Christmas Eve at the Big House

“Shhhhh…….I think I hear ‘em,” Jake whispered. Eyes wide, head slightly cocked, he slowly raised his index finger to his lips to reemphasize the SHUSH order he’d just issued. Meg and Sam stopped mid-stride; they froze in place for a long pause that followed the shush, listening in silence for even the faintest jingle of bells. The longer they listened the more they convinced their ears (and each other) that they heard something. Then …. patience spent all three raced outside, eyes to the sky, in hopes of catching a glimpse of Santa’s sleigh. Almost always there was a reported sighting, “I did, I saw him, for reals this time, for reals!”

With each passing day of December and subsequent flap of the advent calendar opened, all three Nieslanik children “listened harder” for Santa’s bells. Listening harder is an acquired skill and one that has more to do with the intensity which you believe rather than practice. Like Disciples of Santa, our kids were believers in the truest sense of the word. By Christmas Eve, my bell-listeners were bringing their “A” game to Nan and Grandpas’ house.

Christmas Eve at the “Big House” was a grand gathering of cousins, extended family and friends – at Nan and Grandpa’s house. The crowd grew each year and once invited always invited. The Nieslaniks and Coryell (Catholic cousins) were usually last to arrive because of the timing of Christmas Eve Mass. We often wondered if there was some sort of conspiracy with the Episcopalian relatives to who consistently arrived at the party long ahead of us. They had mid-night services.

The moment Mass was over it was on to Nan and Grandpa’s. The entry way to the Big House is a mudroom, complete with mitten dryer, a wall of coat hooks, boot racks and multiple bins for mittens and hats. On Christmas Eve, however, the floor of the mudroom looks the aftermath of a tornado of scarves, hats, mittens and coats and debris piled in a disheveled heap. Most were removed with such haste that coat-sleeves were pulled inside out. I can still see Meg hopping around on one foot trying to kick her snow boots off without taking the time to untie them.

The Big House was a bustle of chatter and excitement. The living room sparkled with light from Nan’s tree, and the village under it. I always loved the fact that nothing matched on Nan’s tree, and most ornaments were handmade gifts from children and grandchildren. Instead, there was a story to go with each ornament including the three-dimensional tinfoil star on the top that she made the first winter she and Grandpa were married. Under the tree was Nan’s Christmas Village complete with ice-skaters on ponds made of mirrors, surrounded by snowdrifts of cotton. Nan loved her village and everything was place in just the right spot so the village residents could live in harmony. Another blessing is that Nan got to resurrect the village after the carnage of the toddlers on Christmas Eve. Embers in the fireplace glowed and would NOT be re-stoked so as not to burn Santa when he came down the chimney. There were a handful of budding musicians playing jingle bells on Nan’s baby grand piano, or just pounding.

The dining room was mostly about food, and the large table was set with all leaves to offer the maximum surface area for goodies. Contributions to the appetizer pot-luck style of the evening were set around in a semblance of order. Every family had a specialty; ours was stuffed mushrooms. Cousin Lathrop’s Cheeze-Whiz stuffed olives were a staple for the event. Nan provided the main course, pies, and the bread – come to think of it she covered all the bases. My guess is she did this just in case some of the potluck entries didn’t show.

The kitchen was a gathering place for the older men, probably because it was close to the bar and far from squealing children in the living room. Grandpa and Ed sat at the kitchen table sipping eggnog sprinkled with nutmeg, while Nan fussed about getting food on the table and cutting up the turkey. As the official eggnog maker, I was and careful to make a batch with hootch (alcohol) for the adults and a non-alcoholic batch for the kids. Most importantly, however, was to keep Grandpa’s cup of eggnog full. No matter which pitcher I used to fill Grandpa’s cup, he would ask, “Did you put any hootch in that nog?” So comfortably predictable, that Grandpa!

The evening’s itinerary was varied degrees of starting with drinks and eggnog, followed by dinner and dessert, and then the part that that the children had been waiting for. My bell listeners were tuning up, listening hard, and running from window seat to window seat looking into the cold night sky for signs of Santa.

“Nan, when is he coming?” they asked over and over.

She replied, “as soon as the adults are done eating.”

Eventually Nan herded everyone to the living room, and sat on the dodecahedron (stop sign shaped stool made by my grandfather) in front of the fireplace. The kids gathered in close with rosy chapped cheaks from either the heat in the room or the subzero temperatures in December.

“Ohhhh listen kiddos, do you hear that?” she’d ask.

“Is that you Santa?” she hollered up the chimney.

All listeners were on task and the room immediately fell silent. Then as clear as day a hearty, “HO HO HO … Merry Christmas,” followed by a loud ringing of bells. The kids squealed with delight. It was “game on.”

Nan then introduced each child to Santa, as they snuggled in on her lap and instructed them to tell Santa what they wanted (up the chimney). The older and more-bold kids shouted their requests up the chimney to Santa; the

younger more timid whispered their requests to Nan which she repeated loudly up the chimney.

“Did you get that Santa?” she’d shout after each request.

“HO HO HO … Merry Christmas,” Santa roared, followed by a loud ringing of his bells. One Christmas Sam commented that it sounded almost like Santa was banging his bells on the chimney. Hmmmm. By the time the littles got to

Nan’s lap they were well coached on what to request, or at least their wishes were known to the older kids. There were only a few rules enforced during this ritual: no running outside after your turn; and no looking out the windows until Santa was done with all the kids. This preserved the anonymity of Santa’s bell-ringing helpers, and where exactly he was.

Next it was time for Christmas carols and Bonnie played the piano while everyone else sang along. There was just enough room on the piano bench for one or two small self-appointed helpers. I can still see each of the kids sitting next to Bonnie, bobbing in time with the music and playing accompaniment with one finger. Bonnie learned that if she converted piano-playing helpers into page-turners the whole exercise was much more fluid.

Antsy to get home and write letters to Santa, the kids ultimately lost interest in caroling and headed to the mudroom to pilfer through the carnage left from their entry to find their gear. Inevitably, we were short a mitten or hat when we left for home. The kids kissed Nan and Grandpa good-bye and we headed home.

This Christmas Eve practice goes back to my childhood, and though the crowd has morphed over the years the same format applies. There is always a mad scramble a few days before the party to find Nan’s brass string of Christmas bells. Mysteriously, they sound a lot like Santa’s bells. Recently I’ve learned that Nan had the same sort of party when she was a child.

Christmas Eve at the Big House will most likely make you a believer, and at the very least you’ll understand listening harder.

Merry Christmas and maybe we’ll run into you at the Big House.