Christmas Eve at Grandma's can be recounted due to the old-fashioned, ritualistic traditions of how family gatherings should be: people just happy to be a family.
It wasn't about the gifts such as the Hess Trucks my grandparents made it a point to grace my brother and I with annually. It was arriving at Grandma's, her opening the door wishing us a Merry Christmas, my Grandfather setting his afternoon read down and shaking our hands ecstatically as he wheezed, gathering us around a tree whose lights were recalled twenty years prior.
It was about the air of it all, the warm feeling, smiles and 1950s built home. It was the card, checkers, backgammon, Yahtzee or chess games shared with Grandpa. It was the cold air, the steam of our breath as we pretended we were smokers outside, the car ride home believing every plane in the sky was Santa's sleigh.
It was the sweets, 1-pound containers of Christmas Pudding, homemade fruitcake, ham mounded with glazed pineapples and cherries, yams laced with walnuts, Dots gumdrops, Andes Chocolate Mints, starlight candy mints and blueberry pie topped with vanilla bean or butter pecan ice cream or both.
It was every child's paradise. The way it should have been and the way it should be.
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