Many moons ago, I could ride my bike to my grandparents’ homes.
Both were within a thought and a few carefree pedals away. Even as
a child, I understood on some elemental level how lucky I was
– not in the raw understanding that comes with adulthood, but in
a child’s innocent way.
Many moons ago, I could ride my bike to my grandparents’ homes. Both were within a thought and a few carefree pedals away. Even as a child, I understood on some elemental level how lucky I was – not in the raw understanding that comes with adulthood, but in a child’s innocent way.
My grandparents were close at hand, and they taught me about Christmas. They taught me by example.
At Nana and Gramp’s home, where we went after our immediate family’s Christmas morning celebration, the door was always open. “Come by, say hello and have a drink,” is a refrain that I often heard my father and mother, numerous aunts and uncles and, of course, grandparents say to just about anybody and everybody with regard to Christmas Day. And they did. You never quite knew who would come through the half-opened heavy arched door when the Christmas bells jingled to announce yet another arrival.
The Moreys often came. Like the Derrys, they were an Irish clan enjoying the fruits of enterprise and the blessings of a big family. There were plenty of Moreys that matched up generation-to-generation with the Derrys. Then, there were priests who came with my uncle, Fr. Dan, who is now the pastor at St. Mary’s and there were nuns who came via various connections the family had with the Catholic Church, including my Aunt Joan, a member of the Sisters of the Holy Family. For balance, the many friends of my Uncle Jim who were golfers, domino players, Notre Dame football enthusiasts and vociferous about all those subjects, showed up for some holiday cheer. Throw in a few of my parents’ friends, and family and friends of aunts Gail and Nancy and you had the makings of a good party. Every year. People milled about, talked, hugged, smiled and laughed a lot. Drinks were made, stories told, and friendships were cemented and renewed. There were always a few friends there who didn’t have a place to go that year.
As a child, looking in from the outside, it all seemed so magical – even if you didn’t have a prayer trying to remember everyone’s name. And, in many ways, it was magic. Everyone felt welcome at Nana and Gramps’ home, they felt the spirit and the warmth of Christmas and the acceptance that comes with true celebration. Whatever troubles existed were shelved to be dealt with another day.
It was Christmas, a time for comfort and joy, and that’s exactly what my grandparents provided.
The only exception to this “rule” that I remember came one Christmas when my Uncle Jim was serving in the Navy far away from home. The family gathered somberly in the den with the fireplace, a small cozy room where my grandmother did paperwork and my grandfather watched TV westerns. We passed around a tape recorder to say something, and I remember listening intently to hear what Gramps had to say. The tone, inflection and simplicity of his words have stayed with me. His message ended, “Don’t forget, Jim, work hard, play hard and pray hard.” It’s something I’ve repeated often to my own girls.
At my other grandparent’s home, the Campodonicos, there were guests, but the focus was more on food and family Italian style. Probably feast and family would be more apt. The homemade ravioli were the highlight. Way back in my mind’s pantry, I remember my great grandmother Noni’s ravioli. It’s the standard by which I judge all other pasta and sauce, and it’s a tough benchmark to get near. The smell, the texture, the slow blending of flavors … it’s an indelible sensory memory.
Anyway, we couldn’t eat very much at grandparent Derry’s because we knew we were going to grandparent Campodonico’s next. And with all due respect to my Irish grandmother, the Irish can’t hold a candle to the Italians when it comes to cuisine – except, of course, Nana’s clam dip, which I make to this day at every family and holiday function of importance. But back to the kitchen – the turkey, sweet potatoes and green beans were very good at Nana’s, but at Ang and Garm’s, the pasta, breadsticks and prosciutto, roast beef and Italian cookies were to die for.
All the family came together at a beautifully set table and we ate, laughed, ate, talked, ate, drank some wine (even a little when we were little tykes) and finished an exhausting day.
My grandmother, Garm, is my sole surviving ancestor. She passed 90 a number of years back, and the picture of us smoking cigars together on her birthday is a classic I will always treasure, because it says something about her quiet spunk. She and Ang (short for Angelo) would prepare the wonderful meals, and Garm presided over family functions with an ease and a grace that embraced everyone and sent a clear message that home was a haven and that family came before anything.
I now know my childhood Christmas celebrations represented an American dream that has all but vanished.
And though it’s clear to me as an adult that things were not as perfect as I thought at the time, it sure came pretty close. Two big families, plenty of uncles, cousins and friends and grandparents that knew how to make people feel welcome in their homes. We were blessed with food, family and strong faith.
These days, getting the family together is more difficult. Ailments, miles and sometimes family squabbles get in the way.
Though I cannot recapture the Christmas days of wine and roses, they will always be with me. For that, I am forever grateful. When I see Garm this Christmas Day, surrounded once again by her ever-growing family, all these memories will wash through me, and I will think “Be grateful for it all – the past, the present and the possibilities – and share that deep sense of gratitude with others as you ‘work hard, play hard and pray hard.’ ”
