Adventus

When I was a kid, our Christmases were so small you could have held them in the back of a van. It wasn’t that we were poor insomuch as my dad was a notorious cheapskate. Mama said if he ever died he would walk toward the light merely so he could turn it off.

This was because father’s family sprang from immigrants. These were financially cautious people who only got married for the rice. My father’s people were also German, so they were humor impaired.

I don’t mean to generalize, but as a culture, Germans do not grasp the subtle nature of humor. I was once hired to entertain for a German civic club banquet in Pittsburgh. I told my first joke and heard only the hum of the A/C. At which point a lady in the audience rose and whispered to her husband: “Ziss man gives me headache, Heinrich.”

I stood there, staring at 500 granite faces. Heinrich and I had 59 minutes left.

So anyway, our Christmases were handmade affairs. Because handmade stuff was cheaper. My mother refused to buy gifts when she could handmake them. Our wrapping paper was reused supermarket bags. Our decor came from the backyard. My mother sewed everything. My only non-handmade gift was manufactured by the Fruit of the Loom corporation.

I’ll never forget visiting a friend’s house one December day, and seeing the stark differences between our holidays.

My friend’s family had a tree so big it took four men to carry it. They needed an FAA license just to put the star on top. Most importantly, his tree WASN’T PLASTIC. There were mountains of gifts, wrapped in colorful paper, and none of their decorations were made of Elmer’s glue and popcorn.

Moreover, the house was littered with crystal bowls, all filled with glorious little yogurt-dipped pretzels. You could eat as many as you wanted and the bowls magically kept filling themselves back up.

That night, I rode my bike home and wanted to cry. Namely because I realized we were poor. We had a fake tree from Sears, circa 1902. We had stockings that were actual tube socks. And I never realized you could dip pretzels in yogurt.

When I got home I remember my mother was lighting the Advent candles. My cheeks were rosen from the cold. I reeked of little-kid sweat. I was upset. I felt cheated. I was about to give my mother a piece of my little mind. Why couldn’t we have better Christmases? Why did all our gifts have to be made by hand? This was an injustice. But when I approached, she shushed me as she lit the candles.

She told a story. In wintertimes past, American immigrant pioneers used to bring wagon wheels into their cabins. They were so poor, they didn’t have enough to eat. So, to entertain themselves, they decorated the wheels in greenery, suspended them from rafters, and placed four candles upon the wheel. These wagon-wheel wreaths were the centerpiece of their Christmas, long before trees became in fashion.

The candles represented hope, peace, joy, and love. Which, my mother said, are the only gifts poor immigrants could afford to give to one another. But these are not cheap gifts, mind you. For they are the same gifts given to us every day from On High. Where would you be without hope? Or peace? Or joy and love?

Then, my mother said that even though modern Christmas had become a commercial holiday, even though other families were buying four-wheelers, GI Joes, and Couples-Massage Barbie, it didn’t mean that poor families couldn’t have merry Christmases too.

We stood there in the glow of the flickering Advent candles. I could smell cornbread baking in the kitchen. Our construction-paper-chain garland looked tired. Our pitiful tree leaned against the corner like a fuzzy drunk. And I thought of the people I came from. Poor people. Hardworking foreigners and pioneers. People who made their way in this nation against all odds.

I looked at my mother. “Do you know about yogurt covered pretzels?”

She smiled. “Yes, I know.”

“They’re amazing.”

“They really are.”

“Can we get some at the store?” I asked.

My mother smiled. “No. But we can make our own.”