Christmas Tradition

 

Christmas Tradition

Every year for Christmas, my immediate family rotates which extended family we visit. To visit my dad’s side of the family, we travel to Antwerp, Ohio, a tiny town with a population under 1,500 (so small Google lists it as a village). Over the past 50+ years, two of those 1,500 inhabitants have been my grandparents. My dad was born and raised in Ohio, and his parents, my Grandpa and Busha (Polish for “Grandma”), lived there the entire time I was growing up. Whenever my parents, my sister, my three brothers and I crammed into our minivan for the four-hour car trip, we were always glad to tumble out into my grandparents’ frosty driveway a few days before Christmas. The night before the big day arrived, after an enormous dinner with specialites piled high from all sides of the family, along with stolen bits of sugar cookie dough, my cousins and I would clamor into the living room and situate ourselves around the Christmas tree with presents piled neatly underneath it. 

We’d wait impatiently for what seemed like hours while aunts and uncles finished washing dishes (it never occured to anyone that it wouldn’t take as long if we had helped out). After all the dishes had been dried and put away, one or more adults usually had to track down my brothers (who were often found trying to climb the TV antenna onto the roof of the house). Once everyone was finally ready, the youngest cousins (my sister, cousin Meg, and I) would pass out a few presents to every family member. Then the real wait began. Busha wanted everyone to unwrap their gifts one at a time, with the entire family watching. Thus, everyone oohed and ahhed as the youngest unwrapped gift number one, then we would ooh and ahh as the second youngest unwrapped their first gift, and so on. After round one, we would start unwrapping our second gifts in the same way, one at a time. We usually only made it through about a round and a half of this before all heck broke loose and wrapping paper and bubble wrap began flying everywhere. 

Until this breaking point though, I can remember fiddling with ribbons on the ends of gifts and wondering what was inside. When it was time for the adults to open their presents from each other, we usually lost interest in watching our parents rejoice over gifts like dish towels, acting as though they’d just won some kind of Olympic gold medal, and began shaking our own presents and speculating what might be inside. I’d exchange gifts with Meg and agree we were definitely getting the same of something, but we could never guess exactly right on some presents. I also have a very clear memory of receiving gifts from my scientifically-minded--but sometimes forgetful--uncle and knowing I was about to get my third copy of the Box of Lies board game or another 5,000 piece sparkly fairy puzzle that would be stashed in my basement until spring cleaning rolled around and it was donated to Goodwill. 

My Busha passed away in late spring of 2019, but I still hold on to so many memories of her, one of the most vivid being her annual Christmas gift opening. Although at the time, I was always frustrated to have to wait so long between opening my presents, I’m grateful now that I spent that time with her and the rest of my family. It was always a gentle reminder to me on Christmas that whatever was inside the boxes I peeled apart could never matter as much as the people who gave them to me. Fifty years down the road, when I’m hosting Christmas with my future kids and grandkids, I hope I’ll be able to make the experience just as memorable for them as it was for me.