Christmas in Brooklyn

 

When I remember the Christmas of my youth, I conjure up the aroma of pine trees stacked outside grocery stores. The store owners built a stand with wooden stakes and rope. The trees arrived after Thanksgiving and stayed up until Christmas Eve, when my parents usually bought a tree. Prices came down when the store owners wanted to get rid of all trees before he has to dispose of them himself.

On Christmas morning we attended Mass at St. Francis Xavier Church, a cathedral-like parish church big enough to rival St. Patrick’s in Manhattan. The massive organ stood at the back in the choir loft. As the choir master played, the Christmas hymns vibrated through the church. I felt the sensations surge through my body as I sang out “O, Holy Night” and my favorite “Angels, we have heard on high” I especially liked the part that strung out Glor-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-or-ia.

 

When I reached teen years, I attended midnight High Mass on Christmas Eve. The aroma of incense wafted on currents of air to settle on the congregants who sat with heads bowed, and knuckled their chests “mea cuppa”

Every year, my parents bought a big jigsaw puzzle and after our Christmas dinner, we cleared the dining room table and set up the puzzle for the whole family to work on. It stayed up all week and we worked on it bit by bit until finished. Then it stayed up a little while longer so we could admire our handiwork.

So when I remember Christmas of my youth, it’s not the presents I got that stands out; it’s the activities that brought the whole world closer.