memories of dad on christmas

8/8/2019 Memories of Dad on Christmas

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Memories of Dad on

Christmas

December 20, 2010 ByTom Matlack4 Comments(Edit)

Tom Matlack and others sharetheir most indelible Christmasmemories of their fathers and

grandfathers.
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When I was a kid, my parents were hippie-Quaker-pacifist-over-intellectual activists who spent most of their timehanging out with lesbians, smoking pot, and getting arrested.

By the time I was 8 years old, I had found an antidote to mysense that I had been born a freak: football. Compared tothe free-for-all at home, football made sense to me; it didntrequire complex philosophical debate or civil disobedience.Controlled violence with clear winners and losers was manlyand normal.

I worshiped the Purple People Eaters, the Minnesota

Vikings dominant defensive line. For Christmas that year, allI wanted was Viking gear, and Santa obliged. Under the treeChristmas morning were full pads and a real football. Yes.My grandpa Jesse was bald as a bowling ball, and hedmastered the art of moving his scalp to make his enormousears wiggle. He was a big guy who had once played football;that made him a god in my eyes. After all the gifts wereopened and wrapping paper cleared away, Grandpa Jesseand my dad took mesuited up in my new gearto the fieldacross the street. Dad threw me a bomb. The ball whistledtoward me and I reached out for it, holding on for dear life asit brought me to the ground. For that moment, nothing elsemattered but the connection to my dad and my grandpa. As Ilay motionless, breathless, on the frozen ground, staring up
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at the clear blue sky, I felt like I had just scored a SuperBowlwinning touchdown. Best. Christmas. Ever.

With Christmas approaching, we asked people to share

holiday stories of their dads and granddads. Heres whatthey said. Wed love to hear your favorite, or most indelible,Christmas memories, tooplease share them with us in thecomments section below.

My dad, Gary Miller, sends himself Christmas presents fromother women to get my mom riled up. A tried and true

favorite is from the Girls at the Copa Cabana.Casey Miller, Durham, North Carolina

My father could tolerate only so much company during theholidays. So one year, to get everyone out of the house onhis own terms, he recorded an episode of the WeatherChannel during a severe winter weather advisory. You know,

the one where they say an impending storm is about to dropa foot or more of snow within the next several hours. Then,when he was tired of the merry-making, he put that tape intothe VCR and made a huge commotion that everyone shouldget home where theyd be safe. People grabbed their coatsand high-tailed it out of there.Brian Hyland, Little Ferry, New Jersey (story occurredin Brick, NJ)

In the summer between my sophomore and junior year ofcollege, my father was all over me about my grades. I madehim a bet: if I made the Deans List, hed have to lose 30

pounds. Instantly, he yelled, Done! He chuckled like ahustler. No way you ever make Deans List.


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I spent the fall semester in London, wherein spite ofthe shenanigansI got a 3.67. When my mother, brother,and sister picked me up at JFK in mid-December, I told them

the good news. Mom nearly cried happy tears at the thoughtof her heart-attack-waiting-to-happen husband shedding 30

pounds. I like to think she mightve been proud of me, too.

That night Dad asked me about my grades. I inhaled deeplyand shook my head. I dunno He reacted predictably:Why did I pay for this semester?

The trap had been set.

Like all fathers, Rich Reidy is difficult to buy presents for.Which helps explain his unbridled glee as he opened thefirst one from me: Double Stuffed Oreos. How did youknow?

The next package brought more elation: Chips Ahoy

chocolate-chip cookies. But then he remembered his wifedoesnt encourage such treats. He stifled his idiotic beamingand looked at her with an innocent shrug. Honey, youreldest son did this, not me! Finally, he finished hisunwrapping and ended up with three packages of eachcookie brand. For him it was truly a Christmas miracle. Ismiled.

Enjoy it now, Dad, because starting January youre losing

30 pounds! This absolutely did not compute in his brain.

Mom jumped up. Jamie made Deans List! He looked to mefor confirmation of the impossible. I nodded with a Cheshiregrin. Three point six seven. Dad coughed in disbelief. Heknew he had to congratulate me. And he tried. And failed


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miserably. Thats, uh, wow, thats just terrific. Ourliving room glowed with the Christmas joy of four Reidys, mymom, brother, sister, and I. And that spirit lasted days longerthan normal.

Of course, my old man never lost the weight!

Jamie Reidy is author ofHard Sell: The Evolution of aViagra Salesman. Jake Gyllenhaal just received aGolden Globe nomination for playing Jamie in Love andOther Drugs, the movie based on his book. His parentshave always lived in Rockland County, New York.

My mother has these antique porcelain figurines of angelsholding small candles and letters that spell out Noel. Shehad a few pairs of these around the house, and everyChristmas, my paternal grandfather, a very quiet and staidman who rarely cracked a joke, would go around andrearrange them to spell Leon. Once shed fixed them, hed

go back and do it again. How this 80ish-year-old man coulddo it so stealthily, well never know, but he was very goodabout it.Amanda L. Sage, Columbus, Ohio

My dad was Jewish, as was my whole family, but I lovedcelebrating Christmas. Dad would put a Jewish star on myChristmas tree, and one year he bought gifts for himself and

put them under my tree. To this day, I still remember our lastChristmas together.

A friend of mine was away from her family and all alone, soof course I invited her. I made sure there were little gifts forher under the tree. My dad was not well and I thought that


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perhaps this would be our last Christmas together. I wasworried that I had made a mistake inviting my friend. I wassurprised and happy to hear him tell me that inviting her overwas the right decision. After all, this was the season to give.

He died that next February, 27 years ago; he was only 61years old. He may have been Jewish, but he knew what theChristmas season was all about.Martyne Lo Russo, Brooklyn, New York

In 1958, my father had just returned to Havana from another

of his frequent trips to the mountainous, eastern part ofCuba. Never a talkative man, my father asked me toaccompany him to a farm next to his shop on the outskirts ofHavana early on Christmas Eve morningthe day familiesin Cuba traditionally gather for a holiday dinner of roast pork.

The farmer led us to a hog pen, where my father sized upthe candidates and made his decision. I was 8, and my

father must have felt it was time for me to understand thegrim facts of life. As I watched, the hog was slaughtered,dressed, and taken to the pit where it would cook for thenext several hours. I am not proud to say this, but the porkwas delicious.Raul Ramos y Sanchez, Beavercreek, Ohio

The screen on our chimney blew off and we didnt know. A

squirrel found it during the night, crawled down, and settledin our Christmas tree. The next morning one of our dogskept whining, so I went over and realized there was asquirrel nestled in close to the trunk on a branch. Myhusband flipped out and started screaming, Everyone out ofthe room! He wanted to open the doors to let the squirrel


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out, but one of my sisters told him not to. She said the thingwould run and poop all over the house and knock thingsover.

We called WDC animal control. They came fairly quickly(this wasnt their first visit to the house) and used gloves and

peanut butter to grab the squirrel. What would you like meto do with him? asked the woman as she held the squirmingthing. My husband said, Um, I guess take him to anotherneighborhood.

A few days later, the girls found a stuffed squirrel that looked

real and planted it in the tree. Oh, Daddy, they said, itlooks like its back! Their dad screamed, Goddammit,everyone out of the room.The girls cracked up and it took my poor husband a fewminutes to realize they were playing a trick on him. It is nowa tradition to get him one squirrel item every Christmas: atie, a tray, a glass squirrel.The Evans Family, Washington, D.C.

On Christmas Day in 1991, my dad gave me an envelope.Inside was a contract for four seats at the brand-new localminor-league baseball team, the Kane County Cougars. Thebest! I had only mentioned I was interested in discoveringhow much these tickets may beand here I had an entireseason of baseball ahead. Dad was so excited, so happy forme! This gift meant he really got me, that he knew I likedsports, especially baseball.

The phone rang during lunch at my parents house. It was acall from the GM of the Cougars. He was very sorry but thefour front-row tickets we had were unfortunately sold to alarge corporation and we needed to reselect our seats. Mydad was crestfallen. He stopped everything. He told me to


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get my coat and hat. It was snowing outside and a foot hadfallen the day before. We showed up at the stadium, allsmiles and excitement. The GM invited us to walk aroundthe new stadium and pick out some other seats. Dad and I

giggled, slipped, fell, got up again, and sat in piles of snowon seats to see our vantage points of the field. It was awonderful daddy-daughter bonding experience. I still havethe season tickets to this day. I will always have warmmemories of that day and how Dad was so happy to give mesomething he knew Id love.Katie Podl Fish, Fox Valley, Illinois

My Christmas memory is of my dad, Scott Thompson,running around our house with sleigh bells on Christmas Evewhen my brothers and I were very young. He would circlethe house, shaking the bells loudly as our mom wouldexcitedly tells us Santa was flying over our house to drop off

presents for the neighborhood. He kept this up for years,sprinting around the house no doubt in a bright green robe,

looking like a crazy person, but he did it out of the love forhis kids. The gig was up when we got older and saw thosemysterious sleigh bells hanging on our front door one yearas a Christmas decoration, but in the end, its the thoughtthat counts.Hailey Thompson, Westlake Village, California

Many years ago my dad would call the neighborhood kids

pretending he was Santa Claus. Hed stuff wax paper in his

mouth to disguise his voice and put on his best Santa: Hoho ho! This is Santa Claus. Have you been a good boy thisyear? What would you like for Christmas? Dont forget toleave me cookies and milk. One year he called our neighborand did his usual. Then an hour or so later he called againbut didnt disguise his voice as well. She picked up on it and


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said: Mr. Alpert, I know this is you. The real Santa called anhour ago.Jonathan Alpert, author of the syndicated column NoMore Drama

My father was complex. An intelligent and generous manwith loving qualities, he was also a violent alcoholic whotormented my brother, mother, and me with his broodingsilences, controlling behavior, and angry outbursts.

Christmas seemed to tame the demons inside him and heembraced the season with a childs enthusiasm. At

Christmas, he lavished presents on us. After the stockingsand presents were unwrapped, hed get up from his reclinerand leave the room. Wait, wait. I think theres one more

present. And then hed walk back in with another gift for us,usually something really big.

December 1999. My fathers hoarse voice hadnt cleared upso I had urged him to see a doctor. The doctor thinks

theres a tumor. Can you call him please? he said over thephone. I called a physician colleague who arranged aconsultation with a cancer surgeon. A week later we flewdown. What do you want for Christmas? he asked me atthe airport. One of your shotguns, I replied. His facecrinkled. What the hell do you want one of those for?Because its yours. I knew it was going to be his lastChristmas. I wanted something meaningful from him.Ironically, his guns were a link to a part of him I adoredthe

strong, nurturing character that the outdoors brought out inhim.

Christmas Eve. I phoned the surgeons office for the testresults. My father called to check in. Did you hearanything? I hesitated; I hadnt wanted to spoil Christmas.


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Do you really want to know? Of course, he said. Itspositive. They said its lung cancer.

Christmas night we all gathered at my fathers apartment in

Montreal. The cancer had weakened him and dampened hisusual Christmas buoyancy. But despite the bad news, hewas cheerful, as much for his grandkids as for himself. Wewere finishing up the presents and I was cleaning upwrapping paper when my brother, Rich, disappearedupstairs and came back into the room with an empty guncase. Its at the house. A 20-gauge. Rich will show you howto use it, my father said. There was always one last present.

Wendy Knight, New York, New York

My Grandpa was bald all the time I knew him. As a teen, ormaybe preteen (Im 48 now; he died 8 years ago), Ideveloped a bad habit of picking split ends out of my longhair. So Grandpa teased me that he wanted my hair. Oneday, probably in early December, I got my hair cut. I had mybeautician save the hair and I wrapped it up and gave it to

him for Christmas.Ellen Porter, San Bernardino, California

It was December 8, 2000. I was just noting the date andrecalling where Id been where Id learned John Lennon hadbeen shot 20 years before (at my parents house in Chicago,watching the news). Now it was a Friday and I was at work;my then-boss Raya real father figure to me to this daysat right behind me.

My phone rang. I picked it up and heard my mothers voiceon the other end. Im at the hospital, she said. Yourfathers had an accident. Then she said something aboutfalling off the roof (hanging lights, of course) and brainswelling and observation. I dropped the phone and


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remember yelling in that deep, guttural way people do whenthat visceral horror strikes. My coworkers came around tosee what was going on and Ray said, Do you need to gohome? Go home. I lived 300 miles from my parents and I

didnt know what to do. I couldnt stand the thought of losingmy actual dad. And so I remained frozen.

Sometime later that day I was still at work, unable to doanything but lay my head on Rays desk and relive the call,when the phone rang again. I braced for the worst. It was myfather, who had sustained two broken arms, two brokenwrists, a broken nose, torn lip, and had most of his teeth

knocked to the opposite side of his head. Honey, heslurred, if you have to fall off a roof, land on your face. Itdoesnt hit anything vital.

I did go home for Christmas, one of the last times I did so.Dads arms were in casts and much of the bruising wasgone. He stood off to the side at the edge our family portrait,his arms tucked behind his back. But he was smiling.

James Mitchell My father-in-law loved Christmas. He loved it so much thathe would spend hours searching for just the right tree. Laterin life, he would decorate his own tree as well. My mother inlaw would make absolutely gorgeous trees that I envied, butmy father-in-law wanted the colored lights and all the sameold ornaments. So he had his man tree in the family roombasement.

Christmas was always a time that brought out my father-in-law in my husband. His actions showed the memoriesnestled deep within. The tree-buying ritual, the joy and

patience in hours of decorating and the same thing my fatherin law would always say (Thats a great tree, isnt it?). So


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much pride in that tree. When my father-in-law passed awayseveral years ago, my husband was on a mission for acertain present for our three boys. When he came home withthree sets of golf clubs, I knew exactly what he wasnt able

to express to me or our boys: that he missed his dad and thepassion for golf they had shared togetherand theChristmas joy his dad had passed along to him.Colleen Sheehy Orme, Virginia

My father was supportive, always attending Little Leaguegames, parent-teacher conferences and the like, but he wasalso pretty strict and worked long hours. I looked up to him

and admired him, but rarely felt like I bonded with him. OneChristmas, when I was about 10 years old, he got up fromthe dining-room table during dinner and went into the kitchento get something. As he did so, he started whistling themelody from The Carol of the Bells. Impulsively, I startedwhistling the harmony (loud enough for him to hear), and wewhistled together for several measures. When he returned tothe dining room, he didnt say anything, but gave me a look

as if to say, Where did you learn to do that? I always thinkwarmly of the moment many years ago when I actuallybonded with my dad, if only for an instant, during Christmasdinner.Scott Swanay, New York, New York

I remember my dad with a shirt and tie and apron cutting theturkey in a very organized fashion. He was especially goodat this because when he was in high school and very poor,

he worked in a small kitchen where they made chicken piesand sold them at a store near his home. My dad told me thathe always did a terrible job cleaning the chickens, so hewould take the carcasses back to his mom who then madesoup, stews, and food for the family. Since his own fatherhad died when he was young, he always had to look for


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ways to provide.

To come from a poor family and then provide food for 30people each and every year was important to him. I smile,

knowing how he got this experience, and know how proudhe was always looking out for his family.Robin Samora, Readville, Massachusetts

It was snowing Christmas morning. My siblings and I, ages 3to 9, had our noses pressed against the cold glass windowas we watched my grandparents car pull into the driveway.With boundless energy, the other kids raced to the door. I

remained at the window, wiping away the fog, as I watchedmy grandfather, De-Dad, open the trunk of the car and

produce package after package of beautifully decoratedChristmas presents. I saw my dad hurry outside to grab anarmful of gifts and take my grandmothers arm so she did notslip on the ice. As De-Dad was walking up with the last stackof gifts, a bright red bow blew free from a package and gotstuck in the branches of a bush. It stayed there for a week.

One by one, as they came in the front door, boots werestomped, hats, gloves, and coats were shaken free of snow,hair was fluffed up, noses were red, and hugs and kisseswere exchanged where warm cheeks met cold onesonesthat warmed up fast in front of the fire and with the warmth offamily.Brenda Jones, Southampton, New Jersey

My dad would wait until Christmas Eve to wrap his gifts andwould use all of the remaining teeny-tiny scraps, so his giftsalways looked like a wrapping-paper quilt of sorts. We alsohad a fun family tradition trying to guess what was inside the

package before we opened it, so he would disguise all ofhis gifts. For example, one year he put one of those nail


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clippers with a little chain inside a box for me that containedan item of clothing. So the package rattled in an unusualway, throwing me completely off track.Susan DiMezza, Erdenheim, Pennsylvania

When I was 19, a girlfriend and I decided to move out on ourown and share an apartment. Trying to be fiscallyresponsible, we decided we couldnt afford a Christmas treeand all the trimmings; no matter, we thought, wed be visitingour families anyway. Well, my dad wouldnt hear of it. Theweek before Christmas, he unexpectedly appeared on ourdoorstep wearing his woolly toque, a grin from ear to ear,

and sporting a live Christmas tree in one hand and a bag oftrimmings in the other.Susan Harrison, Mississauga, Ontario

Sometimes men have a hard time putting words to theirfeelings. In my large Irish-American Catholic family, the mendidnt shower their kids with words of praise. We didnt hearthe words, but we sensed the feeling. When I was still young

enough to sit on his knee, my grandfather would put his armaround me sing me a song:David, David aint no goodChop him up like kinlin woodPut him in a stove and hell be hotHell be good for mutton chop!Everyone would laugh and clap. Of course, I loved it andwanted to hear it over and over again. Mostly, I wanted theundivided attention of my grandfather. Only as an adult,

recalling the words, did it hit me what a horrible song it was!

The ghoulish words belie the warm and loving feelings Ireceived from my grandfather on those rare and specialmoments when I sat on his lap, the center of his world, onChristmas.


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David G. ONeil, Newton, Massachusetts

We live in the beautiful Pacific Northwest, so our traditionwas to get up the last Saturday before Christmas, pull on the

hiking boots and sweaters, and head out for a day-longadventure. With Dad at the helm of our truck, wed go atleast 100 miles to find a cut-it-yourself Christmas tree place.Once there, it was a trek to the farthest tree, then a hunt forthe perfect specimen. Wed have to walk all the way aroundit. Once you found one as tall as your arm raised up and aswide as your wingspan, you could think about cutting it. Afterthe entire family voted yes, the cutting would begin. Dad

would saw and saw. With glee, wed wait for the sign to yell,TIM-BER! Then hed push the tree over and wed carry itdown to the car. I thought every family did this.Holly Duckworth, Lake Oswego, Oregon

When I was 6 years old, my dad thought it would fun tosurprise my brother and me by dressing up as Santa andvisiting us at our home. He and my mom had an elaborate

plan they knew would make for a lasting memory. Afterdinner my mom had us sit on her lap by the Christmas treewhile she read Twas the Night Before Christmas. Thescene was set perfectly! There was a fire burning in thefireplace, we were sipping warm mugs of cocoa and thelights on the tree were twinkling. About halfway through thestory, there was a knock at the front door. My mom said, Iwonder who that could be. As she opened the door, myeyes grew wide when I heard, HO HO HO! and saw Santa

Claus standing in the doorway.

My little brother jumped up and ran toward Santa with hisarms wide open, ready to give him a big hug. Unfortunately,the family dog, a German Shepherd named Rosie, beat himto it. Only Rosie didnt want to hug Santa. She wanted to


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taste him! Instantly, Santa stopped ho-ho-hoing andstartedNO-NO-NOing. My mom literally had to pull Rosie offSanta Claus. I stood there frozen, thinking Santa would notbe leaving us any gifts that year.

Karen Hoxmeier, Canoga Park, California

When I was a kid, my mother Christmas-shopped for thethree kids, her parents, my dads parents, the cousins, themailman, the paper boy, and who knows who else. Dadshopped for her. He was always tight lipped and neverasked for help or opinions. By Christmas Eve, speculationabout Dads gift to Mom ran high. When I was 7 or 8, I

blurted, out of the blue, that he had bought her a mink stole.(It was quite a long time ago, when women still wore stolesand fur was not yet politically incorrect.)

Sure enough, the next morning my mother let out a whoop ofjoy and danced around the living room with the soft, warmfur draped over her bathrobe. After the excitement dieddown, all eyes turned to me. I just shrugged. I just knew.

Unwilling to throw caution to the wind, the next year Dadpulled me aside a few days before Christmas. He wanted toknow if I could again divine his plans for my mother. Ithought for a minute or two and then gave an answer closeenough to the truth to make him nervous and cement myreputation as a Christmas psychic.

We began a father-daughter tradition. In exchange for mysilence, I became his sidekick and joined him on his

Christmas shopping expedition. Driving home, Dad wouldremind me that this was our secret and I was again sworn tosecrecy. He neednt have worried. I never dreamed oftelling. I didnt want to be left at home on the nextclandestine shopping trip. Even more important, I felt a fiercerivalry with my older sister. I would have carried those


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secrets to the grave. Knowing something that she didnt wasjust too good to give up.Susan NyeFiled Under: Featured Content, Good Is Good Tagged

With: baseball, Christmas, Christmastree,dad, death, family, father, football, Good IsGood, grandfather,jews, Tom Matlack

About Tom MatlackTom Matlack is just foolish enough to believe he is a decent

man. He has a 16-year-old daughter and 14- and 5-year-oldsons. His wife, Elena, is the love of his life.Comments

1. Karen Jones says:

December 20, 2010 at 9:14 am Edit

My father had the (Guts? Love? Tenacity?) tough job ofcoming to our house every Christmas to be with us as wedecorated the tree on Christmas Eve (we didnt do it until hearrived that day) and to share in the present-opening chaosof Christmas morning. Hed stay a few days, and then goback home. How he managed to do that every year, when

(as I understood when I was older) he had to spend timewith the woman who had left him, and the one he loved untilthe day he died, and to be with the family hed lost.Amazing.
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2. Mike Sorenson says:

December 21, 2010 at 5:17 pm Edit

This will be the first year without my dad. Tragically, we losthim to liver cancer in October. He always loved Christmasand I have many great traditions to pass along to my sonbecause of him. Some of my favorite memories ofChristmas with him involve the annual hanging of theChristmas lights. Each year we would plan on getting the jobdone in early November to avoid freezing our asses off, andinevitably we would be perched on the roof in a foot of snowin December shivering as we strung strand after strand and every year, of course, we would try to go bigger andbetter with our display.

One year when I was about eight, my dad stood on the topof the ladder with a rake in his hand, trying to push a standof lights to the top of one of our trees as I stood trying tostabilize it. Suddenly, I heard a crack and the leg of the oldwooden device snapped off. My dad yelled as he fell to theground, landing flat on his back. Terrified, I ran over to him,certain that he was dead. He just laid there staring at thesky for a minute before breaking into laughter. He pickedhimself up, totally unharmed. In fact, he said his back hadnever felt better.

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