Growing up in Northern Indiana, our Christmas Eve tradition was rather simple. We rotated each year between Grandma’s, Aunt Dorothy’s, and our house. Roll in at around 3 or so and have food and drink and make merry and all that. It was a great tradition that, in retrospect, we were blessed to have; with families getting smaller and people having kids later in life — often after they’ve moved away from where they grew up — for many, those days may already be gone.
Aunt Dorothy and Uncle Dick had six kids; because of an 11-year age gap between Dad and Dorothy, my youngest cousin had several years on my brothers and me. But there were six of them, and they were the only cousins in town in the 70s. (We had other cousins on Dad’s side in Florida; and, on Mom’s side, some out of town and some that would arrive in the early 80s.)
Six kids, plus the three of us, plus aunts and uncles, plus Grandma. 14 by my count, though there may have been a cousin’s girlfriend or boyfriend in the mix somewhere.
I can’t tell you the order of things — did we go from Grandma’s to Aunt Dorothy’s to our house then begin the rota again? — but I can tell you that the 1978 edition was at our house, because I have vivid memories of a placekicker named Mike Michel for the Philadelphia Eagles missing a field goal attempt and the Eagles losing to the Atlanta Falcons in the NFL playoffs. (I felt bad for the guy; and this is before I grew up and learned about how Philadelphia treats its sports figures when they make a mistake. I have since learned that he was also the punter and was ill-suited for the placekicking job, but when one of the Mike-Mayer brothers gets hurt, you do what you have to.)
I digress.
This Christmas Eve tradition started during my Santa-believing days, so the festivities served as the precursor to the whole coming-down-the-chimney routine; the festivities — and the rota — continued until Grandma passed away in 1985, so we had a decent run.
Our House
Hosting on home turf was, at the time, sorta special. I would spend all day anticipating everyone’s arrival. Once they got to our house, we could eat — mostly some sort of heavy appetizer, if I recall correctly, but there wasn’t really a main course — and there would be inevitable card games that would not involve the kids. Wiezen? Sure, kid, when you’re older. (Once we figured out Euchre, though, all bets were off.)
Aunt Dorothy’s House
Aunt Dorothy’s house was fun because it was packed with activity that can only come with middle- and high-schoolers; add the fact that five of the six were boys — boys who had an annual tradition of fashioning some sort of super-bike out of multiple bicycles, thus necessitating a ladder to get on the seat and it has to be seen to be believed — and my brothers and I were usually in awe.
Grandma Was the Glue
Christmas Eve at Grandma’s, though, was the most memorable.
I can still tell you the layout of her house, inch-by-inch. There was always the “davenport” that we’d sit on — never a couch, always a davenport — and there was that hexagonal side table, the one my younger brother could fit inside of. (He put himself there, we did not roll him into a ball and put him there.)
There was the recliner — Grandpa’s chair, the one he loved, the one he died in months before I was born — and it could lean so far back the Craftmatic people were jealous.
There were the encyclopedias — the ones I asked for when Grandma passed away — with letters and newspaper clippings tucked inside. (I still have them.) There was that music box thing that had the string you pulled and it played a song that I can’t name…but if I heard it, I’d know it.
There was also that mystery factor: did my Dad actually LIVE HERE? Yes, when he was a kid. Wait, he slept in THAT room? It was pretty small. And so on; questions that are sensible when you’re 8, and then you kinda understand how things work, not worth discussing.
Grandma’s Tree
BUT, really, the standout was the tree. Grandma’s Tree. Bold, italics, all caps.
A small, ceramic tree, but worthy of its stature.
It would be the centerpiece of the living room. It would plug in and light up and we would put what few gifts there were under that tree; Grandma liked to give out envelopes of cold, hard cash — WE LOVED THAT — and the only other gifts exchanged were between my parents and Grandma, my Aunt and Uncle and Grandma, and anyone with a godparent in the family (thus excluding my older brother, whose godparents were Dad’s buddy from growing up and his wife).
So the tree served its purpose. And it was glorious.
Turns Out…
I’m pretty good with details, but wasn’t 100% on this one: Mom had taken a ceramics class and learned how to make things like…miniature Christmas trees. So she made this particular tree as a gift for Grandma — whose December 2nd birthday kicked off our birthday month — and that meant she wouldn’t have to worry about putting together a large plastic one like ours.
And where is it today?
Mom’s house. Serving as the centerpiece.
Flash Forward A Few Years
When my own kids were growing up, our Christmas Eve traditions were different and much more random; the Methodists didn’t hold services on Christmas Day, so Christmas Eve it was. Younger kids would enjoy the live animals at the earlier service; when the kids got older and we were in town, we’d hit the later service.
Now, things are even more random just about everywhere: Gen Xers like us might have a kid or two home, a kid or two in college, and have to juggle multiple things. A kid or two may work Christmas Eve — nothing wrong with time-and-a-half — and last-minute shopping has given rise to stores staying open later than we remember. (Or is it the other way around?)
My Hope for Christmas Eve 2025
Grandma’s house also had another staple: a little curio thingy that looked like a book that was permanently opened to a page that read:
“Make new friends, Keep the old. One is silver, The other gold.”
As we build new traditions, move from job to job, town to town; or as we find ourselves looking around and wondering where the traditions went, and how to build new ones…
May you find Grandma’s Tree. Or something like it, something that you can hold onto and that can bring you joy.
God Bless.
