When I was a girl in the late 1950s and early 1960s, my parents always bought a real Christmas tree. I remember the wonderful pine fragrance as we decorated it. There were two kinds of lights—big, fat bulbs in different colors, and the lights that were shaped like candles and bubbled when they heated up. Of course, there were all sorts of ornaments, too. I remember little Santas, so old that they were cracked in places, with cotton stuffing that peeked out. Multicolored lights were also strung on the outside of our house, and it was fun to see how beautifully other people had decorated their homes. Our yearly, after-dark drive through the more upscale Van Nuys neighborhoods was a big event.

A friend of mine lived across the street from us. Her family put up one of those metallic trees that took on different hues of the color wheel. It was very modern and very pretty. Every year, her mother made a delicious tan-colored fudge called penuche, and I got a piece or two. My own mother always made chocolate fudge with nuts. I loved it, along with the platter of candied and dried fruit that was a tradition in our home.

My brother and I usually went to our Spanish grandmother’s house for Christmas Eve dinner. Those were big, sumptuous feeds with cheese enchiladas, an unusual dark chili without beans, white rice, and Mexican green bean salad. Dessert was always an amazing pineapple Bavarian cake. It was quite a contrast from my parents’ Christmas Day turkey and fixings, complete with mincemeat and pumpkin pies.

One Christmas morning really stands out in my mind. I was quite young and hadn’t received my First Holy Communion, so I didn’t have to fast for three hours like the rest of the family. Outside, it was dark and cold, but lights shone in our little warm house. Though brightly wrapped presents were under our tree, they would wait until after Mass. Mass was more important—Jesus was more important, and I looked forward to church as I ate a bowl of my favorite cereal, Malt-O-Meal. And the Christmas Mass was beautiful, all in Latin back then. Afterward, my parents took me up front to see Baby Jesus in His manger, close-up.

Perhaps it was earlier that same year when I decided to snoop around the house, searching for hidden Christmas presents. Off in a corner of the dining room, I opened my mother’s cedar chest and found a treasure trove of unwrapped toys. Hurriedly, I called my brother over for a look. He wisely told me to close the chest and keep my mouth shut. It didn’t spoil my view of Santa Claus because, unlike most other children, I didn’t believe in the “jolly old elf”, though of course I thought he was fun. My father had always made it clear that Christmas was all about Jesus, and the secularized Santa was make-believe. I am sure that this attitude helped me embrace the spiritual aspect of Christmas at an early age.  

One year, my Uncle Larry created a lovely little stable, complete with a light, for the Nativity scene that he and his brother Les put atop their television during the Christmas season. My mother liked it so well that he made a similar one for us, and for many Christmases it held a place of honor on our black-and-white television cabinet. It did not seem like an incongruous arrangement back then, because shows broadcast over the airwaves were much more wholesome than modern “entertainment”.

Around that same time, the arrival of the yearly Christmas mail-order catalogs became a big event for us kids. My brother and I would settle on the living room floor and happily search through the Sears Roebuck and Montgomery Ward holiday editions. To this day, I remember my favorite pages, full of huge playsets in different themes: ranches, western forts, medieval castles, and modern military scenes. They were so expensive that I dared not even ask for them, but it was sure fun to dream about it.

A few years later, I experienced a very different sort of Christmas. I had just turned sixteen and was living as an aspirant in a Catholic convent attached to a seminary. The familiar ringing of a hand bell woke me before the night was half over. Hurriedly rising, I got myself ready and donned my plain black skirt and white blouse. Then, together with the Sisters, I walked over to the main church for Christmas High Mass.

Afterward, one would expect to drop back into bed and claim a few more precious hours of sleep, but not these French-Canadians. Instead, we piled into the convent “refectory” (dining room) where Sister Superior declared, “Let us praise the Lord” or some such phrase.  That was a signal releasing us from the usual mealtime silence. We all smilingly responded, “Thanks be to God”, and began to chatter. And eat. I’m sure there were other types of food on the table, but I only remember the flavorful tourtiere meat pie and the decorated Yule Log—both traditional French-Canadian Christmas treats.

Somehow, we had created little gifts for one another, which were then exchanged amidst much joy and laughter. Then it was back to bed with the task of digesting all that rich food. Morning would soon be upon us, and the need to prepare breakfast for those priests and seminarians who had not gone elsewhere for the holiday. It was the simplest of Christmases, and one of the best.