I expect that most, if not all, families have traditions. The holidays are filled with them. Growing up my family had ours. I don’t know how they originated, but they were truly a part of our annual holiday celebration.
My Grandpa Barner made homemade custard. It was rich with eggs and cream. We drank the thick concoction after dinner with the pies and cakes that others had made. His sons-in-law laced their custard with bourbon. Kentucky Bourbon was considered the best.
My Grandma Tebo created everything homemade. I don’t believe that there was anything in her kitchen but the raw materials of life – flour, salt, sugar, whole milk, exotic spices, etc. etc. Her cinnamon rolls were never duplicated. A picture of her buns (no pun intended) can be found in Webster’s Dictionary next to the words delicious and wonderful.
My mom made a Jewish coffee cake that my sisters and Ruth make now. (A couple of years ago we learned that Ruth is part Jewish. Prior to that she made it just because she liked it.) It’s not for those who fancy foo foo type cakes, but it’s delicious.
Ruth’s dad, as manly a man as there ever was, made homemade fudge. I think that it may be the only thing that he knew how to cook.
My dad was an expert Thanksgiving dressing/stuffing maker. His sausage, raisin, breadcrumbs, etc. etc. dressing was famous within our family. A few have attempted to duplicate it, but no one has succeeded.
The most sacred of our family traditions was Christmas morning. As this Christmas has passed, I have been reflecting upon prior years. Ruth and I waited to celebrate this Christmas until Wednesday morning after all of our out-of-town guests arrived. We had a wonderful day.
Growing up, Christmas morning was the best day because it was full of excitement and suspense. I don’t recall really asking for anything, but I did enjoy everything. Of the thirty Christmas mornings that I woke up in our family home, only one was disappointing and the disappointment fell entirely upon my two sisters, Sharron and Jackie.
On Christmas Eve of 1958 or 59 our family drove to Mt. Clemens to visit my Grandma Tebo. We loaded into the family car for the trip after dinner, and as we were pulling out of the driveway, my mom stopped my dad with the words, “Wait Tony, I’ve forgotten something.”
She got out of the car and went back into the house. Our delay was short, and soon we were on our way. As we headed north on Stephenson Highway, we saw Santa Claus driving in a car headed south. Mom made the initial sighting, and sure enough, it was him. There was no snow on the ground so Mom speculated that he must be driving a car to make his local deliveries. Made sense.
Our visit lasted about an hour, and we went directly home. There were no stops for anything else. We entered our house through the front door and to everyone’s surprise Santa had come while we were away. I was the first to speak. “Let’s get to bed.”
Sharron and Jackie protested. “Let’s open our presents!”
“No.”, I fired back. “It’s not Christmas. Let’s open our gifts in the morning.”
The two girls begged Mom and Dad, and faster than you can say “lickety split” my parents gave into the girls. We opened our gifts and were in bed by midnight. The following morning – Christmas morning I might add – there was nothing to do. It had all been done the night before. While the rest of the world was enjoying the excitement of opening their Christmas gifts, the joy was gone at our house. It was just another day. Our tradition of opening gifts on Christmas morning had been thrown out like yesterday’s trash because of my two over-anxious siblings. Poof.
Of all the childhood Christmases that I shared with Sharron and Jackie, that Christmas holds a solid place in my memory bank. While I remember favorite gifts, gatherings at my grandparents’ home, and other bits and pieces, I don’t recall any Christmas in our childhood family home except that one. Perhaps that’s why Christmas turned out that way that year – so it would be remembered.
As unpleasant as that Christmas was, I remember it and have told its story several times. I often referred to it as “my worst Christmas”. The events of that Christmas Eve stand tall. Maybe that’s why things worked out that way – so I would remember. In the big picture, the most important things in our lives are the memories that we have and the people that we shared them with, even if they include your over-anxious sisters.