Return to index

“Christmas Perfect”

Christmas 1965

By Charles Moon

     Everything is so big, at least that is the way I remember it. My father had been relocated to a church in an older section of suburban Philadelphia, just off of the main line, and the house we were moved into was – compared to where we were – a mansion. Three full floors of turn-of-the-century Victorian construction stood in the middle of the block, with the property’s perimeter clearly defined by neatly trimmed boxwood hedges. The long flat driveway meandered around the side to a detached garage and a back yard containing a single dogwood tree growing in the middle. The house was wrapped on two sides by a huge porch. The original covered wooden porch in front was extended on the side by an expansive cement patio that had steps leading down to the driveway. As long as we lived there, it was never used for anything other than a place for us kids to play while the adults sat in the swing, suspended from the wooden ceiling at the other end of the porch.

      Tall beamed ceilings in the living room pulled the eye to the massive stone fireplace in the far corner. It had been converted to gas many years ago and sat unused for years. The fake gas logs had been disconnected before we moved in as an issue of safety and the chimney closed up to prevent drafts. Still, it was the picture of genteel living. A pair of French doors separated the living room from the base of the wide two-level staircase while an open arch to the right led to the dining room. Through the swinging door that passed through the butler’s pantry was the old country kitchen, still equipped with what looked like the original cast iron gas cookstove. The first thing mom did was to have that monstrosity ripped out and a new electric range installed in it’s place. She then went on to repaint all the cabinets while caring for my new little brother Andy, who was only 8 months old at the time.

      Christmas was coming this year with a fury that I had never experienced before, or will likely ever again. The new church in the suburbs was affluent and had a large local congregation. The neighborhood was now primarily either Catholic or Protestant so when Thanksgiving Day passed, decorations started appearing everywhere. First greens tied with red ribbons and natural wreaths blossomed on doors and porches of all the grand houses on the block. Then came strings of colored lights on the houses of the families with young children, advertising the youthful exuberance in anticipation of the season. Over the next few weeks the neighborhood transformed into a lush festive community while the residents happily came and went with all the joy their hearts could contain. That was the impression to this six-year-old boy, who, for the first time was exposed to a community saturated in the trappings of Christmastide.

      Mom placed a single electric candle on the deep sills of each window that faced the street. They paled in comparison to the multi-colored strands of glowing bulbs on the other houses, but to us, they were the stars of the nativity. All the pandemonium of moving and the holidays prevented us from noticing Dad slip into his December depression. He was busy setting up his new church and meeting the parishioners, organizing the daily workings of the organization while juggling the holiday events. He even seemed enthusiastic about the impending festivities for the fist time. Still, he rarely spoke beyond the expected civilities and when he returned home from his duties at the church he would disappear into his den, close the door and not be seen for the rest of the night. The excitement of the new house, the new friends we had already made on the block and the new experience of being surrounded by Christmas more than compensated for his limited presence.

      Christmas Eve arrived at the new Branch home with higher spirits than ever had been exhibited in the sparsely decorated inner-city dwelling. There was a wreath on the door, compliments of the Pullowski family across the street whose middle son, Patrick and I were becoming fast friends. Mr. And Mrs. Pullowski were and eclectic mix of Polish and Irish Catholic and their five children all had the fire and passion of an Eastern European revolutionary with red hair. One thing they all agreed on was the absolute joy of the holidays. It seemed contagious this year and their gift of the wreath helped infect us all.

      Dad was off to church early to prepare for the extra services to be held this evening and the Christmas celebratory service in the morning. Mom was busy in the kitchen preparing a little surprise for us. As big a step up in status as this new location seemed to be, my father’s salary did not increase one penny. Mom was grateful for the help that our new friends and neighbors provided in getting us ready for the holidays, and she was sorry it was not possible to reciprocate in the manner that she’d like to.

      The morning of Christmas Eve I woke early, fueled by the Christmas spirit. There was an odd aroma filtering up the stair s from the kitchen. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and ran down the steps with all the grace and dignity of a three legged hippopotamus. My mother remarked that she could hardly believe that all that noise came from one scrawny six-year-old. I was too excited about the day to be embarrassed or reprimanded.

      “What are you doing?” I asked peering into one of the several pots of simmering liquid on the new stove.

      “We are going to make some Christmas presents,” she replied with a smile that lit up the room.

      There was a pot on every burner filled with water, all simmering at a brisk pace. In each boiling water bath was a can – either a coffee can or a juice can with the top cut off. Inside the inner cans was a milky thick liquid that smelled like the stuff she used to rub on the furniture. She lifted a fat red crayon over one of the pots and submerged it in the hot thick mix. As the crayon melted, it released its color in a swirl of fading blood-red fingers. Slowly the color mixed into the viscous goo until it was a uniform ruby color.

      “We are going to make candles for all the people who were so nice to us,” she said after she was satisfied that the concoction was the correct color and consistency.

      I looked at her curious setup on the table as if her intentions were honorable but her method was flawed. On some sheets of old newspaper were four empty quart or pint milk cartons with a string hanging over the top, secured to the carton through a hole in the base. She proceeded to take two of the uncolored cans of liquid and divide the contents between the cartons until each was evenly filled while holding the strings straight. In those few moments, she had made four white square candles out of melted wax, butcher’s string and milk cartons. My mom was the most creative person I knew.

      While the wax cooled in the forms, mom opened two more boxes marked “gulfwax”. Each box contained four rectangular white translucent slabs of paraffin. She dropped them into the coffee cans and submerged the metal containers back into the pots of boiling water to get ready for the next batch.

      “Ok, Davie,” she said “this is where it gets fun.”

      She brought the red wax from the stove and set it in the middle of the table next to a bowl of water with ice cubes floating in it. She carefully cut the paper carton from the hardened candles and handed one to me by the long string now solidly embedded in the wax.

      “Go ahead and dip it in the red, Davie, all the way in. Then dunk it in the water. Hold it by the string and don’t touch the red wax, because it will burn you,” she instructed.

      I hesitantly lowered the white square into the gooey red liquid guided by my mother’s hand pressing mine downward until the candle was completely submerged. When I pulled it out , there was a thin red coating over the entire surface. The ice water immediately solidified the soft wax and mom told me to repeat the process again. Dunking and cooling, over and over. Each candle cube turned from a white block to a red block. It was like magic and I was the magician.

      While I dunked the last block into the ice water, mom marked rows of parallel lines across the sides of the now-red candles. Then she gave me a pointed tool that could have been used by a potter to sculpt clay figurines, and instructed me to carve away the red wax along the lines until the white wax underneath showed through. With a few short strokes I was shown how to connect these lines in alternating rows of offset vertical grooves making a pattern that looked like how bricks are laid. As I repeated the pattern row by row it dawned on me we were making something more than a simple decorations.

      The small red square transformed into the top of a chimney with the last cut line. I looked in awe at my own handiwork. It was simple yet still had the appearance of real craftsmanship. My pride was obvious, but mom wasn’t done yet. Two of the pots were used to melt the wax for the bodies of the candles and one was used to create the colored outer shell. The fourth was brought to the table and mom began beating the melted wax with an electric hand mixer. Soon it frothed and foamed to a white fluffy consistency and we spread it around the tops of the candles like the freshly fallen snow on a real chimney.

      “Go get dressed, Davie, and we’ll deliver our presents.”

      “Ok mom,” I said gleefully, taking one last look at our creations while mom sprinkled silver and gold glitter on the top of each of the eight candle-gifts we had made.

      Mrs. Pullowski reacted as if we had given her the crown jewels. She was impressed with the candle, impressed that they were homemade and, finally, in utter awe and disbelief that I, myself, had made the gift. It made it that much more special to her and to me as well. Some of the candles were wrapped in green tissue paper and tied with a string. Some were just handed to the recipient. Each one was accepted with great pride and admiration and I was becoming intoxicated with the sensation of giving. All day long while other children on the block wished and hoped for that one special gift to arrive under their tree in the morning, I wanted to be the one to give it to them.

      The day passed fluidly from mid-afternoon to dusk as mom began to set up the old artificial tree and sing her Christmas songs. This year we sang along and helped hang the ornaments. The bent pipe-cleaner branches seemed so much thicker and substantial in the bay window of the dining room where she had set it up. The lights glowed brighter, the tinsel had more shimmer, the tree itself appeared taller, and the evening felt right.

      Almost right. Dad arrived home as we finished hanging the last ornament. He was quiet and subdued. He removed his coat and hung it on the hook by the back door. He walked through the dining room and went upstairs without a single comment on our wonderful Christmas tree. The door to his study closed and I searched my six-year-old soul for the reason why he could not have the Christmas spirit this perfect Christmas. He never would.

      Mom shuffled us off to bed shortly after tending to baby Andy and reminded us that Christmas was about love. She loved us all. We knew that already, but it was always nice to hear it again.

      Christmas morning came quickly – almost as if we hadn’t slept at all. Terry was already up and waiting for me.

      “Do you think they are up yet?” he whispered to me.

      “I don’t know.” I replied in between two yawns.

      “Go look,” he prodded, attempting to get me to sneak into mom and dad’s bedroom to see if they were still sleeping. I was old enough to know that he didn’t want to risk getting into trouble on this most special of mornings. I didn’t either, but Terry was my big brother and I did what he said.

      Halfway down the hall, their bedroom door opened and I froze in my tracks. Dad was fully dressed in his clerical clothes and headed down the stairs.

      “Morning, Davie,” he said nonchalantly. “Is Terry up too? Mom’s already downstairs feeding Andy.”

      As he disappeared down the steps, he added almost as an afterthought, a weak “Merry Christmas.”

      “They’re up!” I chirped and Terry came bounding out of our shared bedroom past me and headed for the steps. We both ran down the stairs into the living room. It was Christmas morning.

      We had been told the itinerary a week before and each day mom reminded us that we were only allowed to open the gifts in our stockings before we had to dress and attend the Christmas service. There were new stockings hanging over the big stone fireplace. Each stocking had our names hand stitched on them in gold letters – just another bit of creative effort from mom. Evergreen branches wrapped around brass candlesticks were decorating the mantle and Terry and I almost knocked them down grabbing for our presents. The frenzy was short and sweet. Bags of candy and brightly colored pencils and little toys poured out onto the floor, some wrapped in plain paper, some just loose in the bottom of the stockings. Inspired by the day, Terry had a stroke of genius. He ran upstairs and returned with what was left of the plastic green army men from two Christmases ago. We mixed them all together and began playing as hard as we ever had. Mom watched with quiet satisfaction while dad stoically put on his coat and left for church to prepare himself for the morning service.

      “Time to get ready for church,” she reminded us. We still had an hour until the service began but with the added responsibilities of the baby, everything seemed to take longer. We begrudgingly set aside the new toys mixed with the old and went upstairs to get dressed.

      Church was crowded, but instead of sitting in our usual inconspicuous spot in the middle pews, we sat up front directly under the pulpit where dad spoke. People whispered Christmas greetings to each other and listened to the organist play traditional Christmas songs on the huge pipe organ. Today, the full choir processed in rather than already being in the area next to the organ, which added a good fifteen minutes to the length of the service and an additional two hymns to the usual five.

      The choir sang the songs louder while the silences between hymns and preaching seemed quieter. The greens decorating the altar were greener and the leaves of the poinsettias on the floor around the pulpit were redder. Everything was exaggerated this year, except dad. He stood in front of the podium above us and delivered an eloquent and spiritual, but lifeless sermon about the birth of Jesus. His eyes stared out to the back of the building without ever looking at the congregation, or us. The parables and scriptures were flawlessly delivered and he gracefully stepped down from the pulpit, disappearing once again from our sight.

      Mom lingered in the back of the church and chatted with a few of the ladies that were involved in church activities. A few minutes later, dad emerged from the sacristy and stood at the exit to shake each person’s hand and wish them all a Merry Christmas. Dad was still extending holiday wishes to lingering parishioners when mom loaded us into the car and drove us home. We always went separately to church. Always.

      We pulled into the driveway of the new house on this fine Christmas morning. If it would have snowed, it would have been the quintessential Christmas, but sadly, in 1965, the temperature on Christmas day reached into the 60’s in Philadelphia. Mom had left the tree lights on while we were at church and we could see them flickering through the dining room window. For a moment it almost seemed that we were looking into another family’s house.

      Mom sent us up to change out of our good clothes while she began the happy labor of preparing Christmas dinner in between attending to Andy. Andy was a peaceful baby. He rarely cried or fussed, even during the lengthier church services around the holidays. Mom always said it was a blessing. Terry and I just wished we could sleep through them too.

      Dad arrived home an hour later and quietly positioned himself in a far corner of the living room. Mom announced from the kitchen that it was almost time to open the “big” gifts. Mom kept her apron on as she played Santa, handing each of us a gift-wrapped package. Terry and I eagerly grabbed at the wrapped boxes and one by one, each of us opened a gift. Mom was sure to mix the fun gifts with the practical ones so that a toy or a game immediately followed an unappreciated sweater or pair of socks.

      I opened the first gift since I was the youngest – except for Andy who was still sleeping. Besides, mom would open all his presents for him and all he got anyway was clothes. Today, being young had its advantages, and Terry could not go first. I ripped at the paper to reveal a jigsaw puzzle of the United States. I loved jigsaw puzzles, and mom used her devious creative genius to get me something I liked and make it educational as well. Terry got a chemistry set and mom made a joke about not blowing up the house until after Christmas. Dad opened a small box containing a book or some other such nonsense. It wasn’t a toy so we weren’t interested. Dad forced a grin and placed it on the floor next to his chair.

      Several times the scene was repeated with mom taking her turn to open a gift for Andy given by a distant aunt or old family friend. Finally the last few packages were pulled from under the tree and mom passed them out all at one time. Mine was soft and not in a box. My first thought was that it was pair of socks. My last gift would be socks, how anticlimactic. But when I shook it, there was a jingling sound. I peeled back the tissue paper to see the antlered head of a little stuffed reindeer. It had a gold ribbon around it’s neck which secured the single silver bell that made the jingle bell sound. The little animal was made out of red velvet and pipe cleaners with big felt eyes pasted on its sweet little face.

      At six, I was still young enough to appreciate stuffed toys. At forty-three, I am old enough to appreciate the love my mother put into making it for me. I still have that little reindeer with its now rusty bell and frayed pipe-cleaner antlers and discolored tail. In some way, he has kept me connected to Christmas over the years.

      Each of us received a hand-made toy. I don’t remember what Terry and Andy got, or if they still have theirs, but I do remember that Terry had just turned nine and was a little embarrassed by the childishness of the toy. Secretly, I think he loved his as much as I loved mine for what it represented. Andy was just too young to have a clue.

      When the last gift was exchanged Terry and I ran up to our rooms to get the presents we made for our parents in school. Tree ornaments with handmade cards were the fare of suburban art classes. Each parent in the district got the same cherished gift from their child whether they were in first grade or fifth. Mom hung ours on the artificial tree and stepped back to admire them. Dad looked at them and made a quiet and pleasant comment. Then he walked up the stairs.

      There was no gift for mom. Nothing from dad. Not that we saw, anyway. Perhaps he was a deeply spiritual man and preferred to observe the anniversary of our savior’s birth by rejecting material things. Perhaps he had told mom to use all their small savings to make this a special Christmas for us and there was nothing left for her. She surely would have understood. Perhaps he had already given her a present privately, but why do that when you can openly exchange gifts with your family? Besides, mom had given him some presents. Maybe he was just nuts. How could any sane person NOT be happy on this happiest of Christmases?

      Soon after the exchange of gifts, people started arriving. First came dad’s maiden Aunt Gretta who had spent her life in the military and retired a full Colonel in the Woman’s Air Corps. Then came some friends from Baltimore who my father had known since college. One by one, groups of people came through our front door with armloads of gifts and food. My Aunt Mary and Uncle Stuart arrived with my three cousins, followed immediately by Grandma and Grandpop. Finally Dad drove over to his mother’s house to bring my other grandmother back to our house. Most had brought a dish for the holiday meal, but more importantly, they had brought additional gifts with them.

      People milled about for an hour or so while they helped organize the food in the kitchen. Sarah and Terry and I found a free corner in the living room and set out playing with our pile of new toys. Uncle Stuart couldn’t resist a smirk when he saw the green army figures mixed into the jumble of playthings. Mom gave him a look more to let him know that he had better not comment or she would “owe him one.” It was all in good fun and that is exactly what everybody seemed to be having. Almost everybody.

      “Let the game begin,” cried my father’s friend from Baltimore, as if he were announcing the start of the next Olympiad. Adults as well as children were marshaled into the large dining room that had gotten considerably smaller with the addition of two table leafs, a Christmas tree and a pile of wrapped gifts in one corner. We took random seats around the table. Everybody seemed to know what was coming except me and Sarah. This was to be our first experience with the game of “Pirates”.

      “Pirates” was the name my parents had given this holiday game. It was a gift giving game where people all brought gifts and placed them anonymously on a pile. The rules were simple. You either chose a gift from the pile or “pirated” one from somebody else. When the last gift was gone, you had to keep what was in front of you and the game was ended. Being the youngest player, I went first. Then Sarah, then Terry. By the time the game had gone full circle, the adults were laughing and joking and we were starting to get bored. Mom politely excused us and let us take the small token gifts from the game with us when Patrick Pullowski showed up at our front door to show me his new pair of custom roller skates. We all returned to our corner to gawk at the extravagant gift while the adults went back to the uncontrolled laughter and good-natured arguments.

      I was the closest in age to Patrick in the neighborhood. When we were moving in, he stood on the edge of his property and stared over at us until my mom invited him over. Once we had met, he joined in with helping me carry small boxes up to my room and then invited me to come over and play at his house. We had been playing together almost every day since September, so he was not reluctant in the least to interrupt our holiday festivities. I welcomed my friend as if he were part of the family.

      “What did Santa Clause bring you?” he asked, after we settled into a game of go-fish, using Terry’s brand new deck of cards.

      “I got a puzzle and maze game a bunch of stuff like clothes and stuff.” I replied.

      I was reluctant to show him my stuffed reindeer for fear he would make fun of me. I also never admitted to receiving the gifts from Santa. My grandfather had a scientific mind and required proof for everything before he acknowledged its existence. My father’s objection to the myth stemmed more from a religious viewpoint as well as his total dislike for the season in general. Mom stressed the giving aspects of the season over the receiving, so we were never raised to believe in the existence of St. Nick. Mom, though, was careful to advise us not to discuss it with our friends because some people firmly believed in the old man from the North Pole and we could ruin their Christmas by the revelation. In any case I knew our gifts came from my parents and not down the closed-up chimney in the middle of the night.

      The Pirates game finally came to an end with a controversial exchange between the Baltimore couple and my Uncle Stuart who claimed you could not have your wife “pirate” a good gift for you. Mom announced dinner was ready and all was forgotten when everybody clamored to clear the wrappings from the table so the food could be brought out.

      Turkey and dressing and four different kinds of potatoes and, of course, vegetables flowed around the table like the happy discourse from the game. There was true warmth and fun and love. You could feel the love in the room, even from Uncle Stuart and his Baltimore tormentor. From almost everyone.

      The group dwindled as the evening progressed and by ten o’clock all the guests were gone, Andy was asleep and Terry and I had just finished a stupid fight over a toy that had simply become a point of contention because we were just so exhausted. Mom sat in the kitchen drinking a cup of tea, staring off into space. The day had been a resounding success for the Branch family, but it had used up the last bit of energy we all had. Everyone was ready to collapse.

      I fell asleep that night clinging to my reindeer. I’ve been clinging to the memory of this perfect Christmas ever since.

# # # # #

[postscript] This is not an account of my entire life, just the Christmases. It is important to know, though, that after this Christmas, Dad fell into deep depression that would affect all of us profoundly into the next holiday season. Isn’t it funny how after things go so right, they can go so wrong?

NEXT | HOME