Eleven Pipers Piping

When we were very young my father's office was in Philadelphia and one evening in December was always set aside for us to drive into the city from our suburban south Jersey home to meet him after work and tour the department store windows on Market Street. Gimbels, Wannamakers, Strawbridge and Clothier, and Lits filled their windows with amazing holiday scenes populated by animated dolls who skated and caroled and danced and wrote letters to Santa and opened their tiny packages under their miniature trees.

Afterward, we would go into Lits and ride the escalator upstairs to the Christmas section where they had an entire colonial village with even more spectacle and animation, and the red velvet ropes lining the way led right to the main event, a visit with Santa. A shy child, I never really liked having to talk to such an intimidating soul, but an obedient child as well, I always did it anyway. I felt better with my brother and sister by my side-- I don't think they really liked it either and so feeling protective of them gave me something to focus on other than my own discomfort.

One year, just beyond Santa, they had a shopping area for kids only. The idea was that we could buy gifts to surprise our parents. The place was stocked with inexpensive little things that any generic mom or dad might like. To my memory, this was my first independent shopping experience and I remember struggling with wanting to get things that I liked rather than things I thought my dad might like. I ended up buying him a cool yellow mini-flashlight that I really, really liked.

I don't remember what I bought my mom, but I do know what my little sister chose. It was an upright black and white vinyl fish stuffed with sawdust. About 8 inches tall, it had big red lips and was a dead ringer for Charlie Tuna without the beret and glasses. The minute she saw it, my sister was sure that our mom would love it, and nothing my brother or I could say would convince her otherwise. At four, she already had a shopping mind of her own.

Maybe she was right. That fish sat on my mom's dresser, right next to the Infant of Prague, for years. I wonder what those two talked about, anyway.

Ten Lords a-Leaping

Christmas is coming; the goose is getting fat.

Once when I asked my nephew if he wanted some cool new t-shirts and nice soft pants for Christmas, he shook his head firmly. "No thanks," he said, "We do fine." He was only six at the time, but I knew just what he meant. There are two kinds of people in the world-- those who like getting clothes as gifts and the rest of us. This year, my youngest nephew, Richard, is in the no thank you club, too, although his sister joins Heidi and most of the other adults in the whoopee! I got clothes faction.

Please to put a penny in the old man's hat.

Along with the inevitable clothes, books and music have always been popular gifts in our family. Although it is nearly impossible to disguise those packages, ( I still love holding them up and loudly proclaiming the contents, "Book!" or "CD!" or years ago, "Record!" To which the proper reply is always, "Maybe... but you don't know which one!") they are always among my favorites.

If you haven't got a penny, a ha'penny will do.

The first record I ever got for Christmas was By the Time I Get to Phoenix by Glen Campbell, when I was six. Although I liked the title track, it was his version of Homeward Bound that captured my imagination; I played the grooves off of that thing and learned the word "mediocrity" to boot.

If you haven't got a ha'penny, then God bless you!

And it was at Christmas that I learned from one of my high school roommates that one should always pay a penny for any gift that cuts, because giving or receiving something sharp may sever your friendship. It might be a silly superstition, but who wants to take such a chance? A penny seems a small price to pay to keep those you love close.

Nine Ladies Dancing

Of my fifty Christmases so far, not many of them have been white. Oh sure, the numbers have gone up since I've been celebrating the season in Buffalo, but even that doesn't make snow a sure thing. In fact, my most recent white Christmas was in Atlanta. A couple of years ago we were all there for that once in a hundred year event. Of course, Heidi and I almost didn't make it, but when we did it was merry indeed. The next day I even went out to play in the snow in my pajamas with Richard and Annabelle.

This year is looking pretty good, too, if tonight's weather is any indication. We've been driving through exquisite squalls of swirling fat flakes for the last three hours. It slows us down, but the temperature has cooperated by holding above thirty-two so the roads are merely wet, and the Christmas lights look especially beautiful in the storm.

O, we'll get there, and when we do there will be hugs and Friday fish fry, but until then the journey is just fine.

Eight Maids a-Milking

How can we talk about Christmas and not talk about food? Our traditional meal is roast beef, served with mashed potatoes and Yorkshire pudding, but over time we've mixed up the other sides with what I'd say were mixed results, although I don't miss the peas at all. One year we all agreed to prepare a single course. After the crab stuffed avocados, we were stuffed, too. Fortunately our meal is just as delicious when served as leftovers.

Growing up we had our big meal on Christmas Eve, but the family switched over when Heidi and I started going to her parents that night. It was an emotional change, but I think my people made out pretty well. I was always really jealous of their tales of Judy's Italian seafood feast.

The past few years we have had the main event on Boxing Day, the 26th. After several happy experiences with Chinese take out, we reserve Christmas as a no cooking day-- one of the very few on my annual calendar.

And I'm not a huge dessert fan, so another thing about this holiday that I particularly love is the tradition of putting a variety of small sweets on the table after your meal. In our family we always have clementines, good chocolates, and a mix of homemade cookies, and I always feel like I can have a perfect bite of some delicious something and be satisfied without being over-full.

Of course the opposite is true about wine. In that category, I'm of the philosophy to keep it coming until the last person switches to water or toddles off to bed.

Cheers!

Seven Swans a-Swimmin'

During the years my family lived in Saudi Arabia, the days following Christmas were often spent on the beach. Despite the desert climate it was far from hot at that time of year, but the weather was mild enough that we could drive our Chevy Impala off the road and across crunchy sand flats to a stretch of coastline so deserted we might call it all our own for the afternoon.

The first order of business was to collect driftwood to fuel a bonfire, and then we would roll up our jeans and wade into the shallow water of the Arabian Gulf. The bottom was smooth sand so fine that you could feel the shellfish that had dug in there with your toes, making it possible to fill a bucket with perfect little clams in no time. A few minutes on the fire and a dip in melted butter bestowed a feast festooned with salt and smoke and fine enough for any holiday celebration.

Six Geese a-Layin'

When I was a senior in college I lived in a brand-new three-bedroom campus apartment with five other women. Now I think of them as girls, but that's what we called ourselves then. When December rolled around that year, we were all as busy as ever with exams, but we were all also aware that the end of our college time was near.

Life in that apartment was not always copacetic, but the six of us agreed to get together for a holiday meal the last Saturday before we left for break. To this day, I have no idea where the goose came from, although I do remember that, to a girl, we thought it was an excellent menu idea. I was in a Dickens seminar at the time, and the thought of roast goose for Christmas stirred my heart.

Unfortunately (or fortunately), I had the GREs that day, and so the task of cooking our ever-so-traditional entree fell upon a roommate. In those days before the internet, trapped in a tiny rural town as we were, her research was impressive. She found a recipe that looked very promising despite all of the footnoted warnings.

As it turns out, a goose is quite a fatty bird, which makes a lot of sense. Fat floats and it keeps one warm in harsh northern winters such as ours was. Too bad fat also burns. As I walked into the courtyard on my way home from my exam, I saw all of our neighbors shivering in the cold.

Who knew a teeny little kitchen fire might upset so many?

Five Golden Rings

Ba dump bump bumb...

In addition to Christmas music, I am also a fan of Christmas TV. As a child, I loved Rudolph, the Grinch, and Charlie Brown, and watching them was an annual treat. I have to confess that I could never really get into Frosty. That one came out when I was six, and has always seemed a little come lately to me.

Years later, with the advent of the VCR, the novelty of seeing those shows only once a year was replaced with the novelty of being able to see them whenever we wanted. We still only watched them around Christmas, though. We also had to sacrifice quality for convenience. Who can forget the time we popped that homemade VHS in and settled back with my 3-year-old nephew to enjoy some holiday specials. "Oh my, Dod!" he exclaimed, hands covering his mouth in horror. "The no is pink!" And it was, too.

Even today, watching recordings of my old favorites (and yes, I have sprung for professional quality DVDs), I kind of miss the commercials from when I was a kid. Remember Santa sledding down the hill on an electric razor to the tune of Jingle Bells? I do. Even more unforgettable was the slogan: Merry Christmas from Noelco. And of course, A Charlie Brown Christmas was always brought to you by Dolly Madison Cakes and Pies.

This year I tuned into the network broadcast of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer just the other night. With the older nephews grown, and the younger niece and nephew in Atlanta, it's been a few years since I've seen it. I had it on in the kitchen as I cooked, and despite knowing all the songs and dialog by heart, I just wasn't enjoying it. The pressure for Herbie and Rudolph to conform was really making me uncomfortable, even though I knew how it ended.

At one point Heidi came in. "Why are you watching that?" she asked.

"I like it," I said. "But I don't like it right now. I just don't understand why--"

"Why Santa is such an asshole?" she asked.

"Yeah," I said. "I think that's it."