in all the world at Christmas-time.  Technically, they’re called Festive Cookies, but they’ll always be “Oma’s Cookies” to me. 

An old German recipe, chock full of butter, flour, butter, brown sugar, butter, vanilla, and did I mention butter?  

Covered in brightly-colored sugar, these scream “Christmas” to me.

It was a good day, when, on a random Friday, in July, we went to visit Oma and there were Festive Cookies in the cookie jar!

When my son was old enough to wrap his little paws around a ball of cookie dough, I introduced him to the joy of Oma’s Cookies.  Making them together became our own Christmas tradition. 

To do so, was no small fete.  I would struggle, using a hand-mixer, to blend the one pound of butter and the Four. And. One. Half. Cups. Of. Flour. The mound o’ dough then required chilling for 24 hours. 

Planning.  Was tantamount when making Oma’s Cookies.

At the 24-hour mark, it was time to enlist Evan’s tiny hands in rolling the dough into balls and covering them with brightly-colored sugar. 

Santa was one lucky dude in our house – for Oma’s Cookies, alongside a tall glass of milk, always awaited his arrival.

Things have changed a bit in the cookie-making department.  For starters, I no longer have to struggle using a hand-mixer when mixing the dough (thank you, Ninja Blender!) and Evan isn’t always able to help. 

So Keith and I have introduced the tradition to our grandbabies.  Our pumpkin-girl and man-cub love rolling the dough in sugar.  And yes, we end up with a lot more pink and blue cookies that way.  

But honestly, Santa doesn’t really care.

And Keith and I now enjoy Oma’s Cookies with a big glass of milk on Christmas Eve.

After leaving Oma’s, excitement filled the air.  Or perhaps that was the smell of eggnog on my dad’s shirt.

Had Santa been to our house yet?  Or perhaps he was still somewhere over Australia.

I always bemoaned the fact that my childhood home didn’t have a fireplace.  And not just because I was a bit of a firebug when I was growing up (I used to sit outside for hours, melting candles over old wine bottles). 

But because I couldn’t find any plausible means by which the jolly, big guy in the bright red suit could get into our home to deliver the goods.

Without a fireplace, there was no mantle from which to hang the stockings.  We did, however, have ample antlers from which to hang the stockings, thanks to my dad’s deer heads.  

The same deer heads that stared down and frightened my friends during sleepovers.  I think those marbled eyes probably scared Santa a bit too.

Mom excitedly opening a gift while an antelope looks on

But the big question remained.  How exactly, was Santa supposed to get in?

My parents told me they’d leave the back door open for him.  But really, how safe is that?

The next year, a spare key, they said, would be left in a secret hiding place.  Not to worry.  Because Santa was all-knowing.  He’d know exactly where the spare key was.

Just like he knew exactly what we wanted!

When I was 7, my letter to Santa appeared in the local newspaper.  In my own handwriting (everyone else’s was in type-print).  And my very own drawing of a rather slim-faced Santa with a very tall hat.  I was sure I would be getting what I wished for!  Santa reads the paper, right?

I forget what exactly I wished for that year, and had I had more time on my hands, I dare say I would’ve found the long-since yellowed newspaper clipping in one of a dozen boxes of photos and keepsakes which my mom has held onto.

Christmas morning was full of laughter.  And joy.  Screams of delight.  And wrapping paper littering the floor.

I remember one Christmas, receiving “ Mrs. Beasley”.  A replica of the doll carried by Buffy in the 60’s TV series “Family Affair”.  She had curly blonde hair that reminded me of my Oma.  Plastic glasses that if memory serves, came off and oh how I wished I had glasses too!  A bright blue and white polka-dotted dress and bright yellow shoes.  And a pull-string – she TALKED! 

Mrs. Beasley and I were thick as thieves (as if a six-year-old could be a thief); I took her everywhere.  When I learned to ride a bike, she and I zipped down the hill on my AMF Junior Roadmaster to visit my friend Terry. 

And then one day, Mrs. Beasley took a tumble off the bike.  Her legs caught and tangled in the spokes.  It was awful.  Her legs were a mangled mass of foam.  It was everywhere.  She looked at me with sad eyes.  Mrs. Beasley was no more.

My sister and I received quite a few “joint gifts" through the years. 

I learned early on that Cosmetology School was most definitely NOT in my future when we received the Barbie Beauty Center.  But that didn’t stop us from styling her hair and makeup.  Or at least styling it to the extent that children can. 

One day, her hair no longer grew and had been cut so short, there was little that could be done with it.  Her makeup made her look like the love child of Marilyn Manson and Gene Simmons. 

Then there was the year when my sister convinced me to put a racetrack on my Christmas wish list.  Why would I want a racetrack exactly?  Because she wanted a racetrack.  And, she reasoned with me, if we both had a racetrack on our list, we were more likely to get it. 

Guess what?  We got a racetrack.

In 1975, when my sister asked for a 10-speed, I also got a new set of wheels.  A shiny red, white, and blue number (complete with a banana seat and stingray handlebars).  Just in time for our neighborhood’s 1976 4^th of July parade seven months later! 

Oh, how I loved that bike.  It took me near and far.  Or as far as I could go in our little three-street neighborhood. 

Another year, my sister asked for a stereo.  Yes, an actual record player.  That played vinyl records.  And there, under our tree, were two stereos – a big one for the big sister and a smaller one for the little sister (that would be me).

As an older teen, my sister asked for diamond earrings.  Two tiny jewelry boxes were tucked underneath our tree.  In one of those boxes in my parent’s storage room, is a picture of my sister.  Excitedly jumping for joy at the sight of the earrings. 

Jewelry is nice and all, but I grew up in an age when handheld electronic games were making their way onto store shelves.  My wish list was full of the latest and greatest pocket- and palm-sized games, suitable for single-person play.

Of course, there was Merlin.  Someone at Parker Brothers was quite the visionary.  Though it pre-dated even the first-ever brick-like cell phones, the design was certainly the shape of things to come.  In fact, I dare say one of my first cell phones was reminiscent of the childhood favorite.

I spent hours.  And I literally mean hours.  Switching out the cartridges on Microvision.  Playing Pong, Breakout, and perfecting my bowling skills.

Me - Playing Microvision

A tomboy at heart, I scored many a touchdown on handheld football.  And dreamt of driving a race car, playing Digital Derby.  The number of times I crashed while “racing” should’ve given my parents a look into their teenage daughter’s driving abilities.

And of course, there was Pac Man.  A miniature version of the popular arcade game that would save my parents hundreds of quarters.  

I found Pac Man in an Antiques store a few years ago.  Let's not talk about what that says about my age.

I wasn’t always surprised by what Santa brought.  And I know I’m not the first kid who found “Santa’s hiding place”.

My sister and I waited until our parents were out.  Leaving us sufficient time to stealthily climb into the attic to search for the goods. 

And then one year, as we climbed the attic stairs, when what to our wondering eyes should appear, but presents which were already wrapped!  Mom was onto us! 

Not to be deterred, we ever-so-carefully unwrapped them.  Then taped them back up! 

I won’t soon forget finding my ski jacket that year!  Oh, how happy I was!  And I didn’t even ski!

Imagine my mom’s surprise at this very moment.  As she’s reading about how devious her two daughters were.  And she’s (hopefully) laughing.

Laughter.  And joy.  And excitement.  The likes of which will be heard around the world tomorrow morning.

Because Santa Clause comes tonight.