Every year growing up, there was an orange in my Christmas stocking. It commemorated an occasion I do not remember: my first Christmas, when my Jewish father and Catholic mother, newly married, were too broke to buy me anything else.
By the time I can remember anything, conditions had gotten better, and for my dad, the traditions and trappings of yuletide became something of an obsession. It was with the zeal of the convert, though he never converted, that he was the architect of Christmas joy.
THE GRAHAM FAMILY’S CHRISTMAS TRADITIONS
My father was of the opinion that a household Christmas tree should be visible to the naked eye from space. Even my Irish Catholic mother would say, “Really? More lights, Bobby?” To which the reply was always, “Yes, more lights, Suze.”
Until the age of 10, I would retire to bed on Christmas Eve, the tree in the living room still as bare as a forest pine. I would struggle to fall asleep amid the murmuring of aunts and uncles, clinking eggnog glasses, and the low intones of Bing Crosby, below.
When I woke in the morning, there it was, our tree, dazzling, blinking, so ablaze with light that Moses might have mistaken it for God himself. But it was never dad who got the credit, it was Santa, of course, who made the tree magic.
When I was 10, my little brother was born, and something incredible happened. On Christmas Eve, after Jon was put to bed, I was invited to stay up and decorate the tree for him with my family.Â
As my adult relatives discussed politics or the previous weekend’s Eagles game, my dad showed me step by step, first the beads, then the first set of lights, then the garland, then more lights, and finally, the ornaments, including some which were homemade by my mother for that first poor Christmas of the orange.
For the rest of my childhood, with the possible exception of a toy Star Wars At At, the best thing about Christmas was helping to craft the joy, surprise and wonder in my brother’s eyes those mornings.
As Jon grew older and wiser he started to doubt that it was Santa who transformed our living room into a Macy’s holiday window every year. I never wanted to flat out lie to him, but when he doubted, I would tell him what my dad had told me.
“I don’t think you’d want Santa hearing you say that this close to Christmas,” he would gravely warn. “It could be a big mistake.” And so I took that approach with my little brother, and decades later with my son.
It was also about this time that I was baptized as a Catholic. My parents had taught me both traditions and left it to me to pick one or the other by age 10. It wasn’t really until then that I started to wonder why my Jewish dad loved the birth of Christ so much, even though He was not his Lord and Savior.
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I still can’t fully answer that question, and with both my parents passed, there is nobody left to ask. Today, I think my dad’s overabundance of Christmas spirit was rooted in his joy at seeing those he loved being happy. Merry, even.
And it is truly a testament to the child we call wonderful, born of meager means to Jewish parents, that his birth is cause for celebration, even among those who have yet to accept his divinity.
For unto us, in accordance with the scriptures, a Son was born, and for Dad, well, being a dad was really the only thing that mattered. Christmas was not so much the birth of Jesus, as it was a celebration of the holy bonds of family.
A half century after my first Christmas, my son receives an orange in his stocking every year. He misses his grandfather very much, as do I, but he also resembles him.
All December he pesters me, “What are we gonna get for mom?” Like my father, my son seems to take the most pleasure in seeing others light up with smiles of joy as bright as my dad’s Christmas tree.Â
This Christmas Eve, under the cold dark skies in the land where children sleep, across broad and deep America, fathers like mine will toil to craft wonder come morning. All who try will succeed.Â
So from me, and my father, I wish you a very merry Christmas.Â
And remember, be careful what you say about Santa.
