At 5:45, Mom rang the dinner bell (literally), and we all came running. The noise that had been spread throughout the house in the form of TV (singular), radios, record players, conversations, arguments, and dogs barking now came together in one concentrated center. "Only three talking at a time!" my dad would yell. We sat elbow to elbow, around the kitchen table every night.
Even after Mom went back to work full time, she still had a full meal on the table seven nights a week: meatloaf with mashed potatoes (real mashed potatoes) and gravy or chicken parmigiana with pasta, salad, and garlic bread or a family fav - stuffed green peppers. Most nights didn't lend themselves to loitering in the kitchen. Homework, boyfriends, girlfriends, and the TV (Archie Bunker on Tuesday nights at 7:00 was Dad's favorite) all demanded our attention. If it was your turn to clear the table or wash the dishes though, you didn't have a choice. Of course, the table-clearer had great motivational power. If he/she had places to go and people to see, they could (and would) take your plate with food still steaming.
Every once in a while though, somehow, miraculously, all eight of us would linger around the table - no one in a hurry to leave, no homework that had to be done or phone call that couldn't wait. On those impromptu family nights, we would often end up playing Murder.
But that's another story (wink, wink).
One night of every year, as we sat around the kitchen table, we'd eat another of our favorites - lasagna (according to Dad, Germans make the best lasagna), and invariably hear strange noises - a knock or a scratching sound maybe. My heart would stop.
"What was that?" Mom asked.
A hush fell over all of us. We listened intently.
"There it is again!" Dad pointed out as the sound did, indeed, come again.
"It must be Santa!" Mom declared the obvious.
Oh the excitement that was in the air! I didn't know how, and I didn't care, but somehow we'd made it to the top of Santa's delivery schedule list. Most kids had to go to bed and wait until morning to find out what Santa had brought them. Not us. Nope. We got the goods on Christmas Eve.
BUT we couldn't check out those goods until we'd cleared the table, put away leftovers, and washed the dishes. In great kindness, Mom let us eat on paper plates that one night of the year.
We lined up at the top of the steps. It was time. The butterflies in my stomach felt like elephants charging the walls of my intestines in an effort to escape. I barely contained them. Someone opened the door to the baement (Mom? Dad? Ed?), and as we began to descend into our Christmas carnival, our winter wonderland, we sang: "Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way . . . "
One by one, as we hit the last step, our eyes scanned the room before us, looking for our personal pile of stash. Somehow we always knew, and we made a beeline for it. The room exploded in a flurry of excitement as six kids tore into boxes and bags filled with every morsel of their heart's desire . . . every morsel, that is, at least until tomorrow when we found out what our friends got and wished we'd asked for the same.
Even after Mom went back to work full time, she still had a full meal on the table seven nights a week: meatloaf with mashed potatoes (real mashed potatoes) and gravy or chicken parmigiana with pasta, salad, and garlic bread or a family fav - stuffed green peppers. Most nights didn't lend themselves to loitering in the kitchen. Homework, boyfriends, girlfriends, and the TV (Archie Bunker on Tuesday nights at 7:00 was Dad's favorite) all demanded our attention. If it was your turn to clear the table or wash the dishes though, you didn't have a choice. Of course, the table-clearer had great motivational power. If he/she had places to go and people to see, they could (and would) take your plate with food still steaming.
Every once in a while though, somehow, miraculously, all eight of us would linger around the table - no one in a hurry to leave, no homework that had to be done or phone call that couldn't wait. On those impromptu family nights, we would often end up playing Murder.
But that's another story (wink, wink).
One night of every year, as we sat around the kitchen table, we'd eat another of our favorites - lasagna (according to Dad, Germans make the best lasagna), and invariably hear strange noises - a knock or a scratching sound maybe. My heart would stop.
"What was that?" Mom asked.
A hush fell over all of us. We listened intently.
"There it is again!" Dad pointed out as the sound did, indeed, come again.
"It must be Santa!" Mom declared the obvious.
Oh the excitement that was in the air! I didn't know how, and I didn't care, but somehow we'd made it to the top of Santa's delivery schedule list. Most kids had to go to bed and wait until morning to find out what Santa had brought them. Not us. Nope. We got the goods on Christmas Eve.
BUT we couldn't check out those goods until we'd cleared the table, put away leftovers, and washed the dishes. In great kindness, Mom let us eat on paper plates that one night of the year.
We lined up at the top of the steps. It was time. The butterflies in my stomach felt like elephants charging the walls of my intestines in an effort to escape. I barely contained them. Someone opened the door to the baement (Mom? Dad? Ed?), and as we began to descend into our Christmas carnival, our winter wonderland, we sang: "Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way . . . "
One by one, as we hit the last step, our eyes scanned the room before us, looking for our personal pile of stash. Somehow we always knew, and we made a beeline for it. The room exploded in a flurry of excitement as six kids tore into boxes and bags filled with every morsel of their heart's desire . . . every morsel, that is, at least until tomorrow when we found out what our friends got and wished we'd asked for the same.
What a treat to remember those days through your eyes! I had forgotten how fun it was to watch you get so excited when we would scratch under the table.
ReplyDeleteBut what is this "he/she" clearing the table? The brothers did dishes? Alas, that must have been in your dreams, young lady. They had the trash and yard work. We did "women's work": ironed, cleaned house and all aspects of dishes.
When we still lived on Kossuth, Dad would bring us over to see Grandma Geni(I liken her to one, thus the spelling),after dinner on Christmas Eve. Momma didn't go but that never alarmed me in any way. While driving to and fro, we searched the sky for Santa's sleigh. Somehow I always just missed the sightings. However, when we returned home, our livingroom was filled with gifts! With so many little ones, we each received 4-5 items. What fun that must have been for our parents to watch!
I don't remember ever being envious of others' gifts, even as a teenager, always thought mine were perfect. How that was possible was a Christmas miracle; it was so Mom.
When we get to the other side, I hope we are able to hang out together. And then we could go visit Dad and Mom to tell them how precious they made our foundation.
Wait...hold on a second...Connie are you saying that the noise Lori heard was just you scratching the underside of the table? Oh my... If that's true I will be most disappointed. Lori has described that sound to me very well and I'm certain it's the same sound I heard Christmas Eve at my house as well.
ReplyDeleteDon't tell me I didn't really hear Santa's sleigh that night each year; don't tell me that I have been looking to catch him "in the act" for 48 years in vane; don't tell me it's all been a farce. What will I do? Whatever will I do? How will I cope knowing that Santa wasn't really outside my house at that very moment? My whole life has just tumbled down around me. Oh bother...
But I suppose, if I was really honest (with myself at any rate) I would have to acknowledge that it couldn't really have been Santa - because I should have done the math... he would still be far east of the 92nd longitude line. That at our dinner time, approximately 7:00pm, he would probably be somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean, hitting all those small islands scattered all over the place. Which we all know is much less time-efficient than an urban setting where all the houses are so close to each other. Also, because he would have traveled most of the world by that time he would probably be getting tired and slowing down a bit which would place him even later than he normally would be expected. [Sidebar: Now that I think about it, he would have to take some risks in getting caught early in the evening as I'm sure he's figured out that he needs to get as early a start as possible to make up for the 'slow-down' time near the end of the night. That Santa...what a smart guy! Hmmm. ]
In any event, I'm glad I got this off my chest. I've had just about enough of all these people who are liars and deceivers that are telling young adolescents that there is no Santa, only to encounter adults - who should know better mind you - to be so cruel as to lead us to believe he's right outside our house, when in fact they were playing such a vicious practical joke. Shame on all of you. Is there nothing sacred any more?
And Connie, I too am looking forward to the time we get to the other side, for a variety of reasons. Most definitely the greatest (of this list at any rate) will be to meet your dad. I have only grown in my love for him over the years, though I never had the chance to meet him. The more I hear, the more love. I am also hoping to be able to thank your parents for that precious foundation they put into all of you. My life, as well as my children have certainly benefited from it. But also, I'm looking forward to God setting the record straight, for the truth, the fullness of truth to be revealed (for now we only see through a glass darkly), and that he will explain exactly how he enabled Santa to do it...so many houses, so many presents, so little time. Incredible! What an amazing God we love!