How This Began: A Christmas Story

            I don’t know how my Mother celebrated Christmas when she was a child.  This may seem a silly thing to write about but the fact that I didn’t have a clue as to how she and her family had celebrated this special holiday had never occurred to me until this last Christmas.  The grandkids had decorated the lower two-thirds of the Christmas tree with the unbreakable ornaments the night before and I was now going about the task of decorating the tree with the rest: the breakable glass balls, some hand-painted with birds and vibrant colors; the special ornaments that Jim and I had purchased during our travels together; and the few remaining ornaments from my childhood.  And that’s when I lifted the tiny ballerina ornament from its tissue-lined box.  It’s just this little bit of painted wooden doweling and pink tulle fluff.  You certainly wouldn’t think to look at it that this tiny thing could be so special to me but it is.  My Mother bought it for me back in 1954 when I was only four years old, just a few years younger than my granddaughter Claire’s age as I write this, from a lady who was selling them door-to-door.  It’s had a special place on our Christmas trees every year since then.  That got me thinking how I would like my children and grandchildren to know the story of my little ballerina.  What’s more, it got me wondering if my own Mother, Caroline Helen Finger McMahon, had ever had any special ornaments of her own.  So that’s how this idea came about.  I don’t have a clue how my Mother’s family celebrated the Christmas holidays.  Did they have turkey for dinner or ham? (seems a Southern thing that they might have preferred ham) Did they hang stockings by the fireplace or mistletoe over the doorway?  Did they gather round a piano and sing carols or go to a midnight church service?  I don’t know the answers to any of those questions and it makes me sad that I don’t.

            

 I do know, however, how my brothers and I celebrated the Christmas holidays.  It was without a doubt the happiest time of the year for us.  Because our Dad (Leo Joseph McMahon, Sr., known to my daughters, Michaela and Heather, as Papo) was a mostly unsuccessful screenwriter, our parents spent most of our childhood years barely scraping by.  The one time of the year when they begged, borrowed or stole to make life happy for us was at Christmastime.

         The photo above was taken when I was about eight; Kevin would have been four and Leo about twelve.  We’re standing in the living room of our house on Camellia Avenue, North Hollywood, CA.  Behind us is our big black and white TV.  Above us a red paper bell hangs from the ceiling - you can see it reflected in the mirror.  Mom or Dad would always drape crinkled foil streamers around the mirror and Dad always placed the cardboard cutout Nativity Scene where everyone could see it.  Behind me is our Christmas tree.  Yes, we’re all in flannel.  We wore lots of flannel shirts in those days and all of mine were hand-me-downs from Leo.  You might ask, considering all I’ve said so far, why we don’t look happy and I don’t have an answer for that.  Somehow even during the happiest of times, Dad could make you feel like you were standing in front of a firing squad even when the weapon was only a camera.

My brothers and I went to a Catholic School for our elementary education.  St. Patrick’s was a very good school, far better than the public education provided at the time.  It was comparatively cheap in those days though it was still a struggle for my parents.  Christmastime at St. Pat’s was the best time of the school year.  The school put on a Christmas Program every year and there was always the obligatory nativity scene.  Two years in a row (in my first and second grades) I was chosen to play Mary.  I had no speaking lines and hadn’t even had to try out for the part.  I just happened to have the longest hair in the school.  (The next year I would get the chicken pox and my Dad would cut off all my beautiful long hair so that ended my chances for a ‘three-peat.)  One of my favorite Christmas projects at school was when I was in the Fourth Grade.  Open House that year coincided with the Christmas Program and our teacher assigned us to make Gingerbread Houses or Candyland Scenes.  My Dad went crazy with the idea, I think mostly because it gave him an excuse to run wild in the candy store.  I must confess I did absolutely nothing on the project, except perhaps to steal a few of the candy pieces.  Dad got an “A” and he was quite pleased, quite pleased indeed! 

We had a number of holiday traditions at our house.  My Mother made a pumpkin fruitcake every year around Thanksgiving.  I’m not sure when she started this tradition but I would guess probably around 1960 when I was ten.  This was not one of those dark thickly packed fruitcakes that everyone jokes about.  This fruitcake was mostly like a pumpkin cake but with some glaceed fruit and cherries in it.  She would wrap this cake in rum-soaked cheesecloth and add a little rum to it every week.  By Christmas Eve we kids probably should not have been allowed to eat it at all as it undoubtedly surpassed the legal limit for big burly truck drivers.  But eat it we did every Christmas Eve along with a wonderful cup of thick creamy eggnog topped with nutmeg.  Also on Christmas Eve, Dad would light a large candle on the mantelpiece.  He lit this same green glitter-covered candle every year.  Once he did that and we had our fruitcake and eggnog, we knew with certainty that Santa would be coming soon.

Momo’s Pumpkin Fruitcake

2      cubes butter

½      cup oil

4      eggs

2      cups canned pumpkin

½     cup rum

2      cups sugar (part brown)

3      cups flour

4      tsp. baking powder

1 ½   tsp. salt

3      tsp. pumpkin pie spice

1 ¼   cups mixed nuts (almonds, pecans, walnuts)

2      pounds mixed glazed fruit

Cream butter, sugar and eggs until well blended.  Stir in pumpkin, then rum.  Combine flour, baking powder, salt and spice, then add fruit and nuts.  Bake at 300 degrees in bundt pan for about 2 hours or until toothpick inserted into cake comes out clean.

If you are following Momo’s tradition, wrap cooled fruitcake in cheesecloth soaked in rum.

If you notice that directions are somewhat scanty, that’s because that’s how Momo wrote out the recipe for me.  Two cups sugar, part brown, does leave the chef freedom to experiment but obviously 1 ¾ cup granulated sugar to ¼ brown sugar will give you a decidedly different cake than 1 cup granulated sugar to 1 cup brown.  Good Luck, My Darlings!