My childhood Christmas didn’t look like yours. Of course, we had a tree and our “stockings were hung by the chimney with care” which according to my mother ‘s standards required a carpenter’s level. But Christmas also evokes hidden memories of my namesake—and I don’t mean the baby Jesus. Mom and Dad were keeping a secret, and I was well into adulthood before the truth was out.
There were no Christian teachings in our house. My parents believed my brother and I could suss out any religious yearnings when the time was right. Not only did this absolve us of any discussion about the virgin birth, which is pretty heady for an eight-year-old, but we didn’t march off to church on Christmas Eve. This freed up several hours for me to sneak under the Christmas tree and attempt to carefully peek inside a present or two. I had already discovered a small alcove behind my father’s closet where the real loot was stashed and by no coincidence, that door was mysteriously padlocked soon thereafter. But as I belly-crawled under the low-hanging branches of our Douglas fir, surveying the most enticing package that I might somehow lift up just a corner of the Scotch tape, I could then peel back the wrapping paper and see what was inside.
I know it sounds like a lot of sneaking around and it was. But don’t go blaming me. Santa’s the one who started it by sneaking down the chimney in the first place.
On Christmas morning, no one was allowed downstairs before seven o’clock. Only a toddler with a death wish would have broken that rule. And so, my brother and I patiently waited at the top of the stairs until my father’s unmistakable (size 16) feet came whomping down the hallway, while my mother was, no doubt, still fixing her hair.
And that was how the morning started on time and with military precision.
The gift of most childhood experiences is that you don’t know that yours is any different from anyone else. You don’t know that some children unwrap their presents on Christmas Eve and have all of Christmas Day to break them. Or that some children return home from midnight service and are then allowed to open a single gift before tucking in for the night.
Who opens presents on Christmas Eve? If I had to give my life to Jesus to celebrate the night before then sign me up!
But no, the real difference between your family and mine is that we did not enjoy pancakes and sausage or waffles drowning in syrup, or heat attack-making Eggs Benedict. We had Weihnachtsstollen. The German cake of choice made with hard green candied fruits and stale nuts. It’s as if the Nazis got hold of the most loathed aspect of the Christmas season and managed to make it worse. And why, for the love of God, in a family of red-headed Irish and miserly Scots we adopted this German spin on the American fruitcake I have no idea.
Apparently, I was too self-absorbed to ask.
Weihnachtsstollen, or simply “stollen” as we call it is one of the few things that cannot be improved even with mountains of butter. I’m certain it was already past its expiration date when my mother brought it home from the bakery. And after warming it in the oven for 15 minutes, any lingering bits of moisture were soon sucked out. I remember carefully biting down, fearing I would hit one of those hard green, or sometimes red candied pieces. A big gulp of cold milk was always needed to wash away the taste and any little clumps of undissolved yeast that might linger in my gums.
“Vile” is the word that comes to mind … simply vile.
I’m sorry the Surgeon General had yet to issue a warning about the harmful effects of red dye #4. I would have had a stollen-free Christmas from that moment forward.
After breakfast, and we had been excused from the table, everyone changed out of their pajamas or nightgowns. Teeth were brushed. Hands were washed. Hair was combed. Shoes were tied. And only then could my brother and I walk (not run) into the living room where the Christmas tree stood in all its anally precise glory. Each and every ornament was equidistant from the next. There was no duplicating ornaments of similar shape or color. No big red balls near the little red balls. No hand-painted Santas hanging near the ones we bought in a box of eight from Woolworths. The tinsel was hung by a single strand, precisely at the end of the branch. And under no circumstances was there any garland. Too garish!
Decorating the tree was such a tense experience in our house, I would have been more comfortable discussing the virgin birth after all.
Eventually, we were all assembled, and the unwrapping began. First, my brother, because he’s the oldest which apparently means you get to go first in everything your entire life. I was next, which may sound like I was second, but in my mind, I was dead last. My brother was already gloating at having gone first (as always). And so, the tradition proceeded in a calm, deliberate order. One person would thoughtfully unwrap their gift, the used wrapping paper was then handed to my mother who was in charge of smoothing it out and then neatly folding it into a bag for future use. (Look, it’s not like we were refugees, we were thrifty Scots.) And this continued until all the presents were opened and neatly placed back under the tree.
Restraint, I tell you! There is no activity in which children should not show restraint and that includes Christmas.
Thankfully, (sort of), there weren’t that many presents to be had, or we would have been there for hours and not had time to play with the new set of Legos or My Little Pony. If it was a proper Christmas, and back in the 1960s most were, there was snow on the ground and the swarm of neighborhood children would soon gather and spend the afternoon sledding down the Ashburn’s backyard, until it was time to come in and get dressed for dinner.
I arrived for Christmas dinner in my navy blue dress with a ghastly red bow, white cotton anklets (with scalloped edges), and full of "please" and "thank-yous."
Out came the bloody slabs of roast beef with Yorkshire pudding, mashed potatoes, green beans, and a pecan pie for dessert. The sins of the morning’s repast had all been forgiven.
For years, this was our family tradition until I got married and had the giddying power of creating my own. Not only did I immediately put the kibosh on the stollen, but I was determined that if my brother joined us, he would open his presents last.
The only part of the story I have omitted is that my birthday happens to be a week before Christmas, which plays into my parents' secret.
My birth certificate reads, “Linda Tener Nesbit.” This is not my baptismal name because I was never baptized. Still, on that cold day in December when people were dusting off their “I like Ike” buttons, this is the name my parents chose. “Linda” was the most popular girl’s name at the time, and I therefore hated it. My sense of terminal uniqueness was crushed. And to this day, people often call me “Nancy.” They don’t call me “Lisa,” “Laura,” or “Louise.” They call me “Nancy.” It’s utterly baffling and I like “Nancy” even less than “Linda.”
When I finally got around to questioning my parents about why they chose to name me “Linda”, my father explained that he had wanted to name me “Emily Morgan Nesbit.” And to this day, I like the sound and would have been delighted. My mother objected claiming it sounded too much like a horse and since she had lugged me around for the past nine months, she was accorded the deciding vote. (Very few marriages are a democracy.)
That’s how the story stood for more than 30 years until one afternoon, I was rummaging around in my attic and came across an old box that had been relocated from my childhood home. It had been decades since anyone had opened it and the first few items I unpacked didn’t look familiar. There was a spare globe that I believe went with a chandelier that hung in a house we had sold when I was seven. There were not one, but two extension cords thoughtfully wrapped in newspaper—my mother’s handiwork at its best. As I continued opening the well-packed wads— and with restraint, I might add, I began losing hope that I might find some long-forgotten treasure. And then I came across a small, leather box with gold embossed initials “L.N.”
What were my initials doing on this box that I had never seen?
I opened the box, wondering if there might be a secret message inside … nothing.
I took the box downstairs and presented it to my father.
“What’s this?” I demanded.
“What do you mean? It’s a box.”
I come from a long line of English majors, and I should have known better than to have phrased my question in that way.
“I know it’s a box. But whose?”
My father took off his glasses, and squinted with one eye as he held the box up to his nose to examine it properly. He put his glasses back on, handed the box back to me and smiled.
“That belonged to your great aunt Linda.”
“My what? My ‘great aunt Linda?’ Since when did I have a ‘great aunt Linda?’”
“Why honey, that’s who you are named after.” He sounded very matter of a fact.
At that moment, I wasn’t feeling excited to learn about this ‘great aunt Linda’ my alleged namesake. But feeling betrayed that it took more than 30 years to find out I had one.
“Well, who was she? Tell me about her.”
“Oh, there’s really not much to tell. She lived in Media, [a suburb of Philadelphia] and she made her living selling fruitcakes.”
I began foaming at the mouth.
“You named me after a woman who baked fruitcakes for a living? Are you serious? What did I do to deserve that? I had just been born. I hadn’t had time to screw up.”
My father, in his ineffable way, remained calm. He smiled kindly. I genuinely think he didn’t understand why I might take this as a direct affront to my sense of self.
For the next few moments, I exercised some restraint and said nothing. I was trying to let this new reality sink in. My brother Hugh was named after a distant relative who was an earl! (Of course, he was.) And I got saddled with fruitcakes.
I regained my composure and continued with my questioning.
“Is there anything else about my namesake I should know?” And I am thinking Dad may tell me she played a ruthless game of pinochle or daringly wore blue eye shadow, some spunk in her character that I could cling to.
“No, honey. There’s really not much else to tell. She was a spinster.”
I sucked all the air out of the room, blew up my cheeks like a trombone player, and spit out, “You named me after a spinster who baked fruitcakes for a living? What were you thinking? Why did you and Mom even bother to bring me home from the hospital if you had already cast such an egregious blight on my character? Surely some charity would have adopted me and I could have been raised by a family that loved me. One that at the very least would have had the courtesy to change my name!”
Once again, appearing completely non-plussed, Dad replied.
“Honey, there’s nothing wrong with fruitcakes.”
"Nothing wrong? Everything is wrong with them."
“Well, your mother thought it was preferable over giving you a name that sounded like a horse.”
“But I like horses. Everybody likes horses! And nobody likes fruitcakes.”
From that moment forward, the subject was never raised again. Some secrets are just better left that way.
