For several years, our house would hum like a beehive on Christmas Eve. My parents hosted an open house in the evening, inviting their friends and their families to drop in, stay for a few minutes, or stay for the evening. Most stayed, not leaving until midnight when it was time to go to church.
My mother would begin the planning for the evening by making a list. She always made a list. Once the list was complete the first task was to take inventory of the small liquor cabinet above the refrigerator. This was important because it did not get much use. My mother never drank and my father was more of a beer man. My father would stand on a stool to get to the liquor cabinet which was above our refrigerator, strategically placed so it was out of reach for me and my sister. My mother would sit in her wheelchair in the kitchen as my dad pulled the bottles down. She would say things like, “Make sure we have enough gin for Renee’s gin and tonic. Add wine to the list for Bob. Red not white. Does that look like enough vodka?” Even though she did not drink there was no judgement for her friends who did. She would tell him to buy more of this or throw that out and dutifully he would. Her menu was the same each year, full of foods she knew her friends liked. There was always a Jello mold, the green glob of pistachio Jello wiggling out of the Tupperware container full of mandarin oranges and walnuts because it was a favorite of her godson’s. There was a shrimp cocktail and small sandwiches, making sure there was turkey for her friend Pat. My father would read back the list of what they needed to purchase before packing up and heading out. Mom was the planner; Dad was the do-er. They made a beautiful team.
On Christmas Eve morning I would be given tasks to help get ready for the evening. I relished this part. I loved Christmas and helping my mother meant we spent time together talking. We would chatter as I moved through the tasks. I would talk about school and friends. My mother would listen and occasionally interject but mostly she listened. She would interrupt every so often to tell me I missed a spot while dusting the piano, which had to be polished to a sheen because no doubt her brother would sit there and play at some point in the evening. We would move through the living room, with its gold and orange flowered couch reflecting the 70s even though we had hit a new decade. We would eventually get to the dining room where I would be trusted, finally, to get the crystal and the fancy dishes out of the sideboard and place them on the table. My mother was fastidious in all the planning. Everything needed to be just right. Even down to the bathroom. She would tell me to put away our toothbrushes and anything else on the bathroom counter, which seemed ridiculous to my young self. I countered her once, stating that everyone brushes their teeth, and it was silly to put those away. Her response was simply, “But no one needs to see our toothbrushes." She would direct me where to place the ashtrays, the glass ones in various 70s colors like gold and green. The only person who smoked was Bob, whom my sister and I referred to as Uncle Bob. He had a pipe and mom allowed him to smoke it. I can still see him standing in front of our big bay window leaning on the stereo that I had polished, telling some funny story with the pipe hanging from his mouth. He would banter back and forth with anyone willing to spar. Our friend Renee took him on the most. She was one of my mother’s dearest friends and she was like a grandmother to me and my sister. We called her Mame, and her husband was called Grampa Hall. Grampa Hall said very little, but Mame made up for that. She wore frosted blue eye shadow and sat with her feet tucked beneath her, drink in hand, and always sat near my mother unless she was sitting on some unsuspecting guest’s lap, which did happen after a gin and tonic or two. She was, as they say the life of the party.
I have a video of one of those parties that my uncle took. He was one of the first people I knew to have a video camera. It was enormous. He had to carry it on his shoulder like he was a videographer for a news station. It is a wonderful video. He filmed everyone, many of whom are gone now. It captured the evening and the people who populated my world growing up. The Christmas music that floated from the stereo in the background, the Goodyear Christmas albums with singers - Dinah Shore, Julie Andrews, Nat King Cole, and Bing Crosby. The living room would reverberate with laughter. Our guests sat at our parties, they did not stand in groups and I think now it was because my mother did not move once she settled in the living room. She would place herself so she could see everyone and have a sight line toward the dining room, wanting to be "out of the way of traffic", as she would put it if I asked her if she wanted to be somewhere else in the room. I think now how gracious that was of our guests to sit in the living room when we all know most parties end up with everyone standing in the kitchen.
Looking back through my adult lens I see how both of my parents were present but in the background. My dad would sit in a corner, listening and laughing. He never sparred with Bob or teased anyone. He was usually the one who got teased. One of the years we had our party my dad had given in to my repeated requests for a real tree. He went out and bought a small pine tree that could be planted when we were done with it. For my father it was just pure waste to put a tree in your house and then throw it away. It had to sit on a table in a large galvanized tub. It looked ridiculous but I did love that we finally had a real tree. That added to the ribbing that my father never parted with a buck.I can still hear the room erupt with laughter as another joke was made about my father being cheap. It was all in good fun and my dad took it with a chuckle.We ended up with three huge pine trees in our backyard before he gave in to having a pre-cut tree in the living room.
My parents opened their home and their hearts and let everyone in and let everyone be who they were. My parents were generous and kind. My sister recently had a conversation with someone who told her that our home always felt warm and welcoming to him.
They watched out for their neighbors and their friends. They did not keep a tally of who did what for them. They just helped when they could and they did so quietly, so much so that it has taken being an adult for me to realize how much they did.
It was not only on Christmas Eve that their generosity was evident. I found a letter written to my mother on her 70th birthday, telling the story of how my parents opened their home one night for their friends who had been to the hospital thinking their first baby was arriving. They were told to go home for a few hours and return after midnight to spare the expense of an extra day in the hospital. They went to my parent's home which was a short drive from the hospital. My parents welcomed them and they talked until just before midnight, when their friends returned to the hospital. It is those stories, not just the parties on Christmas Eve that highlight how my parents lived.
They were not perfect; they were imperfectly human. They had compassion and kindness and a way of making you feel better just by being with them. Someone told my sister recently how warm and welcoming our parent's home felt to him when he was young and was a part of some of our family gatherings. What a testament that he recalled that feeling so many decades later. We were incredibly fortunate to have parents who gave so much and asked for so little. It was their greatest, everlasting gift.
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