Christmas Eve

 

On the day of Christmas Eve, my father would pack the popcorn balls he and my mother had spent hours making and wrapping-- and his two daughters--- into the Chevrolet and drive to Burbank and Glendale to make his deliveries. While we drove from house to house, I hope my mother was taking the time to nap.  But I suspect she was stuffing the stockings. I know she wasn’t wrapping gifts, because we were told early on that an organized woman is finished with her Christmas shopping—and wrapping--by Thanksgiving.

 

When we arrived home it would be showers in the pink tiled bathroom, special dresses and the arrival of Aunt Cora.  Aunt Cora was my father’s Mormon sister who was divorced and lived in nearby Atwater.  By tradition, she spent Christmas Eve and Christmas day with us.

 

The station wagon was loaded with gifts and we drove to Beverly Hills. My favorite route was along Wilshire Boulevard because of all the Christmas lights and displays in the Cadillac dealership.  As we officially approached Beverly Hills, lighted reindeer draped the street at every block.  The park that bordered our drive had two or three large pine trees—thirty feet at least.  At Christmas, they were always decorated with blue lights.  The “blue light trees” were a sign that we were getting close.  Once the San Diego freeway was built, it was faster to go through the Valley and take the pass over to the house.  It was never as fun as the old route.

 

My grandparents lived with my grandmother’s adult, gay son from an earlier marriage.  Uncle Max drove a red convertible with white leather seats and worked in the book trade. His bedroom was a virtual bookstore. When I was much older, I appreciated his more adult editions.

 

Christmas Eve would include an odd mix of people. Single ladies from the church joined us as well as Uncle Max’s good friend named T.V.,a cross between Ayn Rand and Coco Chanel, who gave us impressive—and sometimes signed—books.  My grandfather always hugged us as we entered and called us “his little lambs.”  He was a prominent minister in Hollywood and must have been glad to be home after a barrage of pageants, nativity plays and having to write meaningful sermons. My mother’s brother and his wife would come as well.  They were the epitome of cool.

 

The dining room was set and ready with candles burning in twisted, silver holders that reflected against the windows and mirror along the wall. Always, while he lived until I was nine, my grandfather put a silver dollar on his granddaughters’ plates.  Mostly we had turkey, and the single church lady always brought Jell-O salad because she couldn’t cook.  Aunt Cora always brought the Cranberry sauce mix that’s on the packages of Ocean Spray.

 

In the living room a fire would be burning in the hearth and the chubby stockings would be waiting until after dinner. Also in the living room, near the tree, was a large, whipped wax candle infused with glitter.  I don’t know how many Christmases this candle lasted, but in my memory it was always there.

 

My grandmother, not my mother’s real mother, always called my mom “Sister.” I thought it was odd. On a few occasions, my grandmother’s real sister would join the Christmas Eve celebration from Bainbridge Island. She and my grandmother both suffered from genetic deafness.  My mother’s voice was usually hoarse after these dinners.

 

When we finally got to open our stockings they contained things we didn’t normally see.  Lollipops from France, tiny hard milled soaps in the shape of a rose—everything smelled exotic.

 

On the day of my all time favorite Christmas Eve, my sister and I were told we could open a gift before going to our grandparents.  This seemed quite decadent.  But later made sense.  The gifts we both opened were life sized baby dolls with eyes that had lids that shut and opened and mouths puckered and ready for a bottle.  We took these with us to our grandparents.  After the dinner and after the stockings we were surprised with wooden cradles for the babies.  Ladies from the church had made us tiny quilts.  We were completely ready to set up parenting shop.

 

On the way home, we drove down little Santa Monica and often saw an indoor skating rink.  Once back at Angus Street we would put on our brand new Lanz flannel nightgowns.  Aunt Cora would be ensconced on the living room sofa turned bed and we would kiss her goodnight.  And then we waited for the dawn.

 

Many, many years later my husband and I flew into Los Angeles from our home in Scotland to get married.  There was an airplane strike and Margaret Thatcher had yet to take things into hand. Our flight from London was delayed one day and we arrived in Los Angeles on Christmas Eve night.  My family had not met my husband-to-be.  My father and sister met us at the airport and whisked us to my grandmother’s.  The fire was still burning, the stockings had disappeared years earlier and the regular guest list had been depleted by deaths.  We sat at card tables and ate homemade clam chowder.