DECEMBER 24, 2022 – Grandpa Nilsson was a fairly serious guy, though he often kidded my sisters and me and laughed at his own jokes. At Christmas he injected a bit of scatological levity into the spirit of things. “’Twas the night before Christmas,” he’d say, “when all through the house, not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse stirred.” It wasn’t until I was about 12, however, that I picked up on his humor. Before that age, I heard, “mousestirred.” From seventh grade on, I was definitely hearing, “mouse [space] turd.” I laughed, and so did Grandpa.
Never in our grandmother’s presence would Grandpa recite his modified first line of Clement Moore’s famous poem. It’s not that “Ga,” as we called her, was demonstratively prudish. She was simply more refined than the rest of us, and you could tell by her attire, posture and language that scatological humor wouldn’t be as funny if she was within earshot of it.
Until the year Ga was diagnosed with terminal stomach cancer, our family’s primary holiday traditions were followed without deviation. Thanksgiving Day we’d spend at our grandparents’ house, where Ga’s culinary and serving skills were on full display. On Christmas Day, Ga and Grandpa came to our house. They were always dressed in their finest—in keeping with the standards of the era. By the time they arrived, early in the afternoon, my sisters and I had already unwrapped the “fun” presents from our New Jersey grandparents.
That loot always arrived in a large box about 10 days before the Big Day. Gaga, as we called our maternal grandmother, always put lots of fun stickers on the outside of the package—Santa faces, candy-canes, Christmas stockings.
For years running, our uncle—who lived with our New Jersey grandparents—visited during Christmas. He doubled as Santa Claus—both before and after the truth about S.C. became known—who always left a big haul.
During a break in the action involving “fun stuff” from New Jersey and the North Pole, Ga would hand out her presents to my sisters and me. We knew how she’d open her presents from us (including my best schoolwork, wrapped in a box)—slowly, carefully, so as not to make the slightest tear in the paper. Out of respect for her refined technique, we couldn’t rip open her gifts to us in the same careless manner that we did with the “fun things.”
Ga’s gifts were always articles of clothing purchased from Dayton’s, the premiere department store of Minneapolis. (Ga had been on the domestic staff for the family of one of the Dayton brothers, who’d founded the successful enterprise.) My sisters, being my sisters, were never disappointed in Ga’s taste and choice. I, on the other hand, assigned far more value to a New Jersey/North Pole, battery-operated, model convertible Thunderbird or a beginner’s archery set. Thus, I’d have to feign appreciation for a new sweater in tissue paper inside a red Dayton’s box, perfectly wrapped by Ga.
One year, she supplemented our clothing gifts. Ga gave each of us a shiny new fifty-cent piece. Each of my sisters showered her with thanks. Me? I flipped my half-dollar over in my palm and said, “Can’t I have a dollar?”
Ga reacted with her signature, restrained laugh. She had the grace not to make a scene. My sisters took care of the well-deserved reprimand. “Eric!” they shouted in unison. They could’ve spared their words of rebuke that followed. The tone of “Eric!” was condemnation enough.
I achieved a smattering of redemption the following Christmas, when I gave Ga a large Dalarna häst (horse) that I’d bought at a Swedish gift shop. She was in her bed, in extreme pain, lying with her back toward my dad and me as we entered the darkened bedroom on that cold December night. “Mother,” he said to her gently. “Eric’s here.”
“Ga,” I said. “I brought you your Christmas present. It’s a Swedish horse. I’ll put it on your dresser.”
“I wish I could get up and ride it,” she said quietly. Those were the last words I would hear her speak.
Christmas present is always a time of recalling Christmases past. “’Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house, not a creature was stirring . . . but plenty of memories were and always will.”
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© 2022 by Eric Nilsson
