Christmas for us has meant many different scenes over the years. Nowadays it's brunch at my parents' house. People who have had that breakfast have a hard time not coming back, even if they have become divorced from someone in our family. My mother Bebe turns out several varieties of eggs, creamed chipped beef, sausages, potatoes, chocolate muffins and an infamous pecan cinnamon coffee cake which can induce riots in the buffet line. This year my niece joined the Navy and was married over Thanksgiving so we had three new sailors at the table. My eldest brother Pete played juice and coffee steward. My other brother Roger manned the scrambling station. Due to the extra bodies, we consumed a record four dozen eggs this year.
Christmas used to mean trimming the tree on Christmas Eve, dating back to the times when my father George would wait until the tree sellers on Massachusetts Avenue had packed it in for the season. After they turned the lights off, he'd slink over to the lots and root around in the dark. Sometimes the trees would be straggly and sometimes they would be OK, but he never knew what he had until he got it home. One year, when things were especially good, he grandly ordered a tree from Friendship Florist, and, according to family lore, it was the worst tree EVER, so he never did that again.
By the time I came along, George was no longer liberating leftover trees. Instead, we went to the Florida Avenue Market where he could happily haggle with the vendors. I was always instructed to pretend like I didn't care about a tree. He would signal me to walk away and hang out at the ash can fire. This happened more than once during the deal, but we always went home with a tree, much to my relief.
A quick survey finds 1941 to be a favorite Christmas. The parents were finally homeowners on Dix Street in River Terrace. That year there was a live Cocker Spaniel puppy under the tree in a box and a Lionel train with real smoke. My mom and sister had matching red velvet dresses. Bebe remembers it was the last year before the rationing of World War Two.
Another favorite was 1939. That was the first year that Dad’s parents let him bring his non-Greek wife to Christmas at their place on Macomb Street. Dad remembers giving his father seat covers for his car. Papou thought they were blankets and tried to wear one.
The family Christmas party back then was always at Yiya’s and Papou’s place on Upton Street right across from the Friendship Post Office which was a Safeway. I thought it was great my grandmother kept a grocery cart in her front yard. Plus she had an aluminum Christmas tree which eliminated any midnight runs to the tree lot.
