Reading a newspaper on Christmas
This column reminded me of growing up in Baltimore.....although it was published in Arizona.
"She didn’t mean too much food. Or too many visitors. Or too much noise. Or too much work. She meant too much … love."
Then she turned back to the newspaper.
Then she turned back to the newspaper.
A Christmas lesson learned from a child of the Great Depression.
Montini wrote: My mother read the newspaper, front to back, every day.
It was the last thing she did before going to bed, every day, even on Christmas.
You’d have thought she wouldn’t be interested in reading the news on a holiday, particularly Christmas.
You’d have thought she wouldn’t have the time. Or she would be too tired.
On Christmas morning, my mother would not linger near the tree as presents were unwrapped.
On Christmas morning, my mother would not linger near the tree as presents were unwrapped.
Instead, she’d flit back and forth between our tiny living room and the tiny kitchen, where she not only was making breakfast but already had preparations underway for dinner.
The less you need...
We’d be joined sometime in the afternoon by my mother’s sister, her husband and their three boys for a meal that would include a turkey or a ham, gnocchi, side dishes of vegetables and potatoes, bread from the local Italian bakery, as well as leftovers from the equally big Christmas Eve dinner -- fried smelts and baccala (Italian salt cod) and tuna spaghetti and apple fritters and fruit and all kinds of cheese and hot peppers and prosciutto and soppressata and salami and capicola and pastries and anything else she could squeeze onto the dining room table.
My mother was a child of the Great Depression.
She would tell me, over and again, “The less you need the richer you are.”
When she was a girl there were times when food was scarce. Now, it was a gift. Her gift. Her greatest joy was feeding people. Her favorite word was mangia (eat).
Feigned protestations
The Christmas meal never ended. Other relatives would stop by -- aunts, uncles, cousins, friends of the family, neighbors.
Any food that had been removed from the table was reheated or unwrapped and brought back.
There would be feigned protestations from some visitors.
“Dora, sit down. We just ate.”
They were ignored, as the complainants knew they would be.
Beverages were hauled up from the cellar and empty bottles trucked down. Glasses and dishes and silverware were washed and rewashed.
The food magically reappeared
Food that disappeared from serving dishes seemed to spontaneously regenerate over the pseudo objections of stocky Italian men who’d long since loosened their belt buckles, and their wives, who shrugged and laughed at the suggestion.
It went on like that hour after hour all during the day, with the final bloated stragglers leaving late at night.
After which the glasses and dishes and silverware were washed again. The food that wasn’t wrapped up and handed to visitors to take home was squeezed into containers and squeezed again into the small refrigerator.
And finally, after the dining room table was cleaned and the folding chairs were brought back down the cellar and the floors were swept and the garbage was taken out for the last time and lights in some rooms were dimmed and she’d reheated, again, the cup of coffee she’d been carrying around all day, my mother would sit in a chair in the living room, switch on the nearby lamp, and begin reading the paper.
We’d be joined sometime in the afternoon by my mother’s sister, her husband and their three boys for a meal that would include a turkey or a ham, gnocchi, side dishes of vegetables and potatoes, bread from the local Italian bakery, as well as leftovers from the equally big Christmas Eve dinner -- fried smelts and baccala (Italian salt cod) and tuna spaghetti and apple fritters and fruit and all kinds of cheese and hot peppers and prosciutto and soppressata and salami and capicola and pastries and anything else she could squeeze onto the dining room table.
My mother was a child of the Great Depression.
She would tell me, over and again, “The less you need the richer you are.”
When she was a girl there were times when food was scarce. Now, it was a gift. Her gift. Her greatest joy was feeding people. Her favorite word was mangia (eat).
Feigned protestations
The Christmas meal never ended. Other relatives would stop by -- aunts, uncles, cousins, friends of the family, neighbors.
Any food that had been removed from the table was reheated or unwrapped and brought back.
There would be feigned protestations from some visitors.
“Dora, sit down. We just ate.”
They were ignored, as the complainants knew they would be.
Beverages were hauled up from the cellar and empty bottles trucked down. Glasses and dishes and silverware were washed and rewashed.
The food magically reappeared
Food that disappeared from serving dishes seemed to spontaneously regenerate over the pseudo objections of stocky Italian men who’d long since loosened their belt buckles, and their wives, who shrugged and laughed at the suggestion.
It went on like that hour after hour all during the day, with the final bloated stragglers leaving late at night.
After which the glasses and dishes and silverware were washed again. The food that wasn’t wrapped up and handed to visitors to take home was squeezed into containers and squeezed again into the small refrigerator.
And finally, after the dining room table was cleaned and the folding chairs were brought back down the cellar and the floors were swept and the garbage was taken out for the last time and lights in some rooms were dimmed and she’d reheated, again, the cup of coffee she’d been carrying around all day, my mother would sit in a chair in the living room, switch on the nearby lamp, and begin reading the paper.
So why read the paper?
I never thought about it as a kid or for the longest time as an adult. But during one of her last Christmases I asked her why. "Why are you reading the paper?"
She took a long time trying to find the words and then, her eyes misting over, she said, “Because it’s too much.”
I knew what she meant. She wasn’t sure growing up that there would be days like this in her life.
She was one of those rare individuals whose simple, blessed life had exceeded her dreams.
“Because it’s too much,” she said.
She didn’t mean too much food. Or too many visitors. Or too much noise. Or too much work. She meant too much … love.
Then she turned back to the newspaper.
“Because it’s too much,” she said.
She didn’t mean too much food. Or too many visitors. Or too much noise. Or too much work. She meant too much … love.
Then she turned back to the newspaper.
Labels: E.J. Montini, The Arizona Republic
posted by Juliana L'Heureux at 5:35 AM
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