The stuff of Christmas magic: A new tree, timeless memories

By far my most vivid holiday memories center around the Christmas trees we’ve decorated over the years.

Our family story stretches back to tales of my mother’s childhood. An only child who was doted on by her parents, as a little girl she would go to sleep on Christmas Eve with hopes and dreams that Santa would come.

Once she fell asleep, her parents would carry her out of her bedroom, set up a Christmas tree and presents there, then move her back in. She would awake Christmas morning to a scene that could only have been created by Santa.

She often told us how much she wanted brothers and sisters, and she set out to raise a family that would keep her surrounded by children. With my father, she raised 14 of us — nine boys and five girls — so big, festive Christmases were a given.

My parents didn’t take the easy way out; their tradition was to wait until the children were asleep on Christmas Eve — warned not to get out of bed for fear of being caught by Santa — then bring in the tree and begin to decorate.

Gradually, the older children were allowed to join in the preparations, which could get intense. These were the days when strings of fat, brightly colored light bulbs would fail if just one bulb burned out.

Eventually, after some harrumphing, my father and brothers would sort out the lights, while my mother brought out the ornaments and the gift packages she’d been hiding for weeks.

While she arranged them into carefully matched piles, I’d add the garlands, ornaments and tinsel to the tree. We must have gotten tired and sloppy as the decorating went late into the night, for I can clearly hear my father telling me, year after year, that the tinsel must not be casually tossed onto the branches, but carefully placed, one strand at a time.

Just as we’d finish the tree, the baby — it seemed nearly every Christmas, there would be a new baby in the house — would wake up. It was the real kickoff to Christmas to bring the little one down and watch those eyes light up at the sight of the tree.

The rest of the children had to wait until morning — albeit very early in the morning — and sit at the top of the stairs while my father checked to see if Santa had left “anything.” Clearly, a bit of apprehension was in the air while consciences were examined but, inevitably, the big guy came through.

Over the years, the family would grow exponentially. We expanded the house in Westmoreland, adding room for more stockings on the mantel and a high ceiling to accommodate the tallest tree.

Like all families, holidays were sometimes tinged with sorrow, as we ached for the presence but cherished the memory of a family member we’d lost.

We’d repeat favorite traditions and oft-told stories, like when my little brother couldn’t resist telling my father that there was a present hidden in the garage for him: “I won’t tell you what it is, Daddy, but it has wheels and it cuts grass.”

My father loved being the patriarch, overseeing a massive Christmas celebration of excessive eating, toasting, gifting and singing. Sometimes we’d take a walk after Christmas dinner, caroling to our neighbors, then come back for the next course, with a table laden with Briermere pies. For years, we all exchanged gifts until it became ridiculous, then we went to Kris Kringles, and finally focused only on the grandchildren.

The current number of grandchildren is 21, followed by 19 great-grandchildren, with 2 more on the way.

This year will be different for everyone, with no big family gathering at the Island house, where we’ve been taking turns to minimize health risks. Back at my winter home, I’ll decorate our tree myself, because I enjoy doing it more than anyone.

With a glass of eggnog or a Poinsettia, I’ll play Darlene Love songs and hang the decorations, so many of which have special memories. The silver angels to mark each daughter’s first Christmas, the silver Santa with a teddy bear for my son.

I must have a bit of a rebellious streak, for there’s never a strand of tinsel allowed on my tree. As far as I’m concerned, it’s perfect. The star on top will be the finishing touch, placed by my 9-year-old grandson.

As I’m writing this, wondering how and whether our children will join their father and me for Christmas, I just received a text from my older daughter in the city, with a video of her 6-month old baby Oscar being introduced to his first Christmas tree — decorated with shells that his father collected on Shelter Island.

A Christmas tree and a new baby — the ingredients for magical memories.