dedalus_1947 | Entries tagged with christmas

Hark! The herald angels sing
“Glory to the newborn King!
Peace on earth and mercy mild
God and sinners reconciled.”
(Hark! The Herald Angels Sing - Charles Wesley: 1739)

On the Monday morning I walked into the Chaplain's Office, I immediately sensed the tension and the moody silence. There was none of the laughter and chatter that usually surrounds the staging area of the day’s activities. The normally welcoming and effusive Esperanza was tensely hunched over a computer, typing on the keyboard with one hand, while biting her nails on the other. Gavin, the calm and reassuring prison chaplain, was hectically rushing about in the back storeroom and he failed to notice our arrival. Alfredo, the Spanish-speaking assistant chaplain who met me at the security checkpoint and had escorted me here, remained standing at the doorway, as if frightened to enter. Sam, one of the Wednesday night assistant chaplains was sitting at a side desk, nervously bouncing his knee up and down, and there was a short, dark-skinned woman I had never seen before, leaning against the metal filing cabinet, apart from everyone and as quiet as a mouse.
“Hi,” I introduced myself to her, extending my hand. “I’m Tony. I usually come on Wednesdays.”
“Mucho gusto,” she responded in Spanish, shaking my hand in greeting. “Soy Maria.”
“Oh Tony,” Gavin said, walking out of the storeroom door with a bright orange extension cord wrapped around his hand and elbow. “This is Maria. She is a volunteer who helps with our prayer services on Saturdays. She is helping out today.”
The sullen spell was momentarily lifted as Esperanza smiled to greet me and I leaned down to give her a hug.
“What are you doing?” I asked innocently, looking over her shoulder at the computer screen.
“I’m downloading songs for today’s service,” she said quietly.
“Esperanza,” Gavin interrupted impatiently. “You don’t need to do that. I have last year’s songs in a folder on the desktop. Just print them from there. There are many other things I need you to do.”
“I couldn’t find them there,” Esperanza retorted testily. “Someone must have moved them or deleted them, because they’re gone. But it’s not a problem,” she added hurriedly. “I’ll just do a Google search and download new lyrics. I did it that way last year.”
“Yes,” countered Gavin, “but will those lyrics match the music we’ve recorded on the CD?” The question hung in the air like an accusation, until Esperanza finally responded.
“I’m sure everything will be alright,” she said hopefully.
“I hope so, too,” Gavin said, walking out the door and placing the long extension cord on top of a three-level cart in the hallway. “The inmates deserve a quality program from us,” he added.
What is that? I thought to myself, looking at the cart. It was loaded with a portable CD player on top, six large cartons of chocolate chip cookies in the middle, and a rack of twelve Coca Cola liter bottles on the bottom section. What kind of a prayer service is this?

Last week, when our regular Wednesday night Chaplain’s program was cancelled because of a prison-wide lockdown, Abby and Esperanza had mentioned this 11:30 am service that was scheduled to occur on Monday, the 20^th of December. The two assistant chaplains seemed very excited about this service, and encouraged me to come, but they hadn’t given me any specific information about what to expect.
“If you’re interested in seeing a different side of prison ministry, you should come,” Esperanza advised.
“If you can make it,” Abby added, “I think you’ll enjoy it. The entire program should run from 11:30 to 3:30.
Their insistence intrigued me, and despite the rainstorm and harsh driving conditions that swept into Los Angeles that weekend, I decided to go and find out more about this mysterious prayer service.

Looking past Alfredo’s shoulder at the assignment board on the wall, I saw that it was filled with a schedule of the week’s activities. There was a time, 11:30 to 3:00, at the top, and the names of three priests printed next to cellblock numbers for Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday of Christmas Week. The name of Father Charles, a priest I had worked with before, was written in for today in cellblock 600.
Hmmm, I wondered to myself. That’s odd! I thought one of the chaplains, or a deacon would be conducting the prayer service today. Will a priest be saying a mass instead? Where would they hold a mass in a jail? Is there a hall or auditorium that they use? How many inmates are involved?
The chaplains who could answer these questions, Gavin and Esperanza, seemed very busy and preoccupied with other matters. The other assistants and volunteers looked and acted as lost and helpless as I felt. Rather than becoming anxious and dwelling on these questions, I shrugged and let them go. The benefit of volunteering is being freed from organizational responsibilities and the need to know. As a volunteer, I simply showed up, helped out, and followed instructions.
“Tony,” Esperanza said, turning her head from the screen. “If you’re free, I could use your help here.”
“Sure,” I replied, moving next to her chair. “What’s going on with Gavin?” I whispered, watching him rearrange the cart.
“He’s worried about the service,” she replied in hushed tones. “When he called to check with the senior officer this morning, the lieutenant acted like he’d never heard about the Christmas service. There had been some fights and a big lockdown in the jail over the weekend, and Gavin was afraid he wouldn’t okay the service today. The lieutenant finally said yes, but Gavin has been upset and anxious all day. I didn’t help matters any by arriving late and losing the music,” she added quickly as Gavin reentered the room.
“Maria and Tony,” he announced. “If you will be so kind to come with me, we can begin setting up in 600.”
“Aah,” I paused, glancing quickly at Esperanza, before responding to Gavin. “Esperanza asked me to help her with something.”
“That’s alright,” Esperanza excused herself quickly. “It’s not that important. You go ahead and help Gavin get started."

“Good morning, Sergeant,” Gavin greeted the deputy in her office after leaving the loaded cart at the doorway with Maria standing guard. “We received permission from the senior lieutenant to conduct a Christmas service this morning. We are checking with you for clearance, and to designate a room.”
“A Christmas service, right?” the tiny, brunette deputy repeated, sitting back on her chair with a lit Christmas tree behind her. “Sure, you can use the dayroom next to 617. How many men are you pulling and from what dorms?”
“We’d like to pull at least three inmates from each of the lower and upper dorms,” Gavin recited. “They are regular participants and we are taking their names from our attendance rosters.”
“Fine,” the deputy said. “Go ahead.”
“Thank you, sergeant, and Merry Christmas,” Gavin said.
“Merry Christmas to you too,” the deputy added with a surprised smile.
“So we are using the dayroom for a mass?” I asked while pushing the cart through the corridor.
“Yes,” Gavin said. “We’ll set it up with two tables and about 50 chairs.”
“The dayrooms are a bit bleak for a mass, aren’t they?” I asked hesitatingly. “Aren’t there any other meeting rooms available for these types of services?”
“Not for inmates,” he replied grimly. “Dayrooms are the only secured facilities we are allowed to use with the men. We use what they give us.”
I shook my head over the notion of a Christmas liturgy in a prison dayroom. I had conducted discussion groups in those rooms before. They were barren, concrete shower rooms, with an open urinal, commode, and washbasin pushed back into the corner. Stacks of plastic patio chairs were dragged into these hallow, grey shells, and arranged into tight, talking circles of various sizes. The halls were also acoustical nightmares, and aesthetically ugly cement spaces, which echoed the slightest sounds and made listening impossible. I found it hard to imagine how Gavin was converting a prison dayroom into a sacred space for celebrating mass.

After receiving the approval of the dorm guards of the two bottom cellblocks, and speaking with two trustees who agreed to help with the setup, Gavin finally gave us a general description of what he was thinking:
“We will need two tables,” he began, “which will be covered up later. One table will be the altar for the Eucharist, and the other a platform for a nativity scene. I figure 50 chairs will be enough, and we can set them up like pews into three sections facing the altar. We will have the CD stereo player in the back to accompany the singing, and we keep the cart with the refreshments in the rear of the dayroom during the service. When the mass is completed, we bring the cart up to the altar table and begin serving the snacks. The men will remain in their seats and we will serve them a small paper plate with three chocolate chip cookies and a Styrofoam cup of coca cola.”
His energetic explanation did nothing to dispel my growing unease over the physical ugliness of the dayroom, the meagerness of the refreshments, and the general lack of organization. Although Gavin was beginning to sound more enthusiastic and optimistic, I was worried. So far only Gavin seemed to have a clear idea of how the room should look and what needed to be done. I couldn’t help thinking that, three cookies and a cup of coke was sad fare for a Christmas party. When Gavin and Alfredo left in search of the tables and chairs, Maria and I tried to connect the stereo to an electrical power source.

Finding a live electrical outlet in a jail is like finding a clean infant diaper when you unexpectedly need one. Prisoners are notorious for short-circuiting these power sources, and trying to sabotage the jail. There were four outlets inside the dayroom, and one by one, Maria and I tested them to confirm that none worked. I then ventured farther and farther afield, inspecting the jail corridors until I found an outlet that worked. It was adjacent to the rear door of the dayroom that was always locked. Without Gavin or another assistant chaplain at hand, I took the initiative and walked up to the dorm guard’s desk, where three deputies were in conversation.
“Hello, deputy,” I began. “We’re conducting a service in the dayroom, but none of the outlets have power. I was hoping you could open the rear door so we can run a cord through there.”
“None of the outlets work?” the tallest guard asked. “Gosh how unusual! He added, mockingly.
“No, sir,” I replied, patiently. “We tested each one.” The three guards conferred quietly for a few minutes, and then the shortest one turned to me.
“No,” he said. “We can’t do it. The door is too close to the exit door along that corridor.”
The answer was final. I shrugged my shoulders and returned to the dayroom.

Gavin had returned with Alfredo carrying a large cardboard box and the trustees pushing two rolling tables. One was a stainless steel, double-decker, cafeteria serving counter, and the other was a small typing table.
“These are fine,” said Gavin to the trustees. “Now if you can round up the chairs, we’ll start arranging them.” Then, turning and taking the box from Alfredo, he said, “Take the attendance sheets to the cell bars and read the names of the inmates we’re inviting to the service. Remember that first, we want to invite men who have attended our programs before. Then you can make a general announcement inviting more. Whatever you do, don’t say that this is a special Christmas celebration. This Christmas service is our gift of appreciation for their loyalty and attendance. I don’t want men coming out of the dorms because they think it’s a party.”
When Alfredo left, Gavin and Maria began decorating the tables. They took a sheet of white linen and draped the small table, and two folded blankets of blue and red to cover the cold metal of the serving counter.
“Gavin,” I said, steeling myself to give him the bad news about the music. “None of the electrical outlets in the dayroom work, and the closest one with power is next to the rear door along the exterior corridor. I asked the guards to open it for us, but they said no.”
He stopped for a moment, closed his eyes, and took a long, ragged breath.
“Tony,” he said quietly, “these men deserve to hear music at their Christmas mass. I’ll manage something with the guards. Why don’t you help Alfredo? I’ll see what I can do about the music.”
I nodded my assent and left the dayroom as the trustees were returning with two tall stacks of plastic patio chairs.

When Alfredo and I returned to the dayroom I saw an extraordinarily long extension cord, made up of three individual strings, stretching from the only functioning electrical outlet, down the corridor, and through the entrance door of the dayroom. Sam and Abby had finally joined us. They were arranging ceramic figurines of the Three Kings next to the central scene of Mary, Joseph, and the baby Jesus on the two-tiered table. Father Charles was also there, placing a ciborium and cruets on the temporary altar. Gavin and Maria were giving the final touches to the first set of arranged chairs, which were organized into three sections.
“There are 42 chairs,” I announced, after counting them. “How many more do we need?”
“Let’s get 10 more,” Gavin said, looking around with hands on his waist. “We can stack them in the back and use them as we need them. Now, while you supervise that, I’ll go get the hosts.”
From that point on, everything speeded up. The trustees arrived with the final chairs. Esperanza and another volunteer appeared with the song sheets and liturgy guidebooks, and we started placing one on each empty seat. Father Charles gave the finishing touches to the altar while Sam and Abby settled on the final appearance of the nativity scene. Soon, Gavin returned to inspect the room. Everyone was beginning to relax except for Father Charles, who would be saying the mass.
“Now, Gavin,” he said nervously. “You’ll be sure to translate everything I say into Spanish, right?”
“Not to worry, father,” Gavin said. “The prayer guides are in English and Spanish, and I’ll refer the men to the numbers in the booklet so they can follow along. I’ll also paraphrase your homily.”
“What about communion?” Father Charles added. “Some of the inmates haven’t made their first communion and don’t know the Communion rite. How do we stop non-Catholics from receiving Eucharist?”
“You’ll be fine, father,” Gavin added, soothingly. “”Just give your usual explanation when conducting a mass to a mixed audience. Invite the congregation to either receive the Eucharist with outstretched hands, or receive a blessing for non-Catholics with arms crossed against their chests. I’ll translate and explain in Spanish. Everything will be fine.”

Slowly, the men began arriving in bunches – groups of 3 or 4, from each dorm. The chaplains and volunteers made a point of greeting each man as he entered the dayroom, shaking their hands, and thanking them for coming to the liturgy. The men seated themselves quietly and remained at reverent attention, avoiding any of the usual saluting, fist-bumping, or joking that went along with these momentary respites from the confines of a barred dorm cell. Soon all the available seats were taken and Abby and I removed two of the stack chairs and sat down in the furthermost back row. All we could see were the heads and shoulders of the inmates spread out in front of me.
“Tony,” Abby whispered to me, holding the song sheet Esperanza had reproduced and distributed on each chair. “The same songs are copied on both sides!”
I just rolled my eyes at this discovery of one more error in the series of small gaffes and obstacles that had plagued us all day. Finally the priest began the mass in the usual fashion, with the sign of the cross and a call to prayer, but then something interesting happened. Father Charles lost his air of confused nervousness in the gentle and personal way he spoke to the 50 convicts and chaplains who surrounded him.
"We come now to the Penitential Rite of the Mass,” he explained in a voice that carried to the back of the room. “This is the part where we ask and receive God’s forgiveness for our sins in preparation for receiving the Body and Blood of Our Lord, Jesus Christ in Communion. I am authorized to give you a General Absolution for all the sins you have committed since your last confession. All I ask is that you sit in silence for a bit and review the poor choices and decisions you have made, and privately and sincerely ask for God’s forgiveness, which he has already promised you.” After a long silence, Father Charles concluded the rite. “May almighty God have mercy on us, forgive us our sins, and bring us to everlasting life.”
“Amen,” the assembled people replied.

There have been moments during the mass when I have experienced an incredible euphoria of oneness with the people around me – at Christmas Eve mass with Kathy, my wife, and Toñito and Prisa, when they were still children, or listening to the soaring Communion psalms sung by the youth choir of St. Bernardine’s Church. The sensation feels like a liquid energy passing from one person to another, tying us all together and erupting through the church in a tidal wave of love and completeness. I experienced one such moment in this cold and barren place, as I listened to an inmate read in hesitant English, a selection from the Book of the Prophet Isaiah (Is 9, 1-6):

“The people who walk in darkness have seen a great light. Upon those who dwelt in the land of gloom a great light has shone. You have brought them abundant joy and great rejoicing. As they rejoice before you as the harvest, as men make merry when dividing spoils. For the yoke that burdened them, the pole on their shoulder, and the rod of their taskmaster you have smashed, as on the day of Median… For a child is born to us, a son is given us; upon his shoulder dominion rests. They name him Wonder-Counselor, God-Hero, Father-Forever, and Prince of Peace…”

These words seemed to lift and telescope me over the sea of blue-shirted, convicted inmates sitting in front, and I floated above them, as they listened reverently to these words of promise and hope. They were all looking at one thing, as if it was the only point of light in a darkened cell. The Nativity scene, with the figurines that Sam and Abby had worked so hard to arrange, had become the focal point of all eyes. Prompted by Father Charles’s reading of Luke’s gospel of the birth of Christ, the prison walls seemed to melt and disappear, replaced by the cold and starry night outside the entrance of a crèche sheltering a young couple and a newborn babe, sleeping in Joseph's arms. It was as if a ragged army of scantily clad prisoners had climbed the jagged hills of Bethlehem and come to herald the birth of this child and king. A king like no other; one who came to serve the sinners, the outcasts, and convicts of the world, and show them God’s forgiveness and love. The scene also struck me as a foreshadowing of the newborn’s end. He would be in the company of these men again during his Passion, when he would suffer incarceration, beatings, and the death penalty. This was the first Christmas mass in which I experienced the alpha and the omega of the Christmas promise. The mass was not merely a celebration of a birth, but a validation of Christ’s mission. There were no angels or Wise Men at the Christmas service in the county jail, only the sinners, outcasts, and inmates whom Christ came to serve. Pangs of shame and embarrassment arose in me for my lack of faith and the disdain I had felt and displayed at the humble and frustrated efforts of the chaplains and volunteers in preparing this service, and decorating the dayroom. I had used my status as a volunteer to remain detached from responsibility, while feeling free to criticize the actions of others. The convicted men seated in front of me weren’t judging our simple efforts or efficiency, nor comparing the dayroom to the beautiful and ornate churches that are decorated for this season. They were simply thankful for the invitation to be out of their cells and actually celebrating Christmas. Abby and Esperanza had been right in not trying to describe this service to me – it had to be experienced. The beauty was not in the setting, decorations, or music, but in the union of outcast men who came together to celebrate this special mass together. For a moment I was part of that union.

When the mass ended, Gavin asked the men to remain seated for a holiday surprise. With joy and smiles all around, the eight chaplains and volunteers prepared and served our Christmas treats of coke and cookies to our guests. When the service was over and the men were returning to their cells, they stopped to thank us. Some said that this was the first time they had tasted coca cola in many, many months. They also said they loved the cookies.

Through the years
We all will be together,
If the Fates allow.
Hang a shining star upon the highest bough,
And have yourself a merry little Christmas now.
(Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas - Ralph Blane & Hugh Martin: 1943)

We decorated and lit our Christmas tree this weekend and filled the living room, kitchen, and family room with seasonal smells, ornaments, and keepsakes. It’s an annual, 24-hour makeover of the house, in which we lug in our traditional Christmas stuff from the garage, where it had been stored in plastic cartons all year, and cart out our regular household things, which have been replaced. But this year was different, because Toñito wasn’t there to string the Christmas lights on the tree, ridicule his sister’s choices and placement of ornaments, or sing along with the Christmas carols we played in the background. Prisa was there to help, with her husband Joe, and their 4 week-old baby, Sarah Kathleen, but not her older brother. His absence in the Christmas tree ritual was a jarring experience. I can’t recall an Advent season in which both Toñito and Prisa were not involved in some key aspects of the tree. Since their earliest years, they have always played some role in the Christmas drama that began with the selection of the tree, and culminated with the placement of the angel on top. For me, both children were forever fused in our Christmas tree traditions. By the time Toñito was old enough to appreciate the magical lights, smells, and sights of Christmas, his sister Prisa was old enough to share them. My earliest scene of buying a family Christmas tree is with me, holding Toñito’s hand, and Kathy pushing Prisa in her stroller, as we explored the Christmas tree lot at Devonshire Downs.

Devonshire Downs no longer exists today, but in the mid 1980’s, it was an old-fashioned, rural fairground and horse racetrack, located just north of the campus of California State University at Northridge (CSUN). It was home to the summertime San Fernando Valley Fair, and in the winter served as an open-air holiday market and craft fair, where one could buy Christmas trees, ornaments, decorations, toys, and other seasonal knick-knacks. It was there that Frosty, Toñito Godmother, sold her handmade stepstools, and where we brought our ceramic dip and chip platter from the daughter of his pre-school teacher. During the day, there were always animals to ride or pet, and Santa Claus to visit. Toñito’s eyes would gleam in wide-eyed wonder as we walked between the trees, through the exhibit halls, and along the craft booths. In his high-pitched, child-like voice, he peppered us with questions and speculations. What were those trees called? Why hadn’t Santa brought along elves or more helpers? How tall should our tree be, and how much could he help decorate this year? Prisa would sit in her stroller silently listening to the exchanges and soaking in the sights and smells of the grounds. We always used the same criteria in judging a tree - freshness, height, fullness, and cost - but I never knew from year to year what the deciding factor was. I would stand a tree up and turn it, while Kathy, Toñito, and Prisa studied it from every perspective. Prisa would eye it, while turning her head from side to side. Toñito would note its positive and negative attributes, and Kathy would judge it in silence. Somehow, we always made a selection and purchased a tree. From that moment on, Toñito seemed to bounce up and down with enthusiasm, like a popcorn kernel dancing and hopping in the excitement of a heated skillet.

In those days, the trees had to fit in the smaller confines of our Reseda home, so when mounted in a metal stand they were never over 6 feet tall. However, through the reflected wonder of our children’s eyes, the tree seemed as tall as its Rockefeller Center cousin. With Prisa as our excited audience, I instructed Toñito on the step-by-step process of testing and replacing the tree lights, stringing them on the tree, and evaluating them for evenness and balance. Kathy directed the placement of garland, ornaments, candy canes, and on various occasions, icicle tinsel. As soon as Prisa was old enough to firmly hold the decorative ornaments, Kathy would lift her to a specific branch so that her daughter could hang them herself. The process was halted at various times to change the Christmas record albums, admire our handiwork, and evaluate our progress. Toñito had the job of placing the tree-topping angel on the upper-most branch, until Prisa was old enough to inherit the position. He never begrudged the displacement, agreeing with child-like wisdom, that the baby of the family should always handle and place the Christmas angel.

Toñito’s delight, and mine, was in seeing the sparkle and twinkling of colored lights in the evening, and their reflection off the tinsel and garland. I discovered that we also shared the same fascination with unusual bulbs, when I found him alone one night, privately gazing at the tree we had finished decorating. He was watching the start and the steady percolating of the lone remaining, candle-shaped, bubbling Christmas light. It was the last of a set of 6 Kathy and I had purchased for our first Christmas tree after we wed. Replacements were no longer available, so as each one broke, or stopped bubbling, they were simply thrown away.
“I love watching it bubble, Daddy,” Toñito said to me, innocently, not embarrassed at being caught staring at a solitary light. “When this one stops working,” he continued, returning his gaze to the object of his fascination, “my baby Christmases will be over.”
I had no reply to this plaintive note of intuitive knowledge, so I just sat next to my little boy and joined in the watching of the last light.

Toñito told us that social commitments with friends prevented him from joining us last weekend when we decorated the house and tree, but that was only half of the story. I think he was reluctant to participate in a family Christmas tradition that had grown to include his fiancé Jonaya, because it reminded him of her absence. About two months ago he and Jonaya ended their 4-year engagement. They had been going through a difficult period of adjustment and reassessment, and it culminated in this final and irrevocable decision. Ending a committed engagement and love affair is a personal and emotional catastrophe I can’t even imagine. Kathy and I could only express our love, support, and availability to Toñito, and encouraged him to stay connected to friends and family, and to be active and social. We were relieved to hear that he was taking our advice with friends, but saddened that associations with family traditions caused him pain. The benefit of rituals such as Christmas decorating is in their repetitive actions, which help recall their original meanings and emotional significance. Kathy, Prisa, and I could not be sad too long about Toñito’s absence, with Joe’s enthusiastic ornament placement and Sarah’s observance of her first Christmas rite.

During a break, Kathy and I expressed the hope that Toñito and Jonaya’s pain would ease with time, and that they would eventually see how much they grew from their experiences together. When I shared this sentiment to Prisa, she scolded me.
“You’re being mighty generous, Dad,” she said, fiercely. “I’ll settle for my big brother feeling better and coming back for Christmas. As annoying as he can be, it’s not the same without him.”

And God said, Let us make man in our image,
after our likeness; and let man have dominion
over the fish of the sea, and over the fowl of the air,
and over the cattle, and over all the earth,
and over every creeping thing that creeps upon the earth.

So God created man in his own image;
in the image of God man was created.

And God blessed him, and said, Be fruitful, and multiply,
and replenish the earth, and subdue it;
and have dominion over the fish of the sea,
and the fowl of the air, and over every living thing
that moves upon the earth.

And the LORD God formed man of the dust of the ground,
and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life;
and man became a living soul.

And the LORD God planted a garden eastward in Eden;
and there he put the man whom he had formed.

And the LORD God said, It is not good that man should be alone;
I will make a helpmate for him.

And the LORD God caused a deep sleep to fall upon Adam,
and he slept;
and he took one of his ribs, and then closed up the flesh.

And the rib, which the LORD God had taken from the man,
he made into woman, and brought her unto the man.

And Adam said, This is now bone of my bones, and flesh of my flesh;
she shall be called Woman, because she was taken out of Man.
(Genesis: 1:26-2:23)

“Tony, I discovered the strangest thing in Arizona”, Andrea said, as she directed Kathy and me to our seats at the family’s dining room table. “None of my friends at Arizona State University celebrate Christmas Adam, isn’t that strange?
“What do you mean”, I replied, surprised by the statement. “What did you say about Christmas Adam?”
“Well, I told them how we celebrate Christmas Adam with a special family dinner every December 23^rd, and they didn’t know what I was talking about. None of them had ever heard of it”.
“You know”, chimed in her twin sister, Kate, as she swooped down to place a basket of warm bread on the table, “none of my friends knew about Christmas Adam, either”.
I was a little confused by these statements. There was no hint of humor or irony in what these two college co-eds (going to different universities in Arizona) were telling me. They really didn’t know.
“Tell me again, what you said?” I asked, buying more time before replying.

As more of the family and guests began arranging themselves around the dinner table, it struck me that this might be the beginnings of a minor primal scene experience; a childhood myth exploding before their eyes. The situation required careful thought and delicate handling. I waited as Andrea, with a determined flip of her blonde hair, explained, “I told them it’s the day before Christmas Eve, December 23rd; a day for family and friends to get together for dinner and fellowship. I said the day was called Christmas Adam, because, as we know in Genesis, Adam comes before Eve”.

Andrea was absolutely correct. She had recited the definition as clearly and succinctly as I stated it 17 years before, when Kate and Andrea were 3 years old, and their brother Marshall was 5. Now what was I to do? I looked around the table. More people were joining us: the hosts, Kathy and Ken, his brother Tom and wife Sheila, our two children, Tony and Prisa, and the invited guests, two golfing friends of Ken. They were now curious about our conversation and listening intently. I had no recourse but the truth, even if I felt like a callous stepfather, telling his still-believing children that there was no Santa Claus.

“Andrea, Kate, I honestly never thought you’d continue believing the story about Christmas Adam. It is an apocryphal story. I was passing it on, the way it was told to me by my uncle and aunts, Charlie, Espie, and Liza (See Nacimiento Stories), when I was a child”. I further explained that in a child’s world, the coming of Christmas is filled with yearning emotions of anticipation and impatience. Christmas never arrived soon enough. Every day closer to the morning of December 25^th was important, and the most special day was Christmas Eve. However, my uncle and aunts believed that the day prior to Christmas Eve was equally important. This was the date for the completion of their nacimento, and the start of the family preparations for the Christmas Eve feast of tamales, enchiladas, pollo con mole, arroz, frijoles, and bunelos. Not only was this day filled with excitement, anticipation, and frenetic action, but they felt it deserved a name as well. So they invented one; Christmas Adam. They also created a viable cover story for the name, which I completely accepted. According to Charlie, Espie, and Liza, Genesis was the source for the terms, Adam and Eve, and their order of invention. Since God created Adam before Eve, it made sense (in a child’s world), to continue that ordered progression in other things. So, the eve to every day, had to have an adam before it. If the day before Christmas was called Christmas Eve, then, the day before Christmas Eve MUST BE called Christmas Adam! This seemed logical to me and my siblings. Charlie, Espie and Liza were older than we were, they were smarter, and they knew everything about Christmas (or at least told us they did). In my family, December 23^rd was always called Christmas Adam, and I passed the name and story to my own children, and then to Kathy and Ken’s.

“You mean, there is no Christmas Adam?” Andrea blinked in disbelief. “You made it up?”
“Wow”, said Kate, slumping into her backrest, “I totally convinced my friends that it was real”.
Before I could start feeling any remorse or guilt of my role in exposing this myth, Kathy and Ken intervened to save me.
“Ya know”, said Ken, as he settled back in his chair “it’s not every family that has its own holiday”. His voice adopted that casual, reassuring rhythm that hinted of humor, but communicated sincerity. With a Kevin Costner smile, Ken continued. “All families do SOMETHING on Christmas Eve and Christmas day, but we wanted something special, on a day just for us”.
“Yes”, added Kathy, in energized, breathless tones of enthusiasm, “We wanted a day during the Christmas season that would include Kathy, Tony, and their kids. All of our relatives live back east, except for your Uncle Tom. We never have a chance to get grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins together for Christmas, so we wanted an occasion that could include Kathy and Tony’s family with our family here. They were always free on December 23^rd”.
“They were never a very popular couple, ya know”, quipped Ken, “and their 2 children were not invited into most homes”.
“Don’t mind your father, girls; he makes rude jokes when he’s on hiatus. The 23^rd was the start of a wonderful family tradition that we continue today; and Tony even had a special name for it”.
“I’ll have to give him that”, Ken added. “He didn’t pick some wimpy, spineless name. He picked the name of the first man on earth. Good job, Tony!”

Ken and Kathy did not have any relatives in California (until Tom moved west). They were high school sweethearts who were raised in Kennalon, New Jersey, attended the University of Georgia, married, and worked in New York before moving to Los Angeles (in 1976?). They lived in the Marina Del Rey section of Los Angeles, while Ken worked in the television and movie business, and Kathy as a corporate administrative assistant. Before the birth of their son Marshall, they bought a house in Tarzana, and moved into the San Fernando Valley. My wife, Kathy, made first contact when she met Ken while enrolling Marshall and our son, Tony, in the same preschool program. Their conversation (while smoking in the separate, designated area), revealed an intersection of similarities (Kathy was giving birth to twin girls, two months after Prisa was born) that would continue for 27 years. Both Kathys were working women who had chosen to stay at home to rear children; both valued parenting and the need to be integrally involved in the physical, intellectual, emotional, and social development of their children; both felt the urge to find and maintain a critical friend who shared common interests, values, and aspirations; and both would pursue full time careers in education when their children were in junior high school (Kathy finished her college coursework for a degree in English with a credential, and began teaching, and my wife resumed teaching, completing a graduate program in Administration that led to a principal position). It also helped that the husbands got along.

Nothing demonstrates friendship between men more than the test of time. Wives may maneuver husbands to meet, but it will never become a regular practice unless they get along. Guys don’t pretend very well. While some people could believe that Kathy and Kathy were related (cousins of some degree of separation) because of their similar appearance, tastes, likes, dislikes, and attitudes, no one would think that of Ken and me. But, ever since our first meeting in 1980, we continue to find connections, and always enjoy each others company, conversation, and insights. I ascribe this to the fact that Ken is funny, intelligent, and interesting. Most of all, Ken has the ability to LISTEN and contribute to conversations to insure that both parties learn something. Over the years we have talked and learned about a vast array subjects: sports (primarily if it related to our children), history, movies, television, books (fiction, and non-fiction, but mostly biographies, like Churchill’s and Douglas MacArthur’s), science, politics, economics and religion.

Ease and affinity would be the best words to typify our relationship with Kathy and Ken, and their children. They were the only non-related family we could ever vacation with. I remember spending a few days at the beach house of Kathy’s parents, in San Juan Capistrano, and a weekend at a mountain cabin in Big Bear. Confinement in one house with another set of parents and 3 extra children for an extended period of time is a true litmus test of compatibility, and they were the only family to pass. There was no friction or disharmony when we were together. Arguments and disagreements might occur, but they were always resolved by a little attention and a willingness to settle the issue. Our children, especially the girls, were a near perfect fit, and their language, actions, and manners were courteous, friendly, and agreeable. I suppose they mirrored the behaviors of their parents, who were consistently positive and upbeat, respectful, and loving. Consideration of others was a paramount component. Ken, Kathy, Kathy, and I, had discussed our philosophy of parenthood on so many occasions over the years, and witnessed each others parenting practices long enough, to know that we were almost identical. None of us felt any reluctance to assume a custodial role and attitude with all five children when we needed to, and they accepted it naturally (Kathy and Kathy were much more practiced in this ability, but Ken and I could easily substitute for them when necessary).

There was nothing easier than visiting, or getting together with Kathy and Ken (with kids, or without kids). I can benchmark the early progression of our two family’s meetings through time, by the activities we shared as the children grew up: preschool (Kathy would drop Tony off at pre-school, and then Prisa into the same playpen as Kate and Andrea, until the girls were old enough to go); birthday parties at McDonald’s and Chucky Cheese, swim parties, barbecues, backyard camp-outs on Labor Days, and regular weekend visits at alternating homes; and finally, playing in AYSO soccer, girl’s softball, swim club, and a neighborhood children’s theatre. Even as the interests and friendships of our children began to separate and branch off in high school and college (Prisa and Kate’s involvement in high school athletics was the last mutual activity), we stayed in contact and met on a monthly basis. This happened because Kathy and Kathy made a conscious effort to maintain an active friendship, with regular opportunities for interaction that were casual, unpretentious, and easy. One or the other would just pick up the phone, call, and ask when they were available for dinner. No problem.

Five years have passed since my conversation with Kate and Andrea about the apocryphal origins of Christmas Adam. Apart from being an enjoyable part of the Christmas season, the evening has provided two additional benefits: it bonded our two families into a new extended family unit, with a shared sense of continuity; and it provides opportunities to screen and vet future family members.

The Christmas Adam tradition grew out of friendship. We have met for dinner, on December 23^rd, at the home of Ken and Kathy, for the last 25 years (give or take one or two). It began as a chance to get together before the onslaught of Christmas family obligations and commitments. This day was a relaxing pause before my own family’s party on Christmas Eve, and Kathy’s family’s party on Christmas day. Those two events always contained a certain degree of tension and drama. These parties included multiple families with large numbers of people, buffet dining, scheduled activities, and organized gift exchanges. None of this occurred on Christmas Adam. Originally we just got together so the kids could play and we could talk. Later, it became a seasonal opportunity to meet Kathy’s mother and her brother, when they visited. The format gradually evolved from a casual dinner, into an east coast style dinner party, with cocktails and hors d’houvers, and stimulating conversation. When still children, our sons and daughters were excused to play outside, or organize indoor performances, now they are sophisticated participants in the cocktails, dining, and conversation.

In the last five years, the day also provided a great opportunity to meet the “significant” boyfriends, girl friends, and fiancés of our children. On those occasions, we have acted as their extended family in Los Angeles. We became the aunt, uncle, and cousins whom their significant friends had to impress and win over. The same was true for our children. Prisa brought her boyfriend Joe in 2004, and Tony his girlfriend (and eventual fiancé) Jonaya for the first time in 2005. In many ways Joe and Jonaya ran a virtual gauntlet of yuletide family interviews in 2005; Christmas Adam with Kathy and Ken, Christmas Eve with my family, and Christmas day with Kathy’s family. The girlfriends and boyfriends of Marshall, Kate, and Andrea never had to deal with such a concentrated, sequence of inspections at Christmas. This is not to say that outsiders were subjected to severe questioning or hazing; they were not. However, we were very observant of how these special guests interacted, responded, and worked at fitting in with a family who had known each other for 27 years (since birth for the girls). We wanted to know what they were “bringing to the table” and watching their table manners.

This year the evening took on a double meaning when Ken and the children used the occasion to celebrate Kathy’s 60^th birthday. Maintaining the custom of not exchanging gifts on Christmas Adam, Ken and the kids arranged to surprise Kathy with the services of a professional chef to prepare and serve the hors d’hourves, dinner, and dessert. The chef was an elegant treat, and a fitting highlight to this annual event, and it allowed everyone to move from person to person, or group to group.

It is ironic that the sequential creation of Adam and Eve in Genesis is used as the rationale for Christmas Adam coming before Christmas Eve. The story is a foreshadowing of Joseph and Mary, the birth of Christ, and the promise of the Kingdom of God. It is about the creation of the first family (Adam and Eve, and their children Cain and Abel), from whom all families would follow. Ken and Kathy have nurtured an evening that models this message by merging their family with ours, and extending an invitation for others to join…on that special night.

Christmas was never just one day, or a single event; it was an evolving series of vignettes that changed over time. I can see now why it’s called the Christmas Season; it has more in common with a cyclical seasonal experience than a singular religious or secular event like Easter or Thanksgiving. Christmas is a fifth season, occurring sometime during autumn and winter, and perceived by its special climate of anticipation and preparation, colorful decorations and gifting, celebration and songs, family and friendship, and wonder and delight. Christmas is my favorite time. On occasion, I will admit that I enjoyed it most when I was a child, and when Prisa and Tony were experiencing it as children. Perhaps it is our youthful perspective that makes this celebration so timeless and special. When I was a child, Christmas Time began after the Thanksgiving Day parade and the arrival of Santa Claus, waned after the Rose Bowl Game on New Years Day, and ended on the feast of the Epiphany (the feast of the Three Kings). The glowing embers of Christmas would last as long as my new toys did, and then die until the next year. In my early childhood years, Christmas centered on four particular events: building a Nacimiento, celebrating Posadas, awakening to Christmas Morning, and meeting for Christmas dinner and family gifts.

A nacimiento is the iconic nativity scene of Mary, Joseph, and the baby Jesus in a stable. Before the spreading influence of the American Christmas tree, Mexican families used the nacimiento as the central image of Christmas. They would place a nacimiento piece in a prominent location in their homes, or construct a miniature diorama for free standing figures, of various sizes. My grandparents brought this tradition to Los Angeles, and every year they built a scale model of the nativity scene in their living room. For me, the nacimiento of my abuelos was more of a process than a product (see Nacimiento Stories). The construction of the nacimiento would begin soon after Thanksgiving, and culminate on Christmas Eve. All of my aunts and uncles, single or married, were involved in the effort. It usually took three weeks to complete. Every Saturday or Sunday we visited, I checked on the progress of the nacimiento. It was my timer to Christmas. As the setting became more elaborate and ornate, as the overhanging frame filled with painted sky, angel hair, and tinsel, and as more and more figurines and scenery populated the diorama, I knew Christmas was coming.

The nativity scene would officially debut on the night of Posadas, Christmas Eve. On that occasion my grandparents would host a late-hour, adult-only party to celebrate the completion of the diorama, reenact the nativity tale (posadas) in song and movement, feast on tamales, enchiladas, pollo con mole, arroz, frijoles, bunuelos and churros, and go to midnight mass. I would see all the culinary and logistical preparations the morning of the party, and long to be part of the evening festivities. My exclusion typed me as a child held captive by the belief that “good girls and boys” had to be asleep on Christmas Eve or Santa Claus would pass them by without leaving toys and gifts. Even when I solved the North Pole mystery, the insistent faith of my younger siblings held sway, and I was quarantined from this adult event until high school.

The earliest Christmas mornings I recall were on the cold, hard floor of our triplex living room on Cove Ave. From 1955 to 1959, we lived in a first floor flat in the Silver Lake section of Los Angeles. It was here, on icy mornings, that Tito, Tita, Gracie, Eddie, and I would tiptoe on frozen feet to seek the toys and presents left by Santa under the Christmas tree. Once discovered, and viewed, we contrived the least irritating way to awaken our parents so we could open or play with our toys. Christmas was not a rip and shred event. My mother required an orchestrated ritual where each of us, one by one, opened, appreciated our gifts, and complimented the gifts of others. I remember years of baseball gloves, footballs, western pistols and rifles (Fanner 50’s and Winchesters were big one year), and an on-going series of plastic toy figurines of WW II soldiers, Fort Apache cavalry and Indians, King Arthur knights and castle, and pirates. These were the toys that allowed me make-believe stories and situations to imagine, create or act out, alone or with others.

Sometime after lunch, my mom would direct us to store our toys so we could go to my grandparent’s house for Christmas dinner and a second phase of gifts. This was the family gift exchange, unrelated to the Santa Claus condition of being “naughty or nice”. These were gifts we received for just being family. A system had been devised to insure that every adult in the family exchanged a gift with another adult, and that each child under 16 received one as well (the burden fell on adults, since, it was assumed, children did not have the means to purchase gifts). It was an exceptionally sweet deal for children, with the added bonus of nino gifts. These were extra presents a godchild received from their padrino, or godparent (if the godparents was a family member, or still made an effort to stay connected to their godchild). After a Christmas dinner of leftover tamales, enchiladas, pollo con mole, arroz, frijoles, bunuelos and churros, we would gather in a huge circle in the living room. There, in front of the nacimiento, a designated Master of Ceremony would direct the unwrapping and appreciation of gifts, person by person (the most irritating MC’s insisted on opening gifts so as to save wrapping paper for the following year). It was a ritual where the name of the recipient was called, along with the giver. The gifted person opened the present before the attentive family audience, which was encouraged to verbally praise, comment, or make jokes. The recipient was then required to search out the gift-giver and give them a proper beso y abrazo, a hug and a kiss of appreciation and thanks. It was a great system at first, but began breaking down as the number of nieces and nephews increased and grew older, and when our grandparents were unable to host the family gathering.

This was my first childhood Christmas Quartet; the four events that evoked Christmas from earliest memories through college. Time and human events were the biggest factor in their evolution; the deaths of my father and grandparents, Gracie’s marriage to Danny, Tito’s to Elia, and mine to Kathy, and then having children and families of our own. These four practices changed, slowed to infrequent participation, and then finally stopped altogether (as in the case of nacimientos, posadas, and mega-family Christmas dinners and gifts). Oddly enough, as I look at this Christmas season of 2007, I am struck by the existence of a new quartet of occasions that have become significant in my life, and in our family’s celebration of Christmas. They bear some similarity to the events of my youth, but, for the most part, they are different. We call them Christmas Adam, Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, and Boxing Day, and each involves a different family, and deserves a separate tale. It’s my intention to describe these reunions during the first weeks (or months) of the New Year. Happy New Year!