The night before was always my favorite part. The anticipation that starts as soon as the dishes from Thanksgiving are cleared was usually reaching its peak as my family prepared for the annual Wiegert Christmas Party.
My father’s side of the family is, in a word, BIG. Seriously there are so many of us. And for as long as I can remember, the entire motley, Irish crew would gather on Christmas Eve at my Grandma Kate’s house. I remember that house so vividly.
When you walked in, your feet met a plush beige carpet and your eyes met a warm sitting room. As I imagine it, I’m brought back to those Christmas Eve parties.
In my mind, I open the beautiful glass door to a quaint, one story house. I remember the orange glow from the lamps and how their light bounced off the lacey curtains. To the left, there is a vintage couch, coffee table, and two vintage, orange-colored armchairs adjacent to a beautiful, rustic upright piano. I love that room. Between the two armchairs sits an end table, and on top sits a small Christmas tree.
When I think of this room, I remember my dad sitting down to the piano and playing his favorite Christmas carols by ear. I remember my cousin Brian would bring his guitar and he would sit somewhere and play all night long. I remember in that very room I received one of my very favorite Christmas presents ever: a giant stuffed bear with fluffy brown fur and a red bow tie. I promptly named him Barney and I scarcely let go of him for years after that.
I remember sitting in one of those orange armchairs by the tree with my Grandma. I remember thinking her name was actually “Grandma Cake”—which made sense because she was so sweet. I remember her being the center of attention every year—like a queen, observing her people with love and pride.
Down the hall from that front room is a little kitchen where we would sit at the table and make Easter eggs for Easter, and we would raid the fridge for her frozen chocolate donuts and diet Dr. Pepper. On Christmas Eve, though, we spent very little time in the kitchen; we usually continued straight through and into the living room. It was a step down from the kitchen. It felt like a little den—which was fitting considering my grandmother was quite the Mamma Bear.
In that cozy room, I watched “It’s a Wonderful Life” for the first time, and then later, I first bonded with my godmother's first born daughter, Marin. Marin was the first of my second cousins. There are now over 20 of the little ones in our family. I love them all, and I knew that I would the moment I sat down in the living room and read to Marin and watched her color. I still have the pictures she gave me from that Christmas.
During Christmas time, this room was filled the quirkiest Christmas decorations you’d ever see. A lot of them were very distinctly Irish. I remember thinking we have basically been transported to Ireland every time we walked into that house.
Every trinket that hid in every nook and cranny of my grandmother’s house was so unique; I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like them again.
I remember this gorgeous ceramic music box. It was absolutely beautiful—green and creamy white, with a lovely slow-spinning top. As it would spin, it would play the loveliest Irish music.
There was also this tissue box in th shape of a little house. I loved that thing. It was like a little doll house. It was crocheted out of white twine with black shutters. The best part was where the tissue came out: right out of the little chimney like whisps of smoke. I can still hear Grandma Kate’s twinkly laugh as she watched me playing with the tissue box.
I remember the basement, and how it could go from the scariest place in the world to me, to the happiest. All it took was a little light, a silver Christmas tree with red ornaments, and of course three uncles, three aunts, eight cousins (plus their spouses and children), a brother and a sister, Mom, Dad, and of course a wonderful Irish grandmother.
I remember the ruddy, reddish carpeting, and the noise from the multicolor, motorized wheel that shone pretty colours onto the silvery branches of the aluminium tree.
These are the images that come to my mind during the holidays. The images aren’t the same anymore; a lot has changed. I haven’t been to that house in probably fifteen years or more.
However, I still see my Irish family every year for the Wiegert Family Christmas Party. As the youngest of 11 grandchildren, I got to experience this family tradition as the adorable, spoiled little kid AND as the young adult watching our family grow with each baby my older cousins brought home.
Just last week, we held our annual family gathering at my cousin Maggie’s new home. While there, my older sister and I had a long discussion about books and about life with our cousin (2nd cousin, technically) Marin. This is the same little girl I read to and held while she nodded off to the sound of our family enjoying each other’s company. This is the same kid I’ve watched grow up into such an awesome person every single Christmas since she was born.
I miss that house. I miss my “Grandma Cake”. But I’m so relieved to know that I don’t have to worry about missing the tradition. We don’t always meet on Christmas Eve anymore, but no matter when or where we have it, I look forward to that paall year long.
The music, the jokes, the food, the kiddos, the love, the memories....
It just doesn’t really feel like Christmas without that gift of tradition.
I know that with time, our tradition(s) will continue to change, but what makes it tradition isn’t that we do the exact same thing every time, but rather that we make the effort to do something together at all.
I never want to lose that
