I love the wonder and magic of Christmas. And the traditions. Some are passed down. Some derive from necessity. Or imagination. Or in the combining of cultures in marriage. For me as a child, it was a season of stories and giving, of songs and warmth, of lights and cookies and toys and colorful decorations, nothing like the rest of the year.

The house and tree were decorated ahead of time. We got to help a little. And go together to pick out a Christmas tree. It was always a better tree when the attendant selling it was nice.

Once the tree was up, I had my favorite ornaments that sometimes I snuck off the tree and played with like dolls. Too fragile to handle were the little diorama worlds my grandmother created out of eggshells with realistic glass animals inside on snow, in front of wintery Christmas scenes. 

We had this giant picture window poster of Santa that went up in the living room every year. I donned the felt holiday dress my grandmother had made for me. 

Among the decorations was a wooden manger that my granddaddy had built. I always got to put the characters inside to create the scene. I like the donkey the best. 

I loved all the Christmas decorations, especially the fat, clear-bellied Santa jar full of chocolate kisses and the metal carousel of angels that was powered by candles, turning in circles and ringing little bells. And it was fun to make the Nutcracker talk.

My brother and I were always required to take our picture with Santa in some department store or in the mall in the week or so before Christmas. I didn’t care for that, waiting in line and sitting on this stranger’s lap, except that I liked the big gingerbread man cookie we each received when it was done.

During December, my mother baked a lot. It was the only time of year she baked generally, except for birthday cakes. She made sugar cookies, Russian teacakes, peanut blossoms, fudge, caramel and penuche nuts. To this day, I like to bake. 

Our tradition was to open our gifts on Christmas eve. My grandfather worked for the phone company his entire working life and often had to report for duty on Christmas Day, so it became a tradition for my mother while she grew up, and she continued that ritual, even though it was no longer a necessity. My father didn’t have any Christmas traditions to pass along, being Jewish.

On the afternoon of the 24th, my mother cooked away in her holiday apron, usually a little harried and anxious. The grandparents came over, bearing bags of gifts that we helped distribute under the tree, looking for our names on the labels as we did, pondering what could be inside the boxes. I believe the Christmas Eve dinner menu varied year-to-year. It was usually a casserole of some sort and my mother’s cranberry jello salad on the side. 

Along with Grandma and Grandpa’s gifts, there were perhaps one or two wrapped presents under the tree. The rest would come from Santa. Of course, I became an excellent spy and could always find the hidden presents once I was old enough to know they were somewhere in the house. The key was to look but leave them undisturbed and feign surprise when unwrapping them.

Dinner always seemed unbearably long, especially the clearing up afterwards. Then we had to wait for my mom to put together a cookie plate and prepare the fixings to go with our traditional chocolate fondue. I have no idea how that became a tradition!

Once I read the book Christmas Mouse, I always placed a glass of milk, a plate of cookies and a chunk of cheese by the fireplace.

Finally, it would be time to go for a walk around the neighborhood. My father, brother and I put on our winter coats and headed out. I always scoured the night sky looking for Rudolph’s nose leading Santa’s sleigh and reindeers. I always saw it. (Thank goodness we had sight of the flight path of commercial jets on their way to the Oakland and San Francisco airports!)

We chatted and walked, sometimes sang carols, looked at the neighbor’s Christmas lights, and made our way around the block and back home. We could only go inside if the front light was on, Dad’s signal of the all clear.

Inside, the presents poured out from under the tree. Looking back, it was a bit over the top, but I treasured the abundance as a child. There was a lot to unwrap. Every year in our stockings, along with other goodies and small items, was a Lifesaver Storybook. 

We tore open our gifts, passed out ones to the rest of the family, and dipped apple slices and Pepperidge Farm pound cake cubes into the chocolate fondue while Bing Crosby and the Andrew Sisters crooned on the stereo  Santa Claus Is Coming to Town and Mele Kalikimaka. At some point, my mother would sit down at the upright piano and play Christmas carols, and we sang along to Deck the Halls, Oh Come All Ye Faithful, Silver Bells and Silent Night.  

Christmas Day wasn’t nearly as exciting. We usually had to dress up again and drive two hours to my Uncle’s house in Rough n’ Ready. My cousins were all older, all boys, except for one girl who didn’t really give me the time of day. Football was on the TV. My parents were often running late to get us there, making my aunt grumpy. We had a traditional turkey dinner, and afterwards my uncle and oldest cousin always got into a fight over politics. 

Boxing day was great though! That was the day to play with all the new toys and games and eat candy from the stockings.

I remember being so excited around the holidays that I jumped up and down involuntarily. For days. Most of the time, our household seemed to revolve around my parents more than us children. That may not be entirely true, but it’s how it felt, and so Christmas was extra special. We checked the TV Guide so we could watch the Christmas specials, usually as a family, the Peanuts, Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, the Drummer Boy. I sat in my dad’s lap while he read me the Twelve Days of Christmas pop-up book. Much of the attention during the season and especially on the 24th—when not focused on meal prep—was on us. Looking back, I think that was the best part of the holiday for me.