By: Teri Sestilli
This is what every Connecticut city looked like at Christmas in the 1950’s and early 1960’s. It was magical. Perhaps that’s because I was a child, and everything seems so much bigger and grander through innocent, little eyes. The stores were bedecked in such finery, the snow was billowy and soft, like confectioner’s sugar.
And the lights were big and multicolored. There were no tiny, clear twinkles at that time. And there was tinsel; glittery silver tinsel that my mother required we apply one strand at a time to the tree. My sister and I would comply until she left the room, then we would gleefully throw big globs at the branches. I loved it best when those globs hung down like frozen icicles from the pine branches. How I loved the smell of fresh pine, and the reflection of the bright lights in the TV set screen and the living room windows.
If I close my eyes, I am six years old again, sitting in that tiny room. The tree lights are ablaze, and the pristine harmony of the Vienna Boys Choir singing “Oh Come All Ye Faithful”floats all around me. The smells of broiled steak and fried potatoes, mingling with the scent of Johnson’s “no tears” Baby Shampoo, remind me that this is a memory of a Saturday night. I am freshly bathed and snuggled into flannel pajamas and furry red slippers. In front of me is an enormous bowl of fresh popcorn, the fluffy white kernels bathing in glistening rivulets of melted Land o’ Lakes butter. One stick of melted butter was mandatory for every bowl of homemade popcorn, a fact that may have contributed to my current love affair with butter.
How these visions transport me back to a time of simplicity and security! Was it a safe time in history? No, not at all. It was the dawn of the Cold War, and Russia (then known as the USSR) threatened to plunge the world into peril. The icy fingers of communism, Marxism, Stalinism threatened to choke democracy to death. Were we afraid? Oh, yes. Adults and children alike lived under the threat that Sputnik, the dreaded Soviet missile, would obliterate civilization at any moment. “Fallout shelter” signs were posted on approved public buildings and, since we walked everywhere, we knew the location of every one in the event that we were away from home when attacked.
With all of this terror, how do I have such happy memories? It’s difficult to explain, but I was secure within my family, my extended family, my community, my city. The world wasn’t safer, but my little life was. We faced the dangers together, and they were openly discussed, at home and in school. Fears exposed to the light are much easier to face.
My parents created a cocoon in which we all lived. That included my grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins. During our weekly Sunday visits to my grandmother’s house, current events were chewed and digested along with heaping portions of macaroni, meatballs, chicken cutlets, thick slices of roast beef studded with garlic, sliced peaches and oranges, angel food cake, and homemade cookies; all washed down with glasses of homemade wine, demitasse cups of strong espresso, and shot glasses of anisette and creme de menthe. Just as we children drank abbreviated vessels of diluted wine, coffee and cordials alongside our parents, we also overheard stark truths about the monsters that lurked on the outskirts of our homes, our towns and our collective lives. But as our parents meticulously oversaw how we imbibed small amounts of wine and anisette, they also monitored how we ingested current events. They discussed, they explained, and they reassured. This same information was presented to us in school as we diligently and repetitively practiced drills where we hid under our desks, and marched single-file to the church basement that was the approved fallout shelter in our area. These events were matter of fact, like play, housework and homework. As a family, we learned snippets of information from Walter Cronkite on the evening news. There was no partisan spin, no editorializing, no imparting of the newsman’s opinions. The news was delivered as a collection of impartial and dispassionate facts. And we believed those facts as readily as we accepted the existence of God, Jesus, the Blessed Mother, the saints, and the angels. I didn’t question the existence of Satan, why would I doubt that the Russians were bad actors who threatened our liberty and our lives? I didn’t dwell on it, however. It simply “was what it was”.
Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus. And, so, a few weeks before Christmas, we happily drove downtown with my parents, decked out in our winter finery. My father parked the car in a merrily-decorated municipal parking lot, and we hurried a few blocks to Howland Hughes, the three-story department store that housed Santa Claus. Talk about hope and joy! My sister and I trembled with unrivaled excitement as we descended the steps to the basement level. There, in a posh armchair, sat a larger-than-life gentleman, clad like royalty in a red velvet suit. His rosy-cheeked face was framed by fluffy curls and a long white beard. His coat was fastened at his ample waist by a black belt buckle, the same leather as his shiny black boots. A mixture of fear and anticipation, similar to the feeling that rose up my spine when I approached the priest to receive communion, enveloped me. I knew exactly what I wanted for Christmas, and I was going to reveal that singular desire to the one magical person who could make my request a reality.
There was no “list” of toys back then, that was an unfathomable dream that, as adults, my generation would make come true for our children. But, in my childhood, it was more far-fetched than a man walking on the moon. We received one gift. As such, a lot of agonizing occurred in advance of our trip to confer with Santa. The baby doll that cried real tears? Those amazing white ice skates with the hot pink and black fuzzy Pom Poms? The entire collection of Encyclopedia Brittanica (I was a huge nerd)? The decision was a critical one that would affect the outcome of the next twelve months. That would be the next time that I would get another toy.
My grandmother told me stories of receiving an orange for Christmas. I remember being so awe-struck that, as a little girl, my grandmother asked for a single piece of fruit from Santa. Wow. She must have had so many toys already.
So, my long story, which started as a few sentences about Christmas lights in Waterbury, Connecticut in the 1950’s, comes full circle. On the walk back to our car after seeing Santa, my tiny gloves firmly enveloped in the warm, protective hands of both of my parents; a feeling of warm gratification now replaced my pre-visit anticipation. That’s when I realized the beauty of the multi-colored lights that adorned the ornate metal decorations over my head. “Silent night, holy night”. Our boots crunched on the cold, white snow as a group of carolers reverently sang in front of The Rose Shoppe, the store where my mother bought my annual pair of Buster Brown navy blue leather school shoes, as well as the shiny black patent leather dress shoes that were nestled inside of my snow boots as I walked with my parents through the festive winter night. “All is calm, all is bright”. Those lovely orbs reflected so beautifully in the glass facades of the ornate architectural masterpieces that housed the downtown stores.
My sister and I nestled in the back seat of my father’s old car, cozy under two of my grandmother’s old fur coats. The coats were our winter accessory because the heater in the boxy metal car took such a long time to get warm. Did I know that my parents couldn’t afford a new car? Did I realize that my father wore the same pair of shoes and coat every year as a trade-off for my Catholic school education, our modest annual summer vacation to upstate New York, the amazing food that filled our supper table? Did it occur to me that we lived in a four room second-floor apartment so that my mother could stay at home and greet us every day when we walked home from school, awaken us to freshly-cooked bacon and egg breakfasts, tuck us into our twin beds every night?
I was probably aware that all of those facts existed, just as matter-of-factly as I knew that the world that existed in the periphery of my security zone threatened our lives. But that knowledge didn’t upset me, it didn’t make me feel “any less”. In fact, it made me feel “much more”. I was so lucky to have my parents, my family, my friends, my teachers, my community and my city. I was immersed in the safety of my life. I was surrounded by an atmosphere of singularity, solidarity, and security. My identity and self-worth were as defined by the sacrifices, the desires, the ambitions that drove me to excel as they were by the color of my eyes, my height, my heritage.
My memories of the Christmastimes of my childhood are some of my most cherished. Those lights, that Santa, the tree, the tinsel; they all inculcated a deep love of Christmas within me. I would love to return to that lovely, simple time; not only to experience Christmas again, not only to be with my parents and grandparents again, but also to live for a few moments when, though life was complicated and scary, we dealt openly and matter-of-factly with it without partisan interference. We should not be defined by the fears that separate us, but instead by the strengths that unite us. Thank you for the return trip down Memory Lane, Christmas of the Past. You are missed by the heart of a six-year old Italian girl from Waterbury, Connecticut who dared to dream.
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