Carly Risom
Reporter
Even though my parents do not come from contrasting backgrounds, being that they are both born in the good ole’ USA, Christmas time makes it feel as if they are.
My mother is your classic Fairfield County housewife, who is always insisting that we wear tartan and cashmere to Christmas Eve dinner, regardless of the fact that the only person around the table who isn’t immediate family is my labrador retriever.
Every year, she buys a gingerbread house for us to “decorate”. This year, she thought it was both necessary and proper to purchase “old-fashioned candy” in order to adorn the houses’ walls. One particular holiday season, she decided to bake the gingerbread house, rather than buy it…let’s just say that a gingerbread house from the store was purchased a few days later.
This holiday season, she will spend Christmas Eve cooking the ham, which is most likely bought from the oh-so fabulous Costco, and will repeatedly make sure the dessert spoons are above the plate, as always. Hollaback to Miss Manners.
Soon after my twin devours our cheese platter, it’s time to light the Christmas tree. You must be thinking, oh, with some lights right!? You just press a button and the tree is illuminated? Oh no. We are talking legitimate candles, like actual candles that are used on the reg’ by the Amish community. This is where my father’s traditions come in. Being of Danish descent, my dad carries on the tradition of lighting candles on the tree every Christmas.
Before her passing a few years back, my mother’s mom was always thrown into a momentary anxiety attack whenever this happened, as she was convinced that my hair would catch on fire. It was then customary for her to grip the living daylights out of my shoulder, making sure that I didn’t leave her side. According to my twin sister, my grandmother once told her that she, not I, is the most intelligent of her grandchildren. My sister and I were probably seven at the time, while my other cousins were all enrolled in their respective colleges within the Ivy league. Rest in peace, G’ma, I suppose you always thought I was too dumb to not go near the candles. Besides my grandmother’s obvious favoring of my “other half”, she was always concerned with the safety of our tree and our well being. I think she was partially hoping that the tree would combust into flames, just to prove her in-laws customs were extremely unsafe.
As of two years ago, my dad decided that it would be just so nice if each person in the room lit one of the tree’s candles while simultaneously saying one thing we are grateful for. (Before you become convinced that my family is composed of pyromaniacs, we aren’t, so don’t call NCFD on X-Mas Eve). As boring as this sounds, it’s actually somewhat nice. We all say what we are grateful for: health, education, warm houses, family, jobs, and friends. Everything is swell until mother feels that it is necessary to play some Silent Night on the iHome. Last year, we were in for a real treat–she even printed out the lyrics. Paper burns really fast in the fireplace.
After the tree, dinner is eaten. It will always be a mystery as to why uncle Bob and aunt Francie never stay to eat with us. Following dinner is “Midnight Mass” at St. Mark’s, which is always a riveting service. My mother, being originally Episcopalian, find it is a breath of fresh air for her to get out of the “horrifyingly casual” Catholic church. Then we meet up with relatives again. Are you beginning to see why it makes no sense that they never stay for din’?
While walking back to our seats, choking down Communion, I wonder why it’s called “Midnight Mass”, as it usually ends around 11 p.m. We shuffle back to our car in the freezing cold, my mother once again reminding us that the Native Americans had to live outdoors in the cold like this. Fun fact: I grew up going to the reenactment of Plymouth Plantation every Thanksgiving.
As customary in Germany and Denmark, a few presents are opened on Christmas Eve. My dad usually says pick one, but my mom, being the conservative that she is, insists that we only open the ones from godparents. Being the oldest child, I suppose that I was given the short end of the stick on purpose. A pair of gold heart stud earrings? Okay. A set of colored pencils? Oh yeah. My other godparent fails to send a present. Going down the succession line, my gemela gets a charm for her silver charm bracelet, a necklace presumably purchased in a swanky store on Fisher’s Island, and some fashion-forward article of clothing given by her godmother who teaches spoiled New York City kids at a private all-girls school. You know TOMS? She got those four years ago. Sick.
Last is my fifth grade sister. She is given a present from her German godfather, who sends a package about a week before Christmas. It is usually a charm for her charm bracelet, given to her when she was about 5. Noticing a pattern? Following that is typically a monogrammed jewelry box from one godmother. Last year, she was given a Longchamp. I guess she won’t be needing my hand-me-down Vineyard Vines tote.
As we line up our stockings on the mantlepiece and fill up a glass of milk for Santa, we await the arrival of the next morning’s joy. Following present-opening at seven a.m. (I am so serious), we attend Christmas dinner at the relatives’ McMansion. They are our only family in NC, okay?
Merry Christmas, to all. I hope it’s just as culturally diverse as mine. Remember, seeing isn’t always believing, join the Risoms if you need further proof.
