Hello from my new space,
It’s been a good day and a half, and a great deal has been accomplished. Since returning from the Thanksgiving trip to Iowa, I have worked to recover from a serious cold, and packed in the various remedies, including homemade Chicken Noodle soup. I still have a cough, though productive, but I think I am almost beyond it. It’s amazing to me how dependent I am on space for a sense of wellbeing. I do not need a lot of space, but I need organization and structure to manage any sense of security, any feeling of comfort. While this is something of which I have been well aware, it appears that this requirement for my psychological homeostasis is even more profound as I age. It is sort of a full-circle thing, so so it seems.
As I move into my little space, and I am grateful to more than one for this, the first thing I needed to do it make it feel welcoming. And those who have spent any time in my first little apartment, the Acre, or even the mini-Acre know well, this time of year, the need for some recognition of the Christmas season is who I am all about. Anastasiia, the young person I refer to as my first exchange student calls me Santa, and I believe that is her moniker for me in her phone. What is it about Christmas that changes people, even if it is only briefly? From where and when did the sense of giving (and as difficult as it might be to ignore the commercialization of the birth of a Savior – for those who wish to focus there, and for that I have significant appreciation) originate? From where did the most endearing things that create memories find their beginnings? Much like our language, which we have borrowed from most everywhere, our Christmas traditions are a hodgepodge of acquisition. Yesterday, when speaking with the owner of a local business, one who has a European heritage (and recent), we shared those memories of the holiday season that are most memorable, most important to our emotional understanding of Christmas. For her it was baking with her mother and sisters, it was the carolers who strolled their neighborhoods, and later her own caroling for others. As such as what she shared, it was the look on her face and the tone of her voice as she reminisced on that earlier time of her life.
When I think back to the holidays, spending time at my Grandmother Louise’s house is where it all begins. Her house, as recently noted, was the last house at the end of 46th and Harrison in the small suburb of Leeds, located on the northern boundaries of Sioux City. I believe there was about 3 or 4 acres of land, with two significant hills on the acreage. Her house was simple, and a detached garage at the end of the property had been a house barn at some point. I wish I had pictures of it. Again, she was adamant that Christmas be celebrated at her house, and her elder sister would come down from South Dakota a couple days in advance to help with the cooking, (and I imagine the decorating). The Christmas dinner was traditional, but the rolls, breads, and pies that were available were unparalleled because she owned a bakery. When we arrived, usually late morning, presents in tow, as we entered the house and into the large country kitchen, my glasses would invariably steam up from the heat of the ovens, and the warmth in the house. Yet, that warmth was nothing in comparison to the welcoming joy that met us as we stepped into the house that had been my home from ages 2 to 5. Indeed, it was always coming home (as I sit and write, I am listening to Brahm’s Ein deutsches Requiem auf Deutsch). We would take our wrapped presents past through the dining room where the table was impeccably set, the buffet covered with nuts, candies, relish plates, cheeses, all spread out on the Doillied runner that covered her beautiful dining set (matching table and china hutch also adorned the beautiful sun-lit dining space). We would enter the long parlor like living room, with the beautifully lit tree adorning the one end. The number of presents surrounding the tree, beautifully wrapped, and taking up every available space was always stunning to me. We added our offering to what was already there, and then we would return to the car to get our instruments (more to come on that).
The same people would always be there, Grandma, Great-aunt Helen and her husband, Melvin, Cousin Martha and her sister, Edith, Martha’s daughter, Pat, Great-aunt Martha, who the night before might have served Lutefisk, oyster stew, red cabbage, lefse, and other Norwegian baked goods, and Uncle Clare. My brother, Bob, my sister, Kris, and I were generally the only children. Remembering each of them reminds me of the profound Norwegian heritage of the Martin/Hannestad family. Once dinner was served, it seemed the items passed never stopped or slowed down. Both my grandmother and her sister were accomplished cooks, and having grown up both on a farm and becoming adults during the depression, they were masters at making everything delectable. I think of the line from Dicken’s A Christmas Carol, my grandmother and her sister were the “founders of the feast,” and a feast it was. Every protein and side was perfectly prepared and the accompaniments, from rolls, breads, jams, or relishes created an inquisitive culinary, and yet home-cooked yet lavish Christmas meal.
While the pies and treats that followed were beyond anything imaginable, we would sometimes wait, allowing for some digestion. Following the cleaning of the table, we three kids would prepare to led the company in the singing or Christmas carols. My brother on trombone and me on trumpet (cornet actually), could play two parts, and my sister, Kris would serve as choirmaster. While I was not always excited about practicing before this all happened, it seems everyone grew to look forward to this part of our Christmas celebration. Looking back, I think it was important for my mother to feel she had given something to the day, even if it was the three of us doing it. Nevertheless, the singing of carols before the opening of presents became an important part of Christmas and something I appreciate so much more now.
Certainly, the effort my grandmother put into every aspect of Christmas was about her wanting to give us life-long memories, which this blog shows she was successful, and over the years, there are presents that stand out (e.g, my first cassette/player recorder and radio, sweater that I kept for many years after her passing, a book on Sioux City history she signed, which I still have), but a family gift of a wooden toboggan is still one of my favorites. It provides hours of sledding for family and friends. My older brother, who was incredible model car builder, and meticulous, would take Johnson’s Paste Wax and seal and buff the bottom yearly, so it glistened, and it was velocious; nothing could be it down a hill. And yet again, it was not the presents, it was everything she did not make it all happen. Much like my friend here in her bakery, the weeks before Christmas had to be unparalleled in the time demanded, the countless hours needed, and most of them on her feet. Her delivery schedule did not slow down and the quantities of grocery deliveries certainly increased as holiday demands for special breads, pies, confections, and cookies also spiraled up. And she was often at work from before 7:00 a.m. and did not get home until perhaps 8:00 p.m.. so preparing the home, shopping, wrapping presents, and turning Christmas into the fairytale that greeted us was on top of that. It was the way she pulled out all stops in every way imaginable that now shows through; Christmas the unmitigated time we seem to show love and kindness for others, was my Grandmother’s holiday. It was when the way she lived life in general found new heights. Yet, it was not only for her grandchildren, she would go above and beyond for her loyal workers. The ladies in the bread room, her delivery drivers, the bakers and pastry people, her front store workers, one of whom I have been blessed to somewhat reacquaint with decades later, each of them knew of her goodness and gratitude. As I have noted over the years in this forum, Louise, my grandmother, was the epitome of elegance and beauty. This showed in so many ways, but particularly in her Eastern Star events. She was the embodiment of style and grace toward those she encountered, regardless of when or where; and she was, is, and always will be the paragon of love for her grandchildren. She lived Christmas for sure, but not only then, but always.
I wish for each of you an opportunity to create new and lasting memories this blessed season. I wish for all who read you can find peace and forgiveness that is really what the incarnation offers. Thank you, Grandma, for the memories and for teaching me about love.
As always thank you for reading.
Michael
thewritingprofessor55 