Remembering a Christmas Eve past

Christmas always evokes memories of my large, loud Italian family coming together to celebrate. And eat. A lot. Italians do not consume meat on Christmas Eve and every year Aunt Rose (my grandmother's sister) would invite us all to her small house on Wellington Avenue to enjoy steaming dishes of stuffed squid, stuffed peppers, cooked baccalla, eggplant parmigana, and a big bowl of baccalla salad. I never developed an appreciation for seafood, so I would instead focus on her crunchy homemade pizza and spaghetti, picking the calamari out of the latter's sauce and passing it to my cousins.

Going to Aunt Rose's house on Christmas Eve was something my family did without thinking. It's where we belonged, where there was always a place at the table--or, for the kids, a TV tray in the living room. But that year--1975--I was halfway through my six-month recovery following my first spinal surgery (for spondylolisthesis ). In addition to a body cast, I was bedridden and therefore seemed destined to miss the annual gathering at Aunt Rose's.

But my mother, the troubleshooter, would have none of that. She managed to convince my father that I should be transported--along with my hospital bed mattress--to Aunt Rose's living room floor that year. And then it was his job to make it happen. Calling upon his friends at our town's first aid squad, I was given round-trip transportation to Aunt Rose's house by ambulance that memorable year.

The ride (literally around the corner) was the first and only time I would leave the house during the first three months of my convalescence. The following month, Dr. Keim granted me permission to walk again, but that seemed a long time off. As I was carried into the cold, crisp winter night, we paused so that I could gaze upon our house, framed in multi-colored Christmas lights--something else I would have otherwise missed that Christmas.

The warmth of Aunt Rose's house was punctuated by the aroma of Italian spices, garlic, and simmering tomatoes. In the dining room, the volume of adult conversation ebbed and flowed, and often erupted into hearty laughter. Meanwhile, my cousins, seated on the well-worn furniture in the living room, formed a circle around me as I lay in the middle of the floor. As they ate from their dinner dishes, the television droned on in the background. The youngest of us, two-year-old Michael, raced between the dining and living rooms, darting under furniture and through adult legs. Occasionally he skidded to a halt long enough to rest his head next to mine. And then he was up and running again. It was just another Christmas Eve at Aunt Rose's and I was so happy that, thanks to my parents, I had not missed it.

This Christmas finds me decades older and many miles away from the extended family that made that noisy, crowded house so special. But I am blessed to be with my own family, making new memories that I hope my children will similarly cherish decades from now.

Wishing you joyous memory-making.

Merry Christmas!