Everyone was coming to dinner on Christmas Day.  Everyone.  The entire North American continent.  Mom had informed my father of this development the previous afternoon, her voice gradually escalating in pitch and timbre until I had an irresistible urge to start barking, and to scratch, feverishly, behind my left ear.

She put on a happy face for the remainder of Christmas Eve, but it was Christmas morning, about 2 hours prior to our first guests scheduled arrival, before mom found true inner peace.  Mid-morning on Christmas found mom huddled over the kitchen counter, up to her elbows in fresh bread dough, quietly humming "O' Come All Ye Faithful", full of joy, the Christmas spirit, and a full week's dosage of prescription tranquilizers.

The guest list for our yuletide feast consisted of my parents, my older brother, me, my Mom's folks, my Dad's mother, and assorted aunts, uncles and cousins numbering upwards of 25.  This assemblage also included my Great Uncle Earl who once traveled with the circus.  He wasn't a performer, he had simply gotten on the wrong train back in the early twenties and didn't realize it for about a week and a half.  That's another story; and my aunt, The Bearded Lady, tells it so much better.

As dictated by tradition, Mom's parents had arrived late Christmas Eve and stayed overnight to see the expressions on my brother and I's faces when we opened our gifts the next morning.  They always arrived late because Grandpa found it necessary to attend as many church programs as possible in the tri-county area.  Grandpa must have believed that our time spent in church was directly proportional to our allotted time in Heaven.  If his theory holds true, he will still be kicked back swapping stories with St. Peter long after the rest of us have packed our bags and departed for warmer climes.

By noon on Christmas the swirling aromas from the bird in the oven, the 7 foot blue spruce in the living room, the fixin's on the stove, and mom and Grandma's perfume had all brewed themselves into a sort of "Eau de LordI'mgonnagag".    Appetites were wounded, but none critically; and shortly after the feast got underway, in the flurry of plate passing, the carpet enjoyed a generous helping of macaroni & cheese, and one gravy boat went down in the storm.

Although it was clear that the mac & cheese incident wasn’t my fault, for some reason the next year I found myself back at the children’s table.

Understandable though…now I could keep a better eye on my kids.

Merry Christmas, Everyone!

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