And then . . . there was the annual photo session. My brother and I in front of the tree. My parents in the front of the tree. My brother and Queenie the dog in front of the tree. Queenie in front of the tree with her present, which got unwrapped first so she'd have something to keep her busy. Most of these were taken with a box camera. When we finally got one of the fancier cameras, another of those "time-saving" gadgets of the day, all of us could pose in front of the tree, which some years took upwards of 20 minutes while my dad figured out how to work the timer.
Finally, the big moment would arrive. I have since been to homes where present opening takes on the frenzy of buzzards tearing into a fresh kill on the Serengeti. Paper and ribbons flying, tugged at like entrails. No sooner one package opened than everyone tears into their next. Not so in our Lutheran home.
First, mom kept a list of every present--giver, receiver, contents, special notes ("Also sent card with $5"). My brother and I were assigned to pick out and distribute, round by round, one present at a time for each family member. Then my brother would open his, ooh and aah a bit, and head back for the tree to start gathering gifts for the next round. I would be next, more oohing and aahing, then my mother, and finally my dad. Very systematic.
Nor were things torn into. My dad would get out his pocket knife--my brother and I added ours when we were old enough--and we all carefully cut through the scotch tape so that the wrapping paper could be refolded and saved for next year. Ditto the bows and sometimes the ribbons. My mom liked also to save the gift tags. I recall opening presents on Christmas Eve when I was in college that had the same paper, bow, and gift tag that had covered a box of Avon Eau d' PineSol cologne I unwrapped in junior high.
Gifts for my parents ran out long before my brother and I finished opening our presents. So we would continue until the living room was filled with piles of booty and stacks of recycled wrapping and bows. Each of us, seated on the chesterfield or piano bench or carpeted floor, my dad in his overstuffed chair, continued to go through our own mound of underwear and socks and games and books and personal care products and something special for that year. Queenie slobbered on the carpet, intent on her Christmas bone. I picture myself lifting up a book, reading a few pages, then setting it aside in a new pile, before picking up the next item, until I had gone through everything two or three times.
Our gift opening now with children and grandchildren has some of the same rhythm. We have our own family rituals for the holidays. For many years as our children were growing up, that included Christmas Eve mass before opening presents. Gift opening still features grandpa (me) with his pocket knife and a baggie for debris, helping everyone unwrap things with enough care that some of the paper finds its way into seasonal storage to make an encore appearance. We gather as a family for the same breakfast every Christmas morning--coffee and sticky buns and grapefruit. And Christmas meal, like Thanksgiving and Easter and birthdays, sticks to the same menu year after year.
Our kids grumbled when we made them march through our family's Christmas rituals. And the grandkids twitch and whine a little when told they need to wait until we're done with the dishes before we can open presents. But they all comply, and in the complying learn something about patience and ritual and gratitude and stewardship and family. What more could you ask of the holidays?
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