At no time do the feelings and traditions of being Southern emerge more
than at Christmas. The customs of the season take me back to my
childhood in Morton, Mississippi, in a sheltering home with hard-working
and church-going parents. My parents believed in celebrations and
family gatherings that gave us fellowship and a feeling of kinship.
Since I was in the rather unique position of twelfth child in a large
family, I often found my home crowded with numerous relatives for
Christmas dinner. There would be days spent decorating every room with
holly and tinsel, and in preparing the sumptuous meals of traditional
holiday fare.
In recalling the times I spent with my mother in the kitchen, I can
smell the fragrance of her Christmas specialties, which included
Japanese fruit cake and coconut cake, as well as pecan, mincemeat and
sweet potato pies on the shelves of the kitchen hallway. She roasted a large hen and served rice dressing --- the
recipe from her Louisiana roots --- and my older sister, Irma, made the
cornbread dressing and giblet gravy. The dinner was never complete
without Southern ambrosia, made with freshly grated coconut, oranges,
apples, pineapple and pecans, and it truly was elegant enough to be
called food of the gods.
I remember one Christmas Eve when the midnight-blue sky was the deepest
of the winter, and the stars the brightest I had ever seen. The cold
air was clear and crisp as I walked briskly the few blocks into town
with my Daddy. The night was so beautiful it seemed magical, and I
could almost believe the story of how all the animals could speak at
midnight on Christmas Eve. We stopped at the fruit stand on the
corner—which appeared only during Christmas week—for fresh oranges and
grapefruit from Florida, large red Delicious apples, sacks of nuts and
jars of honey and cane syrup. The fruit and nuts made their way into my
stocking later that night. But my special Christmas treat from my
father was a bag filled with Roman candles, sparklers and one pack of
firecrackers. When we arrived home, I was allowed to shoot the
fireworks from the front gallery before going to bed, and this was sheer
excitement and joy. I was never allowed to hold the firecrackers to
light them, but had to place them carefully on the edge of the walk,
strike the match to the paper string, and run! Even so the risk of
danger added to the excitement. It seemed the whole town was
celebrating with fireworks, and I can still heard the sounds --- the
cracks and booms breaking the silence of that still winter night.
Before climbing in between the cold sheets on that night, wrapped
snugly in blankets warmed before the fire, so filled with excitement
that I could hardly fall asleep, I hung my stocking. It wasn't an
elaborate red felt one, decorated with glitter, reindeer, or my
embroidered name --- but a long cotton stocking of my mother's. And in
the morning there was always that orange in the toe of the stocking. My
Christmas stocking stretched down to the floor with fruit, nuts and
candy, and sometimes a small book or special gift.
When the long awaited morning finally dawned, it was a race to see who
could hurry to our friends’ houses, shouting “Christmas Gift!” first ---
in hopes of the first gift. We then gathered around the tall cedar tree
decked with family ornaments, some which had endured many a Christmas,
to exchange presents. At noon everyone sat down around our long dining
table, with brothers and sisters, their spouses and children, as well as
an assortment of aunts and uncles. With everything in readiness, we all
bowed our heads and had grace, giving thanks for the bounty laid out
before us, and for our family so close in spirit --- the Southern spirit
of togetherness and love that grows stronger with holiday traditions.
This year I’ll look out on the blue Pacific at a cloudless sky, in 70°
weather in Pismo Beach, California, and my friends will bring their
tortillas, salsa, tri-tip and sour dough bread to add to my dinner of
baked hen and cornbread dressing. But in my heart I’ll be back in that
small town in Mississippi where all my holidays began. And if my
friends wonder why I am serving Christmas dinner at the noon hour --- it
will give me the perfect opportunity to tell them what being Southern is
all about.
© 1990 Ann Johnson Donovan. All Rights Reserved.
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