A Clueless Christmas

Four empty stockings line the fireplace.

The room is treeless for another year. I'm questioned repeatedly about the absence of tall greenery and asked if we ever had a tree. Yes, we did. Year after year, we moved the dining room trestle table to a north/south position and made room for Christmas near a large window. Collections of baubles, lights, handmade ornaments from early classrooms, and the truly garish multi-pointed star from the Mississippi family farm tree were assembled on the floor and tabletop to be chosen or rejected for display. Forgotten during months of storage, many ornaments cause me to pause and remember their special provenance, thus extending what should have been a rather fleet process. As I'm driving three little girls home from an elementary school choral program, the front seat passenger informs me that I can select a tree at a lot downtown and the people will bring it to my house and set it up for me. Thus, she reasons, there's no need to be tree-bereft. I appreciate her input and promise that next year, we might have a tree if the girls will be my decorating crew. They happily agree.

The origins of traditions are often difficult to recall. Just when or why did something become a habit? an expectation? So it is with gift tag clues at our house. Henry created the concept when our children were young and then continued to modify its usage as individuals joined our annual celebrations or subsequently left the family circle. Anyone arriving during the holidays was well informed (warned?) in advance to expect this curious custom. Most participants simply smiled but rarely understood any of the clues attached to their particular presents. Our son-in-law is the exception. Nearly always he is able to decipher even the most obtuse clues. I'm so inept that even if I help select the gift, wrap it and stick a note on the paper describing what is tucked inside, I'm rarely able to unravel the Cluemaster's (aka Henry) clever phrases.

In 2012, there were no clues. Gifts arrived at other residences without benefit of gift tags, festive paper or small surprises to be discovered. Because of a relatively new job assignment and a dearth of available vacation time, our most desirable holiday visitors were staying home. Not to worry, I was told by my northwest located daughter. They'll be here for Christmas 2013 and I'm instructed to mark that date using a Sharpie! My desk calendar is now boldly labeled and I'm already planning the holiday in my head.

For nearly a month, our house was awash in red and green with tinges of silver and gold. During the Thanksgiving week-end, three energetic girls gently lifted angels, reindeer, snowmen, mice, and Santas from their snoozing spaces and drifted through various rooms deciding just where each special item might best be exhibited to herald the season. Some of Maddy, Hanna and Jessy's groupings were a bit eclectic, nearly all were smushed together a little too closely. At least one decorator's helper admonishes me not to move a particular red convertible with Santa at the wheel. I left it alone. A tradition in its embryonic stage.

We're very fortunate that an array of young girls choose to spend time at our house. One day, a threesome arrives to announce that they've composed a song. Soon they're imploring Henry to let them share their music on his piano. And, could he video their performance? Maybe post it on YouTube? Yes is the answer to all those questions. Not only are they adorably cute, but the song is lovely, too. Will Tropical Pineapple Island become a hit? Does it need lyrics and a famous singer to sell it?

On a Sunday afternoon, the same threesome ring the doorbell, attired in jolly aprons. They're here for the cookie/cupcake-making activity. First, there are rules.

A trio of serious faces looks at me as I explain about clean hands and nails, how this is an all or nothing production and that if one girl wants to quit, it's over. They nod solemnly. Hands held up for inspection pass easily. I mention that cooking occasionally takes more time than expected. More nodding. Sharing is emphasized and embraced. Henry is videoing our interaction. With the camera over my shoulder focused on Hanna, Jessy and Linnea, we begin. Dough is retrieved from the fridge and flattened via rolling pin. Cookie cutters cause some sighs as favorites are selected. Wet towels keep fingers tidy for each step in the process. I'm very clear that cookies don't always turn out as well as we hope and the girls convince me that they can handle such disappointments. Eventually we move on to cupcakes and the inevitable batter sampling. It may be the best part of day. Within a couple of hours, there are enough viable cookies and cupcakes to decorate. No disagreements, no slackers, nobody wants to quit. We're baking a tradition.

Christmas morning, Santa (aka Henry) is laden with gifts for our dear next-door neighbors. He may be in disguise but Hanna and Jessy have identified him since they were about three years old. They say it's because he wears Henry's tennies. Maybe so. Each year, we ask the girls' parents if Santa should appear. The response is a resounding 'yes.' There's no age limit for Santa and we're thinking that in future years, when the girls come home from college for the holidays, he'll greet them.

Our own Christmas dinner is enjoyed at Sherman's Deli where we discover that many other people have the same idea. I'm comfortable with the no preparation/no cooking/no clean-up concept. We order hot open-faced turkey sandwiches with mashed potatoes. Perhaps not as tasty as my versions (on a day without mishaps) and there are no leftovers for future meals, but quite satisfying nevertheless. In the evening, we're next door again with cupcakes and a pecan pie to share at dessert time.

Embracing friends visiting from Vienna and near neighbors whose second home across the street rescues them from the dark cold of Washington, we accept invitations for meals at their respective homes and welcome them to ours. With 14 grown-ups and four girls gathered at the Austrian couple's condo, we feast on a Scandanavian buffet and learn about life in Vienna's Russian zone following World War II. Our dining companions include natives of England, Austria and Sweden. Languages merge and accents proclaim personal roots. We're people from around this country as well as abroad, together as family, often kin without blood.

Just a week ago, the tight threesome (Hanna, Jessy, and Linnea) tackles the dining room table with soft cloths and lemony Pledge. They pronounce the results as extra shiny. We open the buffet drawer where I store linens and select bright white place mats. Linnea spies another set, more fancy in pale blue with a lace overlay. She wonders if we can have two place mats at each setting. Why not? I locate the matching blue cotton napkins, dig out new napkin rings topped with fake pearls. More elegance for our table. A brief lesson in napkin folding ensues with each girl totally engaged in learning the technique. Of course the adults of my acquaintance realize that I need a refresher course in folding, but my pupils are amply impressed with my rudimentary knowledge. From the buffet shelf, I carefully remove eight Haviland Bergere dinner plates. Sharing the history of this china which I've owned for 47 years, I watch the girls as they are extra careful putting the plates around the table. Newly folded napkins look beautiful in the middle of each plate. Extracting beautiful silverware from the drawer, I explain that these special utensils belonged to my brother. After the girls depart, I add place cards with a small bumblebee sticker on the upper right corner. The place cards are attached to mini bottles of nail polish. Gifts for the guests.

At precisely 4:45 pm, the doorbell rings. Four beautifully dressed girls, now including Maddy, keep their dinner date. They've been invited for their first ever grown up, sit down dinner, sans parents. Henry and I are the only adults in the room. A kid friendly menu of fresh veggies and ranch dressing, deviled eggs, mashed potatoes, grilled chicken and spinach salad with mandarin oranges, almonds and raspberry vinaigrette is spread across the inviting table. Each young lady demonstrates poise, converses easily on a variety of topics, and avoids any food or dish disasters. They are a pure pleasure to host. Post dinner, there's a movie to watch while the table is cleared, dishes are washed and brownie bites are ready at last for the dessert finale. I wonder if they'll insist on another such meal next Christmas. It may be their tradition already.

When not engaged in routine holiday functions, there are lazy afternoons of "Simon Says" in the backyard, time to smell the roses or magic tricks demonstrated from Henry's inexhaustible supply.

Henry conducts an Acoustic School, teaching the girls about communication via plastic cups and string.

Too soon, the last night arrives. Hugs and tears crowd our entryway as sad faces must accept that the next day, flights await. Back home in Vienna, Olympia, or Leamington Spa, England, the weather is wretched. It will remain so for months and months. Our dear friends leave us, carrying memories. I believe they're all clueless as to how their time here passed so quickly.