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Christmas Eve. We were a happy family when I was a child and my parents, in spite of the economic hurdles and eight children, did everything within their powers to create the perfect family.
Our Catholic faith dictated our lives. Both my parents worked the Friday night bingos to pay for our parochial school tuitions. My dad reminded us that he spent two years in the seminary after WWII and my mother never forgot to inform us that she was named after Teresa the Little Flower. They both emphasized that being of Irish heritage was synonymous with being Catholic.
During the holiday season we heard nothing but Christmas music and my mother would rent a television for the month of December. She loved the Christmas shows, but the other eleven months were dedicated to reading.
Dickens' Christmas Carol captured the excitement that enveloped both Christmas Eve and Christmas Days for us. We never opened gifts until Christmas Day, but I was the one who shouted in the wee hours of the morning that Santa Claus had arrived and my siblings would pour out of their rooms. My parents would follow yawning since they had only been in bed for a few hours after assisting Santa with his work.
Though clothes were the least appreciated gifts, they were the attire that we would wear to Christmas mass as my mother would never support anything but an immaculate appearance at church. We could hardly aspire to being the perfect family if we weren't dressed to the nines.
Since we had had turkey for Thanksgiving, turkey wasn't as exciting as it had been the previous month, but those were the only two days we feasted on the stuffed bird and there were no complaints since we weren't unfamiliar with empty stomachs when times were tough. We often asked for seconds, but the refrigerator and cupboards were bare.
"Eat everything on your plates," my mom and dad must have repeated a hundred times at dinner since there would be no more food until breakfast the following morning. "There are millions of children dying of hunger in China."
We were a struggling working class family moving up the economic ladder, but despite our financial woes, my parents managed to place dozens of presents beneath the Christmas tree. They provided us with enough toys for us to forgive them for the clothes that we would wear until summer vacation when the bite of scissors would reduce our jeans to shorts.
December is a dreary month in Sacramento. The fog will hang over the Central Valley for weeks. The sky is gray, a mist falls and the temperature hovers in the mid-fifties. The elements never stopped us from congregating at the school yards to play football or basketball, but Christmas Day was a family day and we never left the house.
With dinner at three and new toys to entertain us, we were content to remain as one. My father, who never complained about the incalculable sacrifices he made for his wife and children, would convince my mom to relinquish the television briefly so he could watch a NFL game.
I take a deep sigh. Our lives are a flash punctuated by instances. It is beyond our comprehension that the moment we're living that we'll be reflecting on its more than a half-century later. Many of those on whom our memories rest are resting in peace. Since I was blessed, Christmas symbolizes for me goodness and innocence.
There were the many Christmases that I celebrated as a husband and a father. With my parents as role models, the sacredness of the day seared into my consciousness and, economically comfortable, I did my best to do my parents right by maintaining the tradition they had so lovingly instilled in their children.
During my adult life I have spent a solitary Christmas or two. I was no match for my parents 63 years of matrimony and on those lonely nights I have gone to bed early comforted by the past.
Christmas Eve will be another one of those nights.
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