My father carried a large laundry basket filled with wrapped presents. A few hours prior I sat at the kitchen table and watched him expertly lay out each package on the oversized wrapping paper, counting off squares and cutting just enough so the material fit the box with precision that only a Jesuit trained scientist could achieve. He walked past the giant plastic Santa Claus head on the wall and removed each gift, one by one, placing them under the tree. He would then place the empty laundry basket in a corner for us to fill back up at the end of the day. The tree itself looked like something out of Better Homes and Gardens Magazine. My grandmother had both the talent and patience to find the perfect Christmas Tree each year, and the attention to detail to fill it to the brim with all of the ornaments she had collected over the years. Finishing it off with tinsel and garland, and you had a sight that would rival the tree in Rockefeller Center. All three foot six of me stared at the pile of holiday cheer underneath that finally decked out douglas fir, looked up at my mother asking when we would open the presents. "Not yet," she'd say, "Everyone isn't here yet."
The other families arrived one by one - aunts, uncles, and cousins - three of my father's four siblings. On really special years Aunt Nancy and her family would make the trip up from Maryland and spend several days with us. The cousins ranged from toddlers to almost adults, and we would spread our way throughout the small house. Some would be on the middle level enjoying conversation, hour d'oeuvres, and plenty of natural light from the giant picture window. Others of us would retreat to the basement, watching the television and trying to keep warm next to a one cubic foot space heater. Occasionally, on the lower level, a wrestling match would break out between the older cousins and myself, Steven, and David. They would lift us high into the air and bring us crashing down onto the small sofa that Grandpa would sometimes relax in. We would explode into laughter and beg them to do it again. All the while the voices of our parents would fill the house with the most joyful sounds you've ever heard. We knew things were getting really good when Grandma's laugh rose above everyone else and commanded the attention of the room. Despite being all of five foot two she had the most impressive set of pipes this side of the New York State Thruway. A little while later we would hear Grandpa chuckling over something and let out a loud, "Jesus Christmas!" For the longest time I was convinced that it wasn't swearing or taking the Lord's name in vain if you ended with "Christmas."
It was usually at this time when one of us would muster up the courage to ask our parents if we would be opening presents soon. By now the pile of holiday treasures had grown to epic proportions and we were bursting with curiosity over what new joys were inside. Some years you could look out the window and see a white blanket of snow creating a scene that would rival Clement Clarke Moore's "The Night Before Christmas." Other years the weather was warmer and you would notice the dormant, sleeping grass storing away its strength for the coming summer. In these years Aunt Mary Lou mentioned how much she loved a white Christmas. Without missing a beat my grandfather would pipe up, "Don't pray for it!" On Christmas Eve of 1978 Aunt Lou did in fact pray for snow, and the Good Lord blessed her, and all the other inhabitants of Central New York, with over twenty inches that evening. I was still in utero that Christmas but scheduled to make my debut into the world at any point. My mother was very grateful that she didn't go into labor before the plows went through and my father could dig out their driveway. People sometimes wonder why Syracuse area people are often huskier than the general U.S. population. It's because each and every winter we would engage in enough exercise of this nature to build muscles that Arnold Schwarzenegger would be proud of.
With no clear time as to when we would be opening up our treasures the younger cousins engaged in our other traditional activities - exploring the upstairs. We would wander up there, getting a good look at the three small bedrooms and single bath that made up the top floor of the house. It never occurred to us how miraculous it was that two parents and four siblings grew up in those rooms. The oldest, Aunt Diane, slept in the room on the ground level - the same room that inspired the wrestling matches years later. Grandpa would often joke that he gave her that room in case she wanted to elope. That way he wouldn't have to buy a ladder. He delivered this line with a twinkle in his eye and a grin on his face, but to this day I still can't comprehend why he would need to provide the ladder so that his eldest daughter could sneak off and get married.
We wandered down the stairs after taking in every detail of the three bedrooms - well really just two of them. We knew better than to take more than a quick peek at Grandma and Grandpa's room. At this point Uncle Joe came over to entertain us. He'd have everyone sit on the stairs so we could play a game. The rules were simple, guess which hand he hid the quarter in. One by one each of us would get a turn. If we guessed correctly we would get to move up one stair. Whoever made it to the top first won the game and had bragging rights for the next six or seven minutes.
As the sun started to wane in the sky dinner was put out on the dining room table. There were always too many of us to sit down formally so we did things buffet style and spread back over the house. Despite over twenty people eating food from plates in their laps I can't remember a single spill. One quick look from Grandma reminded us to be careful with food around her carpet. We always had lasagna, baked ham, salad, and a whole host of other sides. Since everyone was local, the culinary delights of many kitchens could converge on that one home in East Syracuse, creating a feast that would rival the best pot-luck over at First Baptist Church. Once everyone was sufficiently stuffed it was time to slice up the various pies for dessert. My mouth would water Aunt Karen would hand me a slice of pumpkin with a small bit of whipped-cream on top.
Finally it was the moment we had been waiting for. The whole lot of us piled into the living room and staked out our little bit of real-estate on the floor. Often is was my cousin Johnny who would venture up to the tree, read the names off of each tag, and hand the present to the appropriate person. Earlier in December, when we were all together to celebrate Grandpa's birthday, we had each drawn a name out of hat to see who we would be buying for that year. And of course, everyone received a gift from Grandma and Grandpa. We reciprocated in kind. We would go through, one by one, and tear open the wrapping paper, excited to see the new treasure inside. Some years it would be a model rocket, others some kind of Ninja Turtle. Over twenty people opening those packages generated a mountain of brightly-colored joy on the floor. To this day I can't remember how it found its way to the trash, but I can only surmise that the giant plastic Santa head had something to do with it.
One by one we went until we were all finished. Then it was time for Grandma and Grandpa to open their gifts. Everyone sat and watched and ooo'ed and ahh'ed over every item. The presents would pile up according to whom they belonged to and what their intended use was. Grandma's things went to the right, Grandpa's to the left, and in between them their new supplies of Old Spice and Oil of Olay grew into a mighty stash. On a really good year they obtained enough health and beauty products to last until next Christmas.
We would then disperse back through the house, and the youngest of us would explore what kind of adventures our new toys would engage in during the coming weeks and months. This would last for a while until the first signs appeared that it was time to go home. Usually it was when little Joey's ears started turning red. His mother knew when that happened he needed to get to bed, and soon. So the coats were gathered, the boots were put back on, hats and gloves were pulled over our little heads and hands. Our laundry basket was filled back up with new gifts, and placed into the trunk of our car. Grandma and Grandpa would stand just outside the door, waving goodbye with smiles warm enough to keep the chilly Central New York winter at bay. I would sit in the back seat as my father drove us home, watching in awe as his high-beams turned on and off, illuminating the new white flakes of snow falling from the sky. We would pull into our driveway and trudge into the house. It was late so my sister and I had to change into our P.J.'s and brush our teeth right away. It was time for us to go to bed as well, since everyone knew that Santa would not show up while the children were still awake.
All these years later I can hardly remember the actual gifts I received. But the memory of those times we had at 104 Washburn Dr are more precious to me than anything else.
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