C is for Christmas
I just finished reading a letter Vera wrote to Laura Dreznes when Laura was a little girl, describing the Christmases of her youth. Decided to write her a letter back, and that led to the idea of this posting. So here it is, my letter to Vera, and to you, my lovely sissies. Maybe you'd like to write about your (now) xmas memories?
I put the letter in the comments, cause it takes up so much space.
Let me know if you want me to post Vera's letter. Uncle Mike sent it to me.
posted by X Bethlehem @ 11:44 PM
9 Comments:
Lordy. Jolie just told me that Vera died 6 months ago. I was just about to mail this letter. Kind of pissed that I didn't hear the news until now, since Vera attended all our events from childhood on, and we didn't get a choice to go to her funeral or not. Anyhow, I guess her letter was written just for the blog, then.
Mom just told me Vera is not dead.
I just don't know.
Gosh I hope this works.
I could have told you that Vera was dead.
I would have told you, if she was dead, before you would send a letter off to someone who isn't around anymore.
I liked Christmas this year.
I went wacko for a while. But it has all passed me now. And I am back to normal.
THe memories are good. I wish there was the kinda snow we have here now, then.
The memories are good from this year. I accidentally recorded a conversation Meg and I had on our way to Chic-a-gogo. Here's the transcript:
M: Look, bubblegum!
B: Ew!
M: Well, see, the problem with dressing like this in this neighborhood is that this is where all the prostitutes hang out.
B: laugh
If we get propositioned, it's probably likely we will
B: Oh that's really funny
Because we're putting on - I'm putting on a wig. It's very obvious.
B: You could wait to put your wig on until you get there.
M: Oh, no. I like it. It keeps my head warm.
B: Ha
M: Because this hair looks pink.
B: You don't look like a prostitute! You look like a cute little girl with bobbed hair from the 50s.
M: ...ok
B: Oh my gosh.
M: What?
B: I was, that was just a lot of xxx. That was a big hit of xxx. That really hurt me! It really did.
...Conversation ensues about how Meg says Beth already put her backpack in the trunk, though Beth doesn't remember ever going back there and can't find her backpack now. Meg is sure that she opened the trunk, and Beth put her backpack in it. In the end, they were just drunk and the backpack was in the back seat.
Wait - so Vera is NOT dead?
VERA IS NOT DEAD.
your conversation is cute. let more random recordings follow!
and it seems wrong that this post should not mention that it was writted on my birthday. i would call you rude sissies for this, but you both did leave such nice songs on my answering machine to commemorate the occasion that i, in good conscience, can not.
This letter was writted on Aimee's birthday.
December 29, 2004
Dear Vera
I just finished reading the letter you sent to Laura Dreznes when she was 7 years old, describing your Christmases in Yugoslavia and since then. I realized I hadn’t seen you during my short visit to Chicago this year, and that I also hadn’t sent you a holiday card. I hardly ever get my act together enough to send holiday cards, and this year has been a little rough, with Jolie’s illness showing up again just weeks before Christmas. I thought maybe, instead, I could write to you a little about my memories of Christmas, seeing as I am almost 30 now, and starting to place a hard break between fond memories and day-to-day reality.
Where to start? Well, Batavia, of course. And smells. It’s true that some of the most simple things are best remembered. We knew Christmas was coming because of two things: 1) the unwrapping of the nativity scene and Christmas tree ornaments; and 2) the preparations for the yearly Christmas party at our Batavia home. Weeks before Christmas, we would decorate a delightful-smelling fir tree with ornaments that each had a story or personal memory. We would arrange the nativity scene in a place of honor in the front room. Aimee and Jolie always let Meg and I do this, and we treated each piece with honor and wonder. The day of our Christmas party, the house would be filled with the smell of turkey baking with Mom’s traditional Lithuanian kershika (really, I only know how to pronounce it, not to spell it). Cookies were baked and decorated for days prior to the event. The house was cleaned and decorated for the holiday. The evening of the party, guests showed up at our country home all dressed up. The house would be lit only in candles and dim lighting, and we ran around enchanted, sneaking marshmallow-corn flake treats shaped into wreaths, hiding under the big dining room table with our best friends. For Meg and I, our best friends were sisters just like us, and Mom was friends with their mother, so they were always invited. The event was magical. The smells of burning candles, wonderful foods, the pine of the Christmas tree, the clean smell of the snow outside, and perfumed ladies inside surrounded us.
Christmas Eve was when we exchanged presents to each other, not from Santa. This exchange was traditionally preceded by a bountiful Chinese dinner, where we would eat and eat until we were stuffed. When it was time for bed, Mom put Meg and my hair up in pink sponge curlers, and we lay on the lumpy mass in the dark, whispering excitedly back and forth whenever we heard a brush or tap in the general area of the roof. We knew Santa and his reindeers would be up there eventually, and wouldn’t come down the chimney until we were asleep. In the morning, we’d wake up so very early. One by one we would convene and sit waiting at the top of the stairs until finally Mom and Dad sleepily came out of their room, whereupon we would all rush downstairs to see what Santa brought. Mom would sideline us, making us sit and drink a glass of orange juice before we could approach the piles of presents, usually divided up in sections with our names in sparkly marker on top of each. Mom would often prepare our favorite cinnamon rolls (alas, from a refrigerated can), but we didn’t care to eat at all with such bounty in front of us. I remember we initially used to just tear into everything, but eventually we started the tradition of opening slowly: one by one, we would take turns opening our presents, until nothing was left. What pains Mom and Dad must have gone through to make sure we each had the same amount of presents. Then our curlers would come out. I was always delighted with the corkscrew curls that resulted, but inevitably, I’d be accosted by Mom or a sister with a brush, who would yank through the curls and make me cry with the result. We’d go to church at Holy Cross, me with my favorite new doll or stuffed animal in-hand, then off to the South Side of Chicago for the family dinner at the Martinique or Country Club. Grandma and Poppa were glowing, in their holiday finest. Uncle George and Aunt Mary would be there, as well as you and Marty, each year. Uncle Mike’s family often arrived at the same time we did, and the other families eventually straggled in. My sisters and I would play with the baby cousins, and Johnny and I were always best of friends, running around and exploring together. Eventually, we’d be corralled into the annual family pictures in front of the fireplace or another set location. Then we would order from the children’s menu or, if we were lucky, take a trip to the buffet, coming back with a plate overflowing with mashed potatoes and pie. I always drank as many Shirley Temples as I could manage, ordering from the bar, feeling scandalous. The restaurant was full of wonderful smells similar to our home Christmas party, and I felt as if I were walking on clouds. After dinner, the other families would go to their in-laws, and our family would go to Grandma and Poppa’s house, where the table would be spread with wonderful foods, gifted sweets and candies, and we would nibble all night long.
Christmas didn’t change too much when we moved to the Chicago suburbs. Meg and I would wake up early in the morning and sneak a look at the loot before pleading with our older sisters to wake up so we could all go down together. I remember getting a Cabbage Patch preemie doll that I’d wanted all year, but that was always sold out: the most popular item of the season. I had convinced myself that year that Santa Claus didn’t exist, but that Christmas morning, I truly believed in him again. The smell of that doll was intoxicating; I still remember it today, plastic and baby powder. Aah. Something about the 80’s: most toys were made with plastics, and that smell became the smell of adrenaline, of presents, of Christmas and birthdays. I can imagine there were other smells typical for toys in eras past, such as metal or porcelain. But for me, it was the plastic of Barbie dolls, My Little Ponies, and Cabbage Patch dolls. There were also the smells of Strawberry Shortcake dolls in all their configurations: Lemon Merengue, Orange Blossom, Purple Pieman. The smells of those toys combined with the traditional smells of Christmas, and I would slip into a delirium of pleasure. I couldn’t get enough.
As I grew older and my big sisters went through high school, then off to college, Christmas became a reunion. We would still open presents from each other on Christmas Eve and have our traditional all-you-could-eat Chinese dinner, but Christmas morning remained the magical time; a warm-sock, cold-nose, snuggle on the couch, tinsel-everywhere morning. It took us longer to get out the door to church as we all emigrated through the self-consciousness of adolescence, and maybe that’s why most of my memories of my teenage Christmases end with the morning. Inevitably, there would be anxiety and yelling, as my older sisters took forever blow-drying their hair into high 80’s styles, and mom last-minute wrapped presents and complained about how one or more of us were dressed, begging us to change clothes. Dad would busy himself by the door, and Meg and I, after helping as much as possible, would sit waiting in the living room as we were later and later for the day. If we were lucky, we had gotten to Midnight mass the night before, and could go right on to Christmas dinner. If not (usually not), we would head to St. Julie’s church. We were always late for Christmas mass, and snuck in the back, standing room only. I didn’t mind this, as I wasn’t a big fan of church. All I ever really liked was the music. Christmas day, the carols were nice, but mass just seemed a formality, a cooling down, especially after the stress of getting out the door. No matter how late we were, though, Uncle Jack’s and Uncle Randy’s family were always later for dinner. I wonder if they had as much strife in getting out the door as we did, or if they just resigned themselves to being late. Over the years, Christmas dinner migrated from the Martinique or Country Club to other restaurants, or a family member’s home. Meg entertained the younger cousins more than I as we grew older, and Johnny and I became shy and removed, no longer partners in crime.
Christmas now is still a reunion. There were some rough times right after the divorce, and we would convene at Mom’s house in Macomb, missing the family gatherings on the South Side a couple times. Later, Jesse and I tried a couple Christmases on our own, with friends. But I was so decidedly unhappy without family, I vowed never to do it again. Now, we fly or drive with our dog to see our families: sometimes Chicago, sometimes Cincinnati, twice New York. It’s not easy driving so far – this year, Jesse was caught in a blizzard for two full days before getting to Cincinnati, and then only had two days before having to turn around and drive 20 hours home. We usually miss the big family gathering in Chicago. But there’s no place I’d rather be than with as much family as I can find, and as many sisters as can congregate. Christmas is still wrapped up in wonderful foods and smells, but they are no longer the main event. I’m an agnostic, and no longer religious (if I ever was). So, as I start towards adulthood, I am left with a resounding truth: Christmas for me is all about family and the wonder we create together. Jesse never really got into Christmas, so the Christmases I have with my mother and sisters are now all that I imagine for the season. Maybe eventually they will infect Jess, and I will have everything.
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