No Place Like Home

Just the three of us. We had celebrated Christmas Eve together the day before, my husband, my younger son, my older son and daughter-in-law, and their 3-month-old son. They lugged the car seat, diaper bag, and bottles inside, along with a few other odds and ends. We had set aside other essentials for them to take back with them, and I Aunt Bethany’d some of their Christmas presents by wrapping up everyday things we were giving them like shop towels and Advil. I overdid the baking and 14 tins of assorted cookies were filled. Jars and bowls had candy and chocolate-covered pretzels. Their stockings overflowed. I made arroz con picadillo for an early dinner and eggnog pie

for dessert; I accidentally set out six plates. Perhaps I thought one setting was for C. My husband and I took turns holding their beautiful baby, our first grandson, as we listened to a holiday playlist.

The smell of a baby’s head is like no other; it’s a deep-rooted, shared mother-thing that connects all of us and somehow reminds us of our own childhood. He had his little Christmas shirt on, his face ever-changing with new emotions, and his fuzzy red hair and precious stork-bite just like his father had. He’s started to smile more, sleep more consistently, and his curious eyes darted around fascinated with Christmas lights and ceiling fans. Swaying back and forth, I held onto him, gazing into his eyes, soaking up every last moment with him.

Last moment because two days later they’d move far away to the other side of the state. Providence had smiled upon my eldest; he earned his PhD and then landed a federal job making good money. A new baby, a new home, a new city, and far from home – they’d have to rely on each other to make it all come together. I looked down at C and thought, “How long will it be until we see each other again?” My mind drifted away to earlier years, much earlier, when my whole family spent Christmas Day together.

Growing up in the northeast, winter snow adds to the excitement of Christmas. Out from the attic would come the winter-weather clothing from scratchy sweaters to puffy jackets and woolen mittens. Our tiny Chihuahua, Twiggy, was perpetually cold. The Mirro Press helped my mom and Nonny (my grandmother) with baking cookies. This was the mid-60s, and we looked forward to the big day with uncontained excitement. There’d be Christmas plays and events at my grammar school. We’d eat on that porch each year for all the holidays. The giant pine trees in the front yard had branches covered with snow most winters. Being that young, I’m not really sure who showed up on Christmas, but I do remember my next older brother making me laugh.

All because of Superbaby. My brother took the infant Jesus from our family manger set and tied a piece of tinsel around its waist. He fastened the other end to a bottom branch, and Jesus would come rescue the other toys from disaster and mayhem. The little baby swinging back and forth must have been hypnotic because I could watch it for hours. I had no idea what a manger was, so nothing seemed profane at the time. I also remember sneaking down the stairs to catch Santa in the act of putting presents under the tree.

The old-fashioned glass lights were very hot, often melting the needles of the artificial tree, and we were careful getting the presents from under that tree, all under the watchful eye of Superbaby. On the tree were glitter-encrusted churches, white doves with filament tails, old glass ornaments in hues of pink, blue, and white, blobs of tinsel on the branches, and a pale blue and yellow angel at the top. My mother crafted each of our stockings in red, white, and green felt and sequins down in her sewing room in the cellar. Magically, in the morning candy appeared, Necco wafers, coins, super bouncy balls, tiny water guns, and assorted goodies were stuffed into those stockings. There were jars of ribbon candy and wrapped strawberry hard candy with filling. There were Barbies in those boxes, and muñecas, and coloring books to unwrap as we listened to a Christmas album from the local A&P. Dad made sure to document everything on Polaroids with the year automatically stamped in the margins.

Time moved on, and I moved out, got married, and had boys of our own. It’s also when I first started mailing out family letters with our Christmas cards detailing the year to our family and friends. I still put up and decorated the same tree my parents bought when I was born in 1965 at their house, the decorations stored in a blue and brass steamer trunk with leather handles. During the first few years of our sons’ lives, it was normal to go directly to my parents’ house 45 minutes away on Christmas Day. When our boys were a little older, we waited for them to break into their presents before going to gramma and grandpa’s house. They were super-excited the year my dad bought and fixed up a go-kart to race all over their spacious two acres in the countryside.

We moved when the boys were older to get a bigger house and a little more property. No longer going out Christmas Eve, we stayed home and watched movies e like “Christmas Vacation” and “A Christmas Story.” The holiday migrated to our new house so my parents didn’t have to work so hard. In the morning, our two boys tore into their presents, sounds of Christmas coming from Time-Life CDs, and smell of food to come. And those stockings! What treasures would they find in there? What did Santa bring? Pokeman or Yu-gi-oh cards? GameBoy cartridges? Smiles on those faces

could shine brighter than anything. A knock on the door and my parents came in with bags of presents and casseroles of food. Soon after my brother would come in with his wife and kids, ready to celebrate on the back porch with tables covered in red and green tablecloths. A traditional Cuban meal was forthcoming.

When our oldest entered 6th grade, it was time to tell him about Santa since his friends might blurt it out, breaking his heart. I could see the gears in his head turning. “So all I have to do is ask you?” I said yes, and he figured out the rest. A few years later it was time to tell the youngest. It was harder; he believed whole-heartedly in Santa, and we had to tell him that we helped him by buying the presents ourselves. To this day, I still write “From Santa” on all the presents, including the ones I bought for myself and wrapped.

However, as all our children grew up, they found partners and re-routed their own plans. Sometimes they joined in later; others left earlier to visit the other sets of parents and grandparents. The meals stayed the same, and eventually I got smart and had the food catered so I didn’t get stuck in the kitchen and miss out on the conversation. Sometimes to-go boxes were made up for those who couldn’t make it; there was always plenty of food for unexpected guests and leftovers.

My brother’s wife likes to make lasagna. I attempted arroz con picadillo from scratch using my mom’s recipe. We were free to make whatever we felt and encouraged family and friends to bring covered dishes. Even these get-togethers started slowing down until we eventually spent our holidays with our own immediate families. This brings me back around to Christmas Day 2023.

Our beach-themed Christmas tree had pine-scented sticks hidden in the branches, white lights twinkling and a silver and white starfish on top. Glass fish and glittered shells covered the tree. The Christmas plates sat on silver placemats on a blue and white sparkly tablecloth with a beachy Santa Claus in the middle. I put peanuts out in the bird feeder, and we watched the birds have their breakfast as the rain died down.

I decided to go for a walk outside in that gray mist after the morning rain. I pulled up a Spotify playlist of that Time-Life album from many years ago and pondered what to do as C grew up. An idea was hatched in my mind, and I will bring it to fruition one day. I will keep my VCR/DVD combo, and one day I’ll pop in a disk or tape, and we will watch “Rudolph” and “Charlie Brown” as we nibble on poorly-created Mirro Press cookies and drink hot cocoa. He may be either two or twenty years old at the time, but I promise to continue sharing my Christmas memories with him as he creates his own.