Christmas Eve traditions

It was always best if it snowed on Christmas Eve, more likely in Vermont than in Rhode Island. My grandmother and great-aunt usually arrived on that day. Granny came with Veeeee, her cook and general factotum, from Springfield, Massachusetts. Auntie Alice came from Montreal.

Sometimes went to the afternoon church service, though as we got older we stayed up for the midnight service.

In the late afternoon, we had tea with Granny and Auntie Alice. This wasn't just for Christmas Eve, but an everyday occurrence with that generation. As we got the tea ready, making sure the kettle boiled a yard high, scalding the pot, putting in one spoonful of tea for each person and one for the pot, we often heard gentle bickering from the living room, as the two sisters settled in to being around each other for one of the few times in the year.

In our family, children were not allowed to have real tea until we were thirteen, lest it stunt the growth. Before then, we had cambric tea--a tiny amount of real tea, lots of milk and lots of sugar. This was served, as was the tea for the adults, in bone china cups with saucers. These were put on a tray with a jug of milk and a sugar bowl, and carried ceremoniously to the living room. With real tea, we'd ask Gran to read our tea leaves afterwards. She did so in a voice full of mystery.

An hour or two after tea, the adults had a drink and we got ready for supper. Some years we had a special supper of fondue, either beef or cheese. Yum. Veeeee never ate with us, insisting on staying in the kitchen.

After the meal we cleared the plates. Every one of us remembers Veeee's fluty voice, "Don't stack them now, don't stack, just put them anywhere, don't stack."

When the kitchen was neat (and many dishes put away in the wrong places), we gathered in the living room. Veeeee always chose a straight-back chair near the door and the rest of us sprawled around on the sofa, the floor, in the chairs. Dad pulled out the Christmas anthology and the reading aloud began. Of course we always heard the Gospel, and most years we read the abridged version of A Christmas Carol. Every year Dad said, "We can't possibly read the whole thing. It takes hours!" (True--my friends Mary and Andy have hosted a full reading of it for many years, and it does take about four hours.)

We passed the book around and read various parts. One of my favorites was my mother reading "Dulce Domum" from The Wind in the Willows. Mary or I always read (or joined in reciting) "'Jest Fore Christmas" by Eugene Field. Tiny birdlike Auntie Alice perched on the ottoman, in later years tipping dangerously as she fell asleep--she always caught herself in time. Sometimes we read "Crisp New Bills for Mr. Teagle," by Frank Sullivan. Occasionally we tried a story we hadn't heard, such as the deadly grim "Solange the Wolf Girl."

Then it was time to hang stockings. These were Dad's wool socks, which he'd get back several weeks later, possibly with a hard candy stuck in the toe. There were seven cuphooks screwed into the mantlepiece, one for each kid's stocking. I'm the youngest so mine was at the end. We made sure there was a glass of milk and a couple of cookies for Santa Claus on the mantel as well. I always wondered if Santa Claus disliked lukewarm milk as much as I did.

Then it was time to either get ready for bed or ready for church. The last part of the tradition was insomnia on Christmas Eve, as I considered what would be in my stocking and under the tree the next day.