Christmas, the way I remember it

December 17, 2011 in Boomers, Our Lives, Travel

Maria Grazia Swan

Not so long ago, most Italians still viewed Christmas as strictly a religious celebration.

We had no Christmas tree, just the presepio, or nativity scene. The presepio represented the birth of baby Jesus, of course, but it also had to depict all of our close, and not so close, relatives and friends. To paraphrase Hillary Clinton, it takes a village. And indeed we created a village, complete with rivers, bridges, and mountains- a few of the modern types would even stick an electric train in there. Our village had fake bonfires and fishing boats and the whole thing was

watched over by tall, lean angels with flowing blond hair, hanging above the manger from fishing lines. The baby Jesus and mother Mary were also blond with blue eyes, pale skin and rosy cheeks.

The village grounds were covered with moss we collected in the woods. Collecting moss is now illegal in Italy and you get a big fine if caught.

Building the village would take days and the whole family was involved. Sometimes we built it outside the front door on the porch and hoped for a light snow fall to give it an authentic yuletide ambience. No one in my family does that anymore since that December when my cousin Bruno’s best figurines were stolen. They were hand carved and carefully painted down to the smallest details; they even had little glass eyes he recycled from broken dolls. Everybody blamed it on the Gypsies but even little moi knew gypsies were too smart to stick around our village in the winter; they all went south to warmer climates. We never spoke of thief among us, we simply started keeping our displays inside and locking our doors at night.

Gift exchange was done on the 6th of January, the day of the Epiphany, when the three wise men brought gifts to the new born baby. Over the years, what I have come to miss most, after my loved ones, is the midnight mass. Sure I go to midnight mass in the States, to the traditional and to the English version. There is always organ music and sometimes guitars and tambourines, and after mass I drag everyone I know to my house for hot chocolate and cookies. But something is missing. One thing is the snow, but more than that, it is the singing.

I miss the way the choir harmonized on Silent Night and traditional Italian carols. For years I begrudged American

Catholics their Jingle bells and White Christmas melodies.

The year my mother died, I decided to revisit my childhood holiday experiences before it became impossible. I packed up my kids and we went “home.” We stayed in the house my grandfather built; I slept in the bed I was born in. The house was going up for sale after we left. Everything was more or less the way I remembered it. That’s not always good. It was freezing cold in the house. It had been kept closed shut for nearly a year. The Italian hot water system was just as I remembered it: you either have hot or cold—nothing in between– which makes showers more entertaining, unless you are the one in the shower.

We only had a cell phone, and no TV because in Italy you have to pay a yearly license to get service. And, the only bathroom was down two flights of stairs from the bedrooms. It rained often and Venice was flooded, okay for the locals, inconceivable to my spoiled kids.

Finally it was Christmas Eve. The kids went to church with their cousins, and I with my sisters. The same church where I had been baptized, taken my first communion and gotten married, was just the way I remembered it, except, now it was heated.

Toasty in my borrowed faux mink, I was giddy with anticipation. The candles were lit, the incense was burning, the flowers were beautifully arranged, and Baby Jesus’ crèche was ready for midnight delivery; what could be more perfect. They even had assembled a chorus of children.

When mass was over, we exchanged hugs and good wishes with all we met as we made our way out of the church. Coming to the big front doors, we stepped outside into a newly fallen snow. It muffled our steps, shushed our voices. The light from inside the church streamed through the stained glass windows onto the soft white blanket creating enchanting rainbows. We stepped on Technicolored moss, got in our cars, and headed for home where hot chocolate awaited us.

Sitting in the warm vehicle, I made two important decisions: one, I would buy a collection of old Italian Christmas songs to take back to the United States with me. Two, I’d learn to appreciate what I have now and keep my memories as they are, wonderful slices of life seen through the eyes of a little girl.

Buone Feste a tutti—Happy Holidays to all

Maria Grazia Swan

Maria Grazia Swan is an author and motivational speaker who shares relationship advice and guidance for mature women re-entering the dating scene. Maria empowers and encourages single women to be bold, fearless, and sexy in their pursuit of life and love after age 45.