what christmas means to me
Here we are (pictured), the Cargil crew, attending my mom’s side of the family’s annual Christmas Eve party. I was 4 years old. Each year, our family came together for this holiday tradition… tons of food, lots of playtime with the cousins, gifts from a guy dressed as Santa (who could have been an older cousin or great uncle), and the lovely, iconic Christmas family portrait taken in front of a fireplace. Mom’s rockin’ the mullet, dad is sporting his signature comb-over, my sister and I twinning in matching dresses mom and grandma made for us; my older brother completely uninterested as he stares out into another direction, and my cute little bro oblivious to what is even happening around him. It’s a classic family pic that I treasure the most.
As a child, Christmas Eve was a magical time — it was a day full of fun and family activities. We would end the evening opening one present from Mom and Dad — a pair of new pajamas. Then, my mom would pop fresh popcorn in our popcorn maker, and we would listen to Christmas music as we strung a popcorn garland to complete the decoration of our Christmas tree. Last, but not least, we prepared for Santa’s arrival. The preparation had to be perfect. My thought was if we picked out the best assortment of homemade cookies (the ones that didn’t look as if dropped on the floor, or pre-licked by myself or one of my siblings), provided a plate of freshly cut carrots for Santa’s reindeer, and a nice, tall glass of milk, then maybe Santa
would look past my naughtiness in the past year. The anticipation of Santa’s arrival was rough. Time seemed to go by so slowly. I remember looking out the window while I lie in bed, hoping I would catch a glimpse of St. Nick himself, but of course I would eventually fall asleep. But slumber was short-lived and turned more into a nap! My older brother and I would quietly sneak down to my parent’s room and try to wake them up, but mom wasn’t having it and would send us right back up to our rooms. It felt like punishment — knowing Santa had already visited us, the excitement that was bottled up inside my brother and I felt like it was going to explode! There was one year, my uncle was in town for the holidays. He heard us kids were very impatient when it came to Christmas morning; so, while we were sleeping, he rigged the upstairs area where our rooms were with booby traps that were placed across the entrance to the stairs. Remember those little poppers with strings on each end? You would pull the strings and it would make a loud POP! noise. Well, my poor sis had to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night, walked into the trap, screamed and nearly fell down the stairs. Our uncle had good intentions, but that was the last time we experienced booby traps on Christmas Eve.
When my parents finally did wake up Christmas morning, they had their routine — Mom would make a pot of coffee for her and Dad (which seemed to take FOREVER) while us kids waited not-so-patiently in the living room. We couldn’t touch our presents or look in our stockings until Dad gave the “green light,” literally. We had to earn our presents. One of us would be named “Santa” — this responsibility was special, because that meant you got first glance at the gifts as you passed them out to everyone. Once we all received our presents, then the real torment began… Dad’s Christmas games. We played various games like “Red Light, Green Light,” “Duck, Duck Goose,” and “Simon Says” — the winner of each game would get to open a present. My Dad took much delight in these activities as he watched his kids get more and more frustrated. However, he eventually let us open the rest of our gifts without the games, but we had to open them one-by-one. The rest of the day was spent watching Christmas movies in our pajamas, playing card games and with our toys; and stuffing ourselves with homemade treats from Dad’s work and candy from our stockings. The prep we did Christmas Eve seemed to pay off because while we received a stick and piece of coal in our stockings, we also received gifts. Seems Santa knew we weren’t all too naughty after all.
Today, I carry on some of my childhood traditions with my own child but a little different. I’m still a big kid, so I’m usually the one waking my teenager up early to begin our Christmas morning. My coffee is already ready, and I still impatiently wait in the living room as I slowly sip my coffee, anticipating getting the day started. We don’t play games, but we do watch “A Christmas Story” — a movie my family and I loved when we were young — while I make a big breakfast for everyone. Now as an adult, I just enjoy spending time with my own family and getting such joy from their experience. Even though my child knows Santa is fictional, I still wrap their gifts (sometimes) in different wrapping paper and address the packages “From: Santa” in fancy, swirly handwriting. They are 18 now, and I think they will always expect Mom to make Christmas special for them; and I will do just that, because it brings me so much happiness.
What Christmas means to me is not the gifts, but the little happenings in between. The pure delight I get out of this magical season; like adorning the tree with decorations passed down to me from my late grandmother that she brought back from Germany over 65 years ago, listening to classic Christmas songs by Johnny Mathis and Elvis Presley, making cookies for Santa with my kid, driving around neighborhoods to look at Christmas lights, and making my grandpa’s signature homemade biscuits and gravy after we open presents. The memories of my childhood and the ones I’ve made for my own family will always be the most special gifts I could ever receive.
I hope my memories inspire you to revisit yours or create new ones that are just as special.
Merry Christmas and a very Happy New Year!
