Wigilia

Wigilia

In the 1950’s and 60’s, Christmas for us was not focused on Santa Claus.  Every ethnicity had their own particular traditions, as well as their own languages.  Our family celebrated in revered Polish customs and traditions. We did hang red felt stockings on a fake cardboard fireplace and exchange presents on Christmas morning, but there was more of a focus on the aspects of gathering and sharing with family.  

The Christmas Eve meal was the most significant part of the season.  Bread baking started days before.  The smell of dough rising and chopped nuts and  poppyseed filled the house.   The artificial “little Christmas tree” was lovingly decorated and a winter-dressed Christmas Angel was set beside the little tree.  We always bought a live tree for our living room, usually from a local stand and carried it home. My dad and my little brother had the honor of half dragging, half carrying it down the street to our house. Baking many varieties of cookies was also a really significant part of the holidays. The cookies were made days ahead of time and stored in tight plastic Tupperware containers and kept in the cold basement storage cabinet.  

  It was early on Christmas Eve morning. Wigilia. [Vih-gheel-ya]  Grandmom’s preoccupation was with the needed ingredients for the meal.  We fasted all day, so we were really hungry when the sun began to set.  It is tradition to not eat anything that day until the first star comes out. 

“Did you get the mushrooms?” Grandmom always asked.  The mushroom soup was one of the best parts of the Christmas Eve dinner. 

   Mom’s response was the same every year, like a recording, “I’m walking to get them in a few minutes”  Of course, in that time period, we walked everywhere.  There were small grocery stores in every neighborhood.

“Do we need onions?” To which Grandmom always replied (in Polish, of course),“Probably get a few just to be safe, and some celery.  Don’t forget the parsley and carrots.  We have cabbage, sauerkraut, and sour cream. Agnes is bringing the fish and pierogi.” Aunt Agnes always brought the fish and pierogi.  Her secret recipes which she refused to share, although I suspect she had never written them down. Everything was done by feel, by touch.

My sister and I had to keep straightening the house, setting the table, and polishing the good silverware.  We put the manger under the large Christmas tree, always a very aromatic balsa fir.  Of course, Baby Jesus was not put into the manger until after midnight Mass. Tradition.

 As we set the table, we needed to remember to put the traditional straw under the tablecloth and set the manger crib from Uncle Dom as a centerpiece, despite the fact that we needed so much room for all the food. Uncle was a priest and always brought us religious statues and artifacts to display. The straw is supposed to bring good luck and prosperity.  It makes the tablecloth look lumpy but looks a little better with the Baby Jesus and wooden crib with straw on top of it to weigh it down a little.  The hand-made wooden crib is designed to house a ceramic baby Jesus and is about ten inches long.  It sits on top of the mirror to level it.  The red pointsettias surrounding it were constructed from thick red  and green pipe cleaners which are attached to the crib.  They are supposed to symbolize the star of Bethlehem that led the Wise Men to Baby Jesus.  

Now we’re preparing for the  meal courses.  There were supposed to be 12 courses, one for each Apostle, but some got removed for various reasons.  Mostly because our tastes evolved and the cooking time was limited.  Now we just have mushroom soup, angel wafers, corn, fish, home fries, and dried fruit for dessert.  The homemade poppyseed and nut breads are saved until after midnight Mass. 

My sister and I are in charge of putting together the dried fruit dishes.  I bargain with my sister, who hates most of the dried fruits as much as I despise playing piano for a house full of relatives who love to sing Polish Christmas carols to accompany my music.  

  “Keep people happy and talking. Then distract them from asking me to play the piano so they can sing along.  If you can do that, I’ll dish out the fruit and give you only apricots.”

The table is set, pot of soup and bowls and angel wafers on plates. As we break this unleavened, holy wafer, we break a piece with each person at the table and wish them a “Merry Christmas”.  The intent is to break bread with each person and speak the words “Merry Christmas.” It really is unspoken, but intended to mean, “Anything you may have said or done that felt hurtful this year is forgiven.” The breaking of the bread represents new beginnings.

As we lit the bayberry candles, Mom always added,

“Bayberry Candles, burned to the socket

Bring love to the heart and luck to the pocket.”

Mom believed in tradition.

As all the guests put on their coats, hug, they depart to attend church, where they participate in singing of carols and Midnight Christmas Eve Mass. Midnight Mass was always a very sense-awakening experience.  Not only did the scent ofevergreens awaken the spirit, but was compounded by the fact that a church full of many elderly people who had been eating cabbage pierogies that evening and were in a close, crowded space.

We still celebrate Wigilia… but over the years we’ve transformed parts of tradition and focus on keeping meaningful underlying messages of the season.  We experience the Yuletide in the kitchen and though sharing,  caring, laughing and cooking together, and inviting neighbors who are lonely.  We continue to celebrate the breaking of bread to forgive past hurts. We’ve replaced the dried prunes with home made cookies and maybe canned fruit cocktail.  

But as we light the bayberry candles, I always remember that one year, when the candles had not quite finished burning.  The flames were low and unnoticed as we left for Mass, working their way down to the socket.  

When we returned home after the lengthy service, we opened the door to a blazing inferno of flame and smoke spiriling up from the remains of the manger on the dining room table.   It was an act of God that only the table was damaged.  But it took me a good number of years before I could see the irony. 

And, of course,  we don’t put hay under the table cloth.