Ways To Give

My Christmas Tradition

Written by Lilly Green

Every December, I involve my entire family in an attempt to establish a Christmas tradition. Finally after years of effort, my perseverance has paid off. I have established one - that being, the annual attempt to establish a Christmas tradition.

I have this compelling urge to fabricate moving, sentimental moments for my children to catalog in that parcel of gray matter labeled “Nostalgia: Do Not Open Before Middle Age.” So every year, I scour my craft books. I eavesdrop on private conversations. I hunt through bookstores and magazine racks at supermarkets looking for that one craft project, that one inspired ritual, that one unforgettable recipe that will forever live in my family’s mind and heart.

I came up with a wonderful recipe for breakfast on Christmas morning - apple fritters, juicy delicious apples encased in a mouth-watering sweet batter, deep-fried golden brown, served piping hot, smothered in 100% pure maple syrup, preferably imported from Canada tapped from trees that don’t use formaldehyde. My family hated them. Actually, my family hated them for three years.

Then there was the Christmas when I insisted on reading a beautiful, moralistic vignette before my greedy little children tore into their gifts. It was an honorable effort to temper materialism with more spiritual values - the reason for the season, as they say. In-laws, children, all alike, lost my drift apparently somewhere between the introduction and the first paragraph. In the din of animated conversation, I was left sulkily reading to myself. I decided that was one tradition I would forego. My pious attempt to redeem the spiritual significance of the holiday had been thwarted, so I let them open their gifts and wallow in the mire of their greed. Though I did rather enjoy the new set of bath towels I received that year.

We’ve tried making Christmas cookies, but they never quite look like the perfect creations in the women’s magazines - too much backyard grit, I suppose. The kids fight, competing for the cookie cutters and sprinkles, and they eat more dough than goes into the oven. So I’ve cut them out of the process. Now I try to arrange a time to bake - secretly, on tiptoe - while they were otherwise occupied putting potted plants down the toilet or running away from home.

Christmas cards are a very important tradition for me. I love to receive warm greetings from friends and family, far and near. I staple them to the wall for a festive decorative touch. I hate, however, getting beautifully embossed cards from people who’ve been married twice, gone on an archaeological expedition to South America, and delivered a baby in an elevator, and sign their cards simply, “Merry Christmas, The Smiths.” Better still, they have the printer sign their name, so all they need to do is mail them and pat themselves on the back for once again doing their part in maintaining the warmth of friendship across the miles.

I do sympathize with the problem though. I used to hand sign every card. The first batch would be signed with the name of every family member, including dogs, bunnies, and fish. Each card would include a humorous, informative, and personalized letter. The next batch would get a shorter
list of family - no pets - and a very brief, but newsy, note. By the time I reached the back of the address book, the scrawl would be barely legible. The card would be signed “Lilly and co.” — no note. Currently, I send out long photocopied epistles itemizing all the exemplary accomplishments of my cherubic children, so everyone can resent me.

I thought perhaps this year we’d begin a caroling tradition, but our neighbors might think we were begging for money (which is not a half-bad idea). Or perhaps we could hot glue homemade ornaments, which should be good for at least a couple of third-degree burns. Maybe we’ll be like those people who put painted nativity cutouts on the lawn and string enough lights to power a small industrialized country. That custom would either last till the neighbors complained of the traffic, or till we got the electric bill.

Years from now when my children are grown, they may not remember all these truly inspired moments, but, hopefully, they will reflect with love and warmth on the many years when Mama tried to start a Christmas tradition.

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