Christmases past seem to evoke an abundance of happy memories, perhaps because our nostalgia clouds over the less appetizing events. It may be wise to remember that. In the future, Christmas 1999 may be recalled as one of the best we enjoyed.
My dad passed away in 1992, but on many occasions the stories that he recounted of his youth still nudge at my memory. One such incident occurred in the lowlands of Oregon in the early 1920s. At the time my father was about eight years old and full of curiosity, a quality not unknown to youth of that age. Here is my recollection of his story:
We were just about ready for Christmas Eve turkey and my mouth was watering. Mama, your gramma Britta, was fussing in the kitchen. The cast iron stove was radiating great waves of heat. She was, after all, cooking the turkey in the main oven and fresh sourdough bread in the side oven. Up above, candied sweet potatoes simmered on burner one, brussel sprouts on burner two, cornmeal and gravy on the other two burners. Mama would have no one in the kitchen but herself. She was queen of her domain and, as she never tired of telling us, “menfolk just get in the way.”
I couldn’t resist poking my head around the kitchen swing door to get a look and to savour the sweet aromas that drifted out. Mama was perspiring profusely and was constantly brushing imaginary hair out of her eyes with the crook of her arm. Her rich auburn hair was upswept and rolled neatly in place. It was secured by innumerable pins and I thought she was the most beautiful creature in the world. Not even the damp stain on her white puffed sleeve where she had blotted the perspiration could detract from her beauty.
Papa came up behind me. The cooking aromas had also intoxicated him with their headiness. “Has she prepared the apples yet?” he asked, craning his neck and trying to get a look at the kitchen work table.
“Yes papa, she put the bowl of apples on the windowsill to cool.” In fact, the cold Oregon air blew into the overheated kitchen like a hot breath in an ice hut. “They look so gold and crimson I could take a bite out of them right now,” I said. The apples, all twelve of them, sat fat and steaming in the breeze. Mama had picked the very best she could find at the Bedford Falls General Store. Macintosh apples were the only ones she would consider because of their sweet taste and hearty flavour. She gently pierced the apple with a corn broom whisk until the fruit was peppered with evenly spaced holes. Then she added a thin paste of cinnamon and honey which she poured over the apples and into the holes. The twelve apples were lined up like toy soldiers in a shallow pan and baked for thirty minutes. When they emerged from the oven they seemed to have been transformed by an alchemist into apples of gold. She gently placed the apples into a large horizontally-striped bowl. The multi-coloured stripes added to the Christmas atmosphere and the apples themselves looked like ornaments that the Magi might have worn on their heads.
Outside the open kitchen window, light flurries were falling. Occasionally, one or two would drift into the kitchen with the breeze. Suddenly, I heard the clattering sound I had been waiting for since midmorning. “He’s here, mama! He’s here!” I shouted. My voice filled with excitement and all thoughts of the golden apples were wiped from my mind. I made a mad dash to the front hall, really a tiny vestibule, retrieved my red checked winter jacket from its peg and, with a quick three step motion. threw it onto my back and inserted one arm, then the other. I was out the front door in a flash. A warning thought passed through my head about forgetting my winter boots, but it was too late. I was already running down the front path through the newly fallen snow. At the front gate, where our path met Cupertino Road, sat the horse-driven wagon that I’d been waiting for, that the whole family had been waiting for.
“Hi, Steve. How come you’re so late?
“Steve Jobes at yer service, sir. That’s Jobes, rhymes with robes,” he said, while he saluted with mock military precision. His tight, brown jacket and well worn britches looked amazingly like my own attire. His laces, however, were brightly coloured where his britches met his long wool socks just below his knees. His mother would not berate him as would mine because he wisely wore his thick-soled black winter boots. “Where’s yer ol’ man?” he questioned, as he completed his salute with a flourish. “I got ya a load o’ parcels. Looks like the biggest one is yers. Gimme a hand and we’ll get ’em in out o’ this snow.”
We hustled into the house carrying several parcels of various sizes and one large one. Papa and I helped Steve drive the horse and wagon into the barn out back. We unhitched his horse, Jezebel, and rubbed her down and dried her off. She snorted in pleasure and pushed her nose against me playfully but also with the wiles of one who knew that sugar lumps were quite likely to be found in a pocket or clenched fist.
When we returned to the house up the winding path from the barn, the windows were all lit up in bright yellow lights. My mama always had a lantern at the windows to welcome holiday visitors. She said it reminded her of Sweden when she was a child. But mama was not in a festive mood when she saw me walk in with my slippers sopping wet from the snow. She chided me for my forgetfulness, but this time seemed to be more tolerant.
“Oreste,” she said to papa, “get Steve some apple brandy to take the chill out of his bones and light the candles around the Christmas creche. Dinner is almost ready.”
Papa followed her instructions in his usual quiet way while he puffed contentedly on his pipe. The smell of the light tobacco mingled with the kitchen aromas. Our Christmas manger scene was made up of hand carved oak figures of the Christ Child, Mary, Joseph, and three shepherds with assorted animals. Each figure had been lovingly hand painted by artisans in Florence where papa was born. The long, tapered candles that surrounded the scene were mama’s contribution. It was the closest we got to celebrating St. Lucie and her crown of candles. It always amazed me how well my parents got on, in so far as their backgrounds were so different. As a youngster, I thought it was a miracle because some of my friends told me stories of unpleasant home situations with their parents. Perhaps, because of their differences, they tried harder, but I know that the one thing I realized, even when I was very young, was that they loved each other unconditionally. At the time, it made me feel warm inside and now, as I tell you so many years later, I see how right I was.
“Cheers to ya,” Steve said raising his brandy and looking at us one at a time. “Here’s a toast to ya for more warm and happy Christmases to come and I thank ya from my heart that ya include me in yer family.” He wanted to go on but I noticed his eyes glaze over and, before I could make sure, he turned away to inspect the creche. “No Wise Men?” he asked, clearing his throat.
“Oh no! Not until twelvth night, the Epiphany,” answered papa.
“That is little Christmas when gifts are exchanged in the old country,” mama explained. “Until then, the figures stay safely wrapped in cotton.”
“But did ya not exchange presents on Christmas Eve last year?” Steve looked and sounded somewhat perplexed.
“Yes, we did indeed,” mama laughed. “Oreste and I have accepted many changes since we came here from Europe, some difficult and some not as painful. The Christmas Eve gift exchange was an easy one.” Suddenly, without a word, she jumped up and rushed into the kitchen.
The smell of tender, golden turkey had wafted into the parlour since we came in. Papa got up and hurried after her. “Is it burned?” he asked in a low, worried voice. Visions of a blackened or scorched turkey appeared in our heads as we waited for the fateful verdict.
“No, not the turkey. It is my beautiful golden apples. They are ruined. I left them on the window sill too long and they have frozen.” Mama was upset and not to be consoled. Her golden apples were a Christmas specialty.
“Now, now, Britta, calm down,” Steve entered the kitchen, taking full charge of the situation. “Let’s have a taste.” He took the striped bowl from mama’s hands and placed it on the kitchen table. From where I stood, I could plainly see flakes of silver ice on the top of each apple. They were still golden in colour, but they now had an irridescent icy blue cap. He lifted one gingerly to his lips and took a nibble. We watched his eyes intently, but they revealed nothing. He took another bite and a wide smile spread across his face. “Delicious,” he proclaimed. “You topped yerself this year, Britta.” He appeared oblivious to any intended pun.
Mama seemed immensly relieved as she shooed us out of the kitchen and into the dining room. “It’s time for turkey dinner. Everyone get seated.” Before I could move, however, she caught my arm. “Take this hot food and bag of trinkets down the street to the Olsens. The large pot was very hot and mama had wrapped it in a thick blanket to keep it warm and to allow me to carry it safely. “Don’t dawdle and make sure you put your winter boots on. I won’t have you sneezing and coughing through the holidays.”
I nodded, put on my boots immediately and then my red checked coat. I picked up the food and bag of trinkets, as mama called them, and headed down the street.
The Olsens were a large family who had encountered what mama called a reversal of fortune. I wasn’t quite sure what that meant, but ever since last Christmas when Mr. Olsen lost his job, she had taken the family under her wing. The trinkets were small items that she had knitted for the six children. There were socks for the older children and hand puppets for the younger. When I saw the wide eyes of the Olsen children and the smile on Mrs Olsen’s face I knew mama had taught me an important lesson. After holiday best wishes, I returned home, running all the way, my heart bursting with the exertion or, on reflection later, perhaps with the pleasure of helping someone less fortunate. So that was what reversal of fortune was all about.
After dinner, our tummies were full of Christmas dinner. We had tasted and marvelled at the new found wonders of mama’s frosty golden apples. It was time to bundle up and set off for midnight mass at St. Joseph’s. That was our yearly routine, Christmas Eve at St. Joseph’s and Christmas day service at Emanuel Lutheran which was just around the corner. In this way, my parents wisely kept both families’ religious traditions intact. It worked beautifully and there was never a time of religious strife.
That night after church, while I was in bed contemplating the gift exchange and my new fire engine red sled, I heard a noise downstairs. The swish of mama’s long dress came from the parlour. She was blowing out the candles in each lantern and the smoke from the smoldering wicks drifted up towards the ceilings like strands of a spider’s web. Just before she blew out the last candle, I noticed one of her frosty golden apples in the yellow light. Mama had placed it in front of the manger as a gift to the Christ Child.
Ralph J. Luciani
ralph@mymac.com
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