Once upon a time, (just a way to start), in Wrentham, a small town in Massachusetts, a girl, my grandmother, celebrated Christmas each year with her family. My grandmother had grown up as a Christian, specifically Episcopalian; she had a father named Charlie, her mother’s name was Dorothy and she had an older sister named Gale.
Every year on December 25th, the whole family would come over and early on Christmas morning, my grandmother would run down the stairs, excited because Christmas was suddenly here. All the relatives would all ready be up, sitting around the tree. On Christmas day Santa Claus would pay a visit to the LaDue household and my great grandmother would cook a wonderful dinner, and they would open presents and just relax as a family. When I first asked my grandmother what Christmas was like as a kid she described it in one word: wonderful.
All throughout my mother’s childhood they would celebrate Christmas with my grandmother’s parents. It was magical; stockings were hung over the fireplace and Santa came and visited them when they were little too. When my grandmother married; she converted to Judaism which is why we ran into a dilemma when my great grandmother died. We didn’t feel exactly right celebrating Christmas anymore, but they had always gotten together as a family on Christmas day and didn’t want that tradition to end; so instead, we called the day family day. Though we now do not get together and have a traditional Christmas; we have created traditions of our own.
Now every year on Christmas Eve, all the cousins and my aunt and uncle have a giant sleepover at my grandparent’s house and we make a crazy milkshakes with random ingredients like barbecue sauce or mustard; and every year on Christmas day we all sit together and exchange presents and watch home videos of Christmas past.