The other day I was on the phone with my sister discussing “the menu” for Christmas day. There are quotes around the phrase “the menu” because that’s how my mother referred to it – like she was planning a sit-down meal for 100 people. “The menu” has been basically the same my entire life, so why she needed to write it down is beyond me. But my mom, in all her detail-driven glory, not only wrote it down, she kept “the menu” in a file, along with “menus” for baby showers, wedding showers, birthdays, christenings…any event where more than 6 people would be in attendance, she wrote down the details.
Sadly, my sister and I are not that detail-oriented — and it might be surprising to know that I am more organized than Beth. Well, not so surprising considering my career is dictated by deadlines. Anyway, much like “the menu” and other Kehoe holiday constants was this, my mom saying to me, “why does Mary Beth wait to the last minute every year? She runs around like a chicken with its head cut off every year. It’s not like Christmas is a different day each year.”
So, it wasn’t a surprise when, during this phone conversation with my sister, when I said, “we should figure this menu out now because Christmas is next week,” my sister’s response was “WHAAAAAT??????? Nooooo, we still have 2 weeks.”
“No,” I replied patiently and more than a bit amused, because after all, some things never change. “It’s next week.”
She let loose with a few expletives, and then admitted her flaw – “I do this every year. Why do I do this every year?”
Beats me, but I’m kind of glad she does. It’s one of the few times I feel superior to Beth. I will have presents purchased and wrapped well before my sister can even claim to be halfway done her Christmas preparations. If it sounds like I’m gloating, I am. I have to take the few wins when I can.
The other night, while wrapping gifts for my 3 kids (Kaitlyn is red, Tommy green and Matthew blue wrapping paper), I did what I usually do when I’m engaged in some sort of tradition. I thought of my mom. And I tried to figure out how she ever managed to pull of Christmases like she did.
When I think of Christmases past, visions of bazookas (seriously), Godzilla, army tanks, footballs, basketballs and guns run through my head. Being the youngest of five and with three brothers ahead of me, I had to fight my way through the carnage of boy stuff just to find any baby dolls (and accessories) Santa left for me.
It must have been a complete nightmare buying gifts for 5 kids. I always got what I asked for – except a pony. I never got the pony. But I tried to help Santa out once the coveted Sears Wishbook arrived. It was a treasure trove of things I could only dream of having, and of things I never even knew I wanted, but suddenly just had to have. One year, as I flipped through the Holy Grail of catalogues and heading straight to the Barbie section (I convinced myself I was too old for baby dolls and should graduate to Barbies), I saw them – Little Kiddles!
They were little (obviously) dolls, about 2 or 3 inches tall, that came in lockets, or heart-shaped plastic containers, or ice cream cones (Sweet Treat Kiddles) or cologne bottles (Kiddle Kolognes). And, there was a Little Kiddles Talking Townhouse – complete with working elevator (you had to turn a crank), a fold-out front lawn, a loft bed (how forward thinking) and a fire place. I loved it, and had to have it. And Santa didn’t disappoint. It was the best Christmas ever, only to be topped two years later by….
The Barbie Country Camper!I found it in the Wishbook, and circled it 1,000 times. In red, blue and green crayons. It was the coolest thing I had ever seen. It had two vinyl inflatable chairs, two vinyl sleeping bags, plus you could get accessories (fake campfire, cooking utensils). It was time to give Little Kiddles a rest (but not retire them, that Talking Townhouse was way too cool to stop playing with it). My only regret was that Barbie didn’t fit in the townhouse…
Years later my mom told me how the Barbie camper found its way under our tree. Think Cabbage Patch Dolls, Furbys and Tickle Me Elmo all rolled into one. My mom said she searched the entire Delaware Valley for the camper and came up empty with each turn. Then a rumor swirled that a store in King of Prussia was getting a delivery. Great news. The bad news was, my mom couldn’t take off work to get there. Nana came to the rescue when she took a bus to King of Prussia at the crack of dawn, and waited for the camper to arrive.
It was front and center under the tree Christmas morning. It was the best Christmas ever, only to be topped a few years later by…
My ABA basketball!Growing up in a basketball family, there was never a shortage of basketballs in the garage, kitchen living room, backyard, bedrooms, basement. The problem was, every time I wanted to go over to Rittenhouse and shoot around, I couldn’t find a ball that had air (and spotting the Lock Ness monster was easier than finding a needle in my house to inflate the ball). If I did luck out and find a ball that could actually be dribbled, the ball was lopsided, or the valve was protruding, or the leather/vinyl was so cracked it hurt my hands.
The only answer was to ask for one of my own.
And lo and behold, under the tree that Christmas morning was the most beautiful, inflated, clean, red, white and blue basketball I had ever seen. It was a Rawlings, and it had the official logo of the American Basketball Association, and the signature of Dave DeBusschere (my favorite basketball player on my favorite basketball team — the Knicks – who was then commissioner of the ABA). As soon as we got home from church I took my prize across the street to Rittenhouse and shot that ball until my arms ached. I loved watching the spin of colors if my shot release was just right. It was beautiful.
Then I went home, washed the basketball off (seriously, I was determined to keep that ball pristine), and tucked it under my arm. I wasn’t letting go for fear one of my brothers would take it and ruin it. This was MINE.
I was thinking of all those things while wrapping my kids gifts in color-coded wrapping. I hope I’ve been able to do for them what my mom did for her children. She gave us everything we could hope for (except a pony, darn it), and gave us things that make our lives the best they can be — the intangible things like faith, family, compassion, forgiveness.
Those are terrific gifts, better than Little Kiddles, a Barbie camper, and even an ABA basketball.
Merry Christmas to all of you….
Cheryl Kehoe Rodgers is a content editor at The Times Herald. She can be reached at crodgers@timesherald.com.
