Bringing Home Christmas

There is a tradition in Ireland called ͞bringing home Christmas. Da used to tell us about it, how the day before Christmas his Ma and Da went to town for all the ingredients for the Christmas feast. The Christmas goose was hung from the rafters waiting to be roasted on Christmas Day. The brothers and sisters all collected greens from the woods. By sunset on Christmas Eve, there would be holly hanging along the hearth and over the doors. Then a big white candle would be set into a turnip and lit and put in the window to welcome travelers, letting everyone know that at this house, there was indeed room for 

anyone. On Christmas morning, there might even be a gift left at the foot of each bed.

Our Christmas was quite different. Ma spent weeks preparing the feast for Christmas Day. Biscuits, breads, scones, pies and Christmas pudding were all prepared in advance. In keeping with our American tradition, we had finally added a Christmas tree that was decorated well before the holiday with colored lights, glass ornaments, sparkling ͞icicles͟ and an angel on the top. The candles in our windows were arcs of electric lights. The radio played Christmas songs, not just the carols we all learned in school, but other songs about Ma kissing Santy Claus, or getting front teeth for a Christmas gift, or being jolly and dancing around the Christmas tree. And, of course, Sanity Claus came down the stovepipe and out the oven door, and left us gifts under the tree. Essentially, it took us weeks to bring home Christmas! 

The year I turned seven, I spent two weeks just before Christmas living with the Sisters of Saint Joseph, in the convent next to St. Patrick’s School. Ma was expecting another baby, and one day we woke to a different kind of scurrying in the kitchen. Our next-door neighbor, Mrs. Martone, was making our breakfast, with Michael balanced on one hip and Annie crying on the kitchen floor. We stared, wide-eyed, at the kitchen table. There was no oatmeal, no brown bread, no tea. Instead, there was a bowl of fresh fruit and enough biscuits for the entire neighborhood, and cups of coffee with bumpy brownish lumps of sugar and thick double cream. Mrs. Martone tucked a strand of frizzy gray hair into her headscarf, and smiled with her whole face. ͞“Sit! Eat! You mama have baby! You Papa work!͟“. She put Michael in the high chair and plucked Annie up off the floor to console her, all the while jabbering in her animated melodic Italian and smiling her joyful toothy smile. So, we had our first continental breakfast, and Jimmy and I went off to school excited about our new baby, and only a little pepped up by the biscuits and coffee. 

That evening we did not see Da. Mrs. Martone was in our kitchen again, getting supper on the table. She told us that Da was at hospital with Ma, and she seemed less animated, a bit more serious. Still, she sat with us and smiled and prodded us with pasta and enormous meatballs and crusty bread and cheese that Jimmy said smelled like old socks. We laughed around the table. We loved Mrs. Martone. She had a warm and generous nature and there was always room for another child on her lap. Still, after a whole day of not having Ma in the kitchen, and not seeing Da at the supper table, we began to grow anxious. 

Then, during supper the next night, Mrs. Martone told us that Da would be home before we went to sleep. Jimmy and I were allowed to stay up and wait for him. We waited, while she cleared the table, cleaned the dishes and put a plate on the stove for Da. She finally sat down with us to wait. We heard his step on the back stair, and our hearts jumped with joy and relief. But, there was no song and no whistle, and Jimmy and I knew before we saw him that something was wrong. Mrs. Martone rose when Da came into the kitchen, taking his wet coat and mopping the puddles of rain from the back hall. He walked towards us, his head down, his shoulders hunched, and I remember feeling a cold ball of fear growing in my throat. There was no twinkle, no smile. His face was pale and stubbly with whiskers. He sat down with us, and with a weariness that we had never seen before, he told us about Ma and the baby. 

͞”Your ma went to hospital to have the baby, and she had to have an operation,͟“ he said. ͞“She’s very sick.͟“ And then, not looking at us, his voice broke as he told us that our new baby brother had been with us for two days, but that he was born very weak, and had gone to heaven to live with the angels. Ma had asked that we remember him when we said our prayers. The pain in Da’s eyes made Jimmy and I cry. Then there was a fear for Ma that crept in like a cold raw wind, and we shuddered. 

So, there we were, in the middle of the impending Christmas season, and Ma lying in hospital, and Da despondently grief-stricken, when Jimmy suddenly developed a high fever and had to be put to bed. After a day or two the fever persisted and he was covered with pink spots and couldn’t lift his head from 

the pillow. Da had to call the doctor, who came right away and told us that Jimmy had Scarlet Fever. He was to stay home and in bed for at least two weeks. That is how I came to stay with the Sisters of Saint Joseph. 

St. Patrick’s School was a long walk from home. Jimmy and I walked the long city blocks together every morning and afternoon. We had been drilled by Ma never to walk alone, always to stay together, and never to talk to a stranger. When Jimmy became sick, I had no big brother to walk back and forth to school with me. Da had to work, and Mrs. Martone would look after Annie and Michael and tend to Jimmy’s needs, but I had to go to school, so there was nothing to be done but for the Sisters to keep me. So, we packed the things I needed in a paper bag, and Da brought me to the convent and gave me a hug and said to be good and promised he would come for me as soon as he could. And there I was, without my family for the first time in my life, and paralyzed with worry for my mother. I remember watching through the rain-spotted window as Da walked away, his head low and his shoulders bent under his invisible burden. 

The Sisters were kind, and convent life was very quiet. In the morning, there was no bustling about looking for schoolbooks or mittens, no noise at the breakfast table nor scrambling for the last bit of toast. Everything was measured and even, structured and scheduled. My day began by rising early. Sister Alice Leo brought me a basin for washing. My school uniform was clean and pressed, my polished brown oxfords holding my woolen knee socks were neatly placed on the floor and my books lay on the table next to my bed. Washed and in uniform, I sleepily followed the silent line of black habits from my cell to the chapel for morning Mass, and finally to the refectory for breakfast. Since only the nuns were allowed in the refectory, I sat quietly just outside the door at my own little breakfast table, honoring their silence and eating without speaking. 

After breakfast I was accompanied to school by Sister Catherine, who brought me to the second grade classroom. She came back for me at lunch, and we walked back to the convent together for our midday meal. When school ended for the day, we went back to the convent again, this time for homework with milk and bread and butter. I sat with Sister Veronica, who was old and wrinkled, but who was a whiz at homework, and always had a gold star to stick on my paper. By the time homework was finished it was time for supper, and this time there were voices coming from the refectory as the nuns’ rule of silence was lifted. As I sat at my little table outside the refectory door, the sisters and I chatted back and forth about my day. After supper we went to vespers, and one of my favorite memories is listening to their sweet voices filling the halls with chanted song on the way to chapel. After vespers, I could sit in the parlor with Sister Catherine, who would read me stories to the tune of the ticking grandfather clock. 

The days took on a peace and quiet as smooth and flawless as the walnut wainscoting in the parlor. I had never experienced such order. It was a far cry from my bustling and clamorous home. There was no squabbling, no laughter, no noise at all. Each night I climbed into crisp white sheets wearing clean flannel my jammies, as the last flutter of the sister’s black habits came at the same time every evening. I was well looked after in body and soul, but I was inconsolably homesick. Every morning I prayed that Ma would come home safe and well, that Jimmy would get over his spotty fever, and that Da would come for me. Every evening I watched out the window, hoping to see him walking up to the convent door. 

Finally, it was the day before Christmas. Although it was raining, there was an air of excitement at school fueled by the energy of the impending holiday and the school vacation to follow. We were always dismissed at noon that day, and I had hoped that Da would be there to get me, but it was Sister Alice Leo who appeared to take me back to the convent for lunch. We walked in the rain from the school to the convent, where I beheld the metamorphosis of Christmas spirit. Out of paper wrappings scented with cinnamon and vanilla the sisters had set out their nativity set, lovingly placing it in the parlor. There were candles in all the windows, and the air was redolent with the scent of Sister Rosemary’s holiday cooking. They had washed, starched and ironed the special altar linens. Holly and bayberry had been spread throughout the convent, over doorways and holy pictures. The altar in the chapel was covered with red poinsettias, the statues of Mary and Joseph were adorned with golden robes. 

I thought of the story Da told us about bringing home the Christmas, and wondered if he’d ever seen such splendor. I thought of Ma in hospital, and our poor lost baby brother, and Jimmy’s spotty fever. Most of all I thought of how tired and sad and heavy Da was the last time I saw him. My throat tightened as the tears of disappointment and the yearning for home overwhelmed me. Sister Alice Leo brought me milk and beautiful hand-cut fruit scones, but I was struggling with my tears and could not swallow. There was no homework to do, nothing to keep me busy, and my eyes were fastened on the window. 

Da did not come that afternoon. He did not come when we settled in for our supper of fish pie with creamed potatoes. He did not come as we answered the call to vespers. As the sisters sang carols, I grew more desolate by the second, and thought the worst thing that could possibly happen in life would be to 

spend Christmas morning in the convent, without Santa Claus, without Ma’s giant breakfast, without my family, but most especially without Ma’s reassuring presence and Da’s big laugh and merry eyes. I sat alone in the parlor, waiting with dimming hope. Soon it would be time for bed, and Sister Alice Leo would come for me and bring me up to my cell. How could I ever go to sleep knowing that I would wake to a silent Christmas morning in the convent? 

The street outside was dark and quiet, as Christmas Eve descended and everyone had a home to go to except me. Soon, Sister Alice Leo did come, holding out her hand for me to join her. We went from the parlor to the hall, where the stairs wound their way up to the chambers. There, standing in the hall by the door, was my Da. My heart nearly jumped out of my chest as I ran to him, and he picked me up off the floor and squished me against his woolen coat. I hugged his neck with fierceness, crying and laughing at the same time. We said our goodbyes and our thanks to the Sisters, and the next thing I knew we were off home, him carrying the paper bag 

with my things and me holding on to him for dear life. 

Finally, we came up the back stairs to our middle floor tenement, him taking the stairs by twos and then swinging me up alongside him. There were no candles in the windows, no sound of carols from the radio drifting into the hall. Da’s voice, restored with merriment and family contentment, called out, “Mary, I’ve brought home Christmas!͟” and we joyfully burst into the kitchen. There before us, our kitchen table was laden with food from the entire neighborhood: Mrs. Martone’s lasagna, Mrs. Golinski’s galumpkes, Mrs. Chasse’s Buche de Noel, Mrs. Goldstein’s latkes and applesauce, Mrs. Donavan’s seedy bread, and a  pile of sausages and pickles from Mr. Murphy’s pub. Around the table sat my family. There was Jimmy smiling spotlessly, and Annie sitting next to him dangling her feet and for once not whining, and Michael in the high chair banging a spoon, and Ma, dear Ma, holding out her arms for me. Still holding on tightly to Da’s hand, I knelt on the floor beside her and put my head in her lap, and the comfort of her hand moving over my hair was the best gift I could ever have had. 

Somewhere in the night I woke to the sound of the kitchen clock ticking. As I listened to the quiet breathing of Jimmy and Annie and Michael, I could hear my parents talking softly in the muffled tones that had always lulled me to sleep. I was warmly tucked into my own bed, with my family all around me, and I knew that Santa Claus had already come.