Christmas Tree Memory Lane

December 21, 2020

Funny how the mind works.  As I age, I remember mostly the good stuff when it comes to Christmas.  The bubbling frustrations, the sticky relationships, the highly polished pretenses are quickly overlooked when basking in the glow of over fifty years of memories.  And that’s a good thing.

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One of my earliest memories comes from the first Christmas we spent in Corona del Mar, after relocating from Long Beach.  I had just turned six, and was beside myself with excitement.  On Christmas morning, I could not wait a moment longer – except my brother, who was nearly eleven, probably heard me rustling around and intercepted me before I could make it down the hall to Mom and Dad’s bedroom.  He herded me into his room, snuggled down with me into his twin bed, and convinced me we had to wait until it was at least light outside before waking up Mom and Dad.  To distract me, in his usual effortless way, he did or said something funny until I dissolved into giggles (something he still does to this day) and before I knew it, daylight had arrived.

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I can still picture it: huddled beneath Dad’s old army blanket with my much-adored friend, Cheryl, on the cold sand of 10^th Street Beach, awaiting the start of the Newport Harbor Boat Parade in late December.  I was reminded of how cold it could get beside the frigid Pacific, compared to the cold frozen dirt of the W&M campus in January.  To stay warm, we sipped from an illicit jug of warmed Lancer’s red wine, spiced with a little cinnamon. We felt very daring.

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Fruitcake production actually began in late October/early November with our annual sojourn to the Arco Walnut Plant in Riverside (CA), where Mom stocked up on tens of pounds of nuts and fruits necessary to bake at least twenty-one loaves (seven batches) of fruitcake. 

In 1958, Mom found (or was sent) a recipe for “Heavenly White Fruitcake” from McCall’s magazine – which eventually became her signature holiday offering.  Unlike most fruitcakes, Mom’s was sweet and well-seasoned with liberal dollops of sherry for a month before serving.  Over the years she tweaked the recipe, making substitutes (like walnuts for filberts) and adding steps (soaking fruit and nut mix in sherry before adding it to the cake batter). And the recipients who did not dismiss her fruitcake out of hand always came back for more.

Every year, my father distributed fruitcakes to employees and clients (hence seven batches).  They also went to family and friends, with a couple left over for a favorite teacher or two.  My Latin teacher, Miss Cella, was an east coast transplant from Port Washington (Long island), NY, and “got it” about Mom’s fruitcake right away, regaling us later with the story of taking it home for Christmas where her Mom took the seasoning process very seriously – so much so that when it was finally served, Miss Cella claimed the fumes alone nearly knocked everyone off their feet.   

To this day, just a whiff of Gallo sherry reminds me of Christmas, and assisting Mom in the preparation and process for all of those years. [Postscript: My brother and I sporadically carry on the tradition — can’t let all those years of training go to waste.]

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One of the few things I remember about our Long Beach Christmases is driving slowly down Christmas Tree Lane, one of the few residential neighborhoods with a broad, grassy median that every year got decorated with, to my child’s eye, a spectacular Christmas display, featuring nearly everyone (! ) — characters from nursery rhymes, Santa’s workshop at the North Pole, even the manger surrounded by a heavenly host, the camel-mounted Magi still in route.  It was awesome for 1965, and even had piped in Christmas music playing if you rolled your car windows down.

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More recently, with each trip to CA, Frank re-introduced me to the charm of walking the perimeter of Balboa Island, its homes all dressed up for the holidays – from the 8’ tall T-Rex to the houseful of Teddy Bears to the trainset that literally weaves in and out of the home it belongs to, courtesy of two small brick archways in the home’s exterior wall.  Every year there is always an outlandish “first prize” as only Snoopy could appreciate.  And that did not include the lit boats cruising Newport Harbor, or the dark water rippling with reflected light and color.

But I am most fond of being a Christmas voyeur, checking out other family’s Christmas trees and peeking into their Christmas lives, given that the homes fronting the harbor perimeter sport a great deal of glass in order to maximize the million-dollar views.  And I have learned with age and observation, in contrast to F. Scott Fitzgerald’s declaration, that the rich are not so different from you and me (just as human, just as afflicted).

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Then there was the year that we brought Christmas to Williamsburg in the ‘70’s, an effort primarily organized and orchestrated by Mom.  Roosting in a suite of rooms at the Hospitality House, we had brought not only ourselves and Dad’s step-mom, Grandma Helen, but had also shipped out our precious Christmas ornaments, the multicolor lights, even a tree stand and apron. 

Once in Williamsburg, we quickly procured a full-size, freshly cut Christmas tree. Then, somewhat to the astonishment of the HH’s staff (whom Mom had already befriended), we smuggled in, set up and decorated our tree.  Thinking back, it really was quite remarkable — and truly a thing of beauty.  Mom was showing (just a little bit) her east coast family from Williamsburg and Richmond, how it was done.

But the thing I remember most was how eagerly Frank and I, in college and high school respectively, abandoned our beds in order to sleep by the tree.  Even at our “sophisticated” age, that dazzling, radiant light could still cast its childhood magic on us.

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Finally, a moment I do not remember.  At our home on Marron Avenue in Long Beach, Dad took a prize-winning black & white photograph of my brother and me that no one believed was not posed.  But it truly was a candid moment, probably occurring the weekend before Christmas, that Dad managed to quietly capture on film. 

I must have been about three, Frank nearly eight.  We were sharing a rocking chair in front of the lit tree one morning.  I was gripping the chair’s spindles, the better to turn toward my much older and wiser brother, who was sharing something amazing that held me absolutely rapt.

No doubt he was imparting some of the wonderous mysteries of Christmas. 

Merry Christmas to you and yours — May 2021 bring us all back together.