Some stories of Christmas at the Palladino's from not too long ago
By Phil Palladino
December 31, 2008
Christmas Eve was always a magical night. My memories of this begin when I was in second grade, age six and a half. My brother George and I were both in the choir at St. Patrick's Church in Troy, NY that year. I was the rookie. He was the veteran in third grade with a beautiful young boy's voice. He had been chosen to sing "The First Noel" from the pulpit in the church before the midnight mass. And Brown, another talented third grader was awarded the honor of singing "Silent Night."
We were filled with anticipation that night as we trudged through the snow to the church, clutching at the hem of Mom's big warm winter coat. We gazed into the starry sky hoping to catch a glimpse of Santa and the reindeer flying above. Our imaginations were wild with the possibility, but a twinge of fear crept in as we realized that we were not snug in our wee beds. We realized over time that we clung to our mother for many reasons; warmth, fear, and to hide from the jolly Santa who might catch us, and pass over our house without stopping. "Who would get our toys if not us?" we wondered.
Mom did nothing to dispel our beliefs. She enjoyed the whole scene, and assured us that Santa would land on our roof, climb down the chimney (it was a very little chimney, and there was a stove pipe at the inside that could be a problem), and bless us with a bounty of toys and candy. We had to go to church first, celebrate the birth of Jesus, get home to bed quickly (after we put out cookies and milk for Santa) and then be surprised in the morning as we peeked out from our bedrooms into the early morning light.
My first year in the choir at Christmas was nothing to brag about. At that age and only in second grade, I was up way past my bedtime. At eleven-thirty we processed from the sacristy to the choir loft, down the center aisle, clutching our small hymnals with the Christmas carols in them. Then we enthralled the congregation with a medley of seasonal favorites, including George singing his solo from the pulpit. I don't know how he did it, but we were all very proud of him.
At mid-night, the altar boys in red and white garb and the priests decked out in gold threaded vestments paraded from the sacristy, and the solemn high mid-night mass began. And here is where it gets personal for me. We had just presented a concert of inspiring song and now a half hour later, the mass began with a few prayers and a series of triumphal song, the processional, the Kyrie, the Gloria….
And then I woke up on time to fall in line for the recessional. I had missed all the important parts of the mass from the Gloria on, the Christmas story of Jesus' birth, the sermon, consecration, and communion.
That was the last mid-night mass I slept through. (I was in the choir two more years, and became an altar boy in the spring of fourth grade. I was old enough to learn the Latin responses required to serve at mass. "Ad deum qui laetificat iuventutem meam" were the first phrases of the language that I uttered, and more followed.)
All of the trips to church at mid-night were magical. As I grew older, I held my mother's arm and we continued to search the awful sky for Santa, but knowing full well that he would come. He always ate the cookies and drank the milk, which is why he is so plump.
When George and I became older, we would go to mass a little earlier than Mom and Dad and the rest of the family. We were the altar boys responsible for setting up the altar, making sure the candles and incense were lighted, and the torches were ready to go at the Sanctus. These were huge responsibilities, and we were "the big men on campus", in charge of some of the magic that made the mass so mysterious to those attending.
We went straight to bed when we got home, and indeed, visions of gifts and toys danced in our heads.
One Christmas morning, by the dawn's early light, maybe 6 a.m. or so, I woke up and peered out my bedroom door toward the front room. I saw silhouetted in the feint light a huge wheel that looked like a bike. Santa had read our mail!
I ran excitedly to Mom and Dad's room and poked my snoring Dad. "Santa's brought us a bike!" Dad was annoyed. From his deep sleep he mumbled, "If Santa brought a bike, he can take it back; go back to bed!" I scurried back to bed, not wanting to upset Santa and hoping that my eyes were not deceiving me.
When we finally did get up, there was a light green Shelby bike and a huge tricycle next to the tree. It was then that I realized that George and I were not twins. He was fifteen months older. He got the bike; I got the trike.
The gifts under the tree at Christmas looked like the best from the Montgomery Ward catalog. There was the Marx electric train with a smelly old transformer and tilting gondola cars. This came at George's first Christmas (whose gift was that?). Dad, George and I set that train up year after year until it was replaced by a Lionel.
There were Lincoln logs, tinker toys, erectors sets with motors, blocks, pound a peg, doctor's and nurse's kits with stethoscopes, microscopes, bandages and pills. Chemistry sets (one summer day we actually found a formula for urine, whatever that was, and made it), dolls, toy soldiers, filling stations, and on and on. What was given to one of us, was usually given to all five of us. Nothing was marked, but we figured it out, and Mom and Dad enjoyed it all with us.
The tree always looked great after it was up and decorated. It was always a fresh tree purchased from a dealer up the street for two dollars. Usually, we shopped for the tree with Dad after he came home from work during the dark December days. There was a variety of trees available. Some cost $1 or $1.50; others cost $3 or $5. Two dollars was the limit that Dad would pay, and he had trouble not going lower. Still, the tree usually had bare spots, limbless areas here and there from top to bottom. Sometimes, all the branches were on one side. The challenge was to fill in or cover the gaps, or have the good side face out. The drill from Pa Ellis' tool box came in handy as Mom would drill holes in the areas where the tree needed limbs, and insert branches that were removed from the bottom to allow the tree to fit into our make shift wooden tree stand that was filled with coal or bricks. Multi-colored lights, some bubbling candles lights, large and small ornaments, some homemade, lots of tinsel icicles, and a star or angel transformed the two dollar tree into an elegant work of art that made us proud.
One year, I guess Mom just got tired of drilling and when Dad brought home the usual tree with few limbs and no good side, she sent George and me out to buy a different tree. For $2.50, we brought home what we perceived to be a better tree, and Mom, with a saw and drill, combined the two trees. Dad never again shopped for a tree after that. George, Mom and I, and eventually Mary, Jean and Mike, did the honors, eventually getting into three and five dollar trees that fit neatly into the corner, without drilling.
I do not want to paint Dad as a grumpy old grinch. He was Santa's number one helper in a household that was filled with kids. He had a direct line so to speak to Santa's workshop since he worked for "Monky" Wards and got us a Christmas catalog every year. We went through and X-ed every toy in the book that we might like to have ever. There were so many possibilities, and when Christmas Day came, we were never disappointed. He had in mind the true value of the tree, which was not much at the lot where we usually purchased ours.
Dad made sure the toys were assembled, not just a pile of parts. The bikes and trikes came ready to roll. We just ran to the tree and started playing.
Mom, too, was a special Santa helper. There was an endless supply of Christmas cookies, dozens and dozens. The house was perfect for Santa's visit. Rugs and carpets were clean, bells were hung in the window, stockings hung from the mantle and plaster boots with our names decorated the mantle shelf. She disguised her voice and made phone calls for Santa, especially to Johnnie Carrier to ascertain whether he was naughty or nice. Johnnie has reported that he received these phone calls on Christmas Eve until he was 20 years old.
The true meaning of Christmas never escaped us. Church was important and then there was the ever present Christmas "crib" which adorned a table in most of the Catholic homes in the neighborhood. Ma Ellis had her crib in the downstairs window, with blue lights evoking a pastoral winter night like the original Nativity. The lights caught the eyes of passers by who stopped and adored, as if to be the Magi of River Street.
The best of the nativity scenes was always in church where they had life sized figures bowing down to the oversized infant Jesus in a bed of hay. At some point during the holyday season, the girls' choir, in which Mary Catherine participated, would proceed to the site and sing carols. There was an air of hope that some miracle similar to Fatima or Lourdes would occur.
As we awaited the arrival of the baby Jesus, our visions and hopes came crashing down one Christmas when one of the young priests unceremoniously deposited the infant figure in the manger just before midnight mass. There was no mystery or fanfare. Just a plop, and there was Jesus, and we went on with the ceremonies.
We often exchanged religious gifts at this time of year. A rosary or medal was considered something special. Even better was a statue, especially for Mom. She had a Mary statue, and when we started to earn money through our paper route, she quickly built up a gallery of saints that included St. Joseph (the protector of Jesus and Mary), St. Jude (patron saint of hopeless and desperate cases), the Infant of Prague( Jesus in a little child's costume as he appeared at Prague), St. Anthony( who found lost articles), and St. Christopher (whom we have since learned is a total myth). There were also missals that we gave and received, the Sunday missal, the daily missal, St. Joseph's missal, each year with better print, more pictures, and red ribbons as markers. Actually, it was hard to keep Christ out of Christmas in this household.
There was one other mysterious character in my Christmas memories. After Jesus and Santa, there was Harry Cohen (Cohn). Dad was a merchandiser for Wards. In that capacity, he purchased the women's shoes that were to be sold in the Wards catalog. One of his contacts in the business was Harry in New York City. Each year, for several years in the late 1940s or early 1950s, a box of shoe polish would arrive via parcel post. It contained 12 bottles of whisky which Dad passed along to his co-workers. One year, the postman delivered the box, there was a broken bottle. The deliveryman simply and apologetically exclaimed with a wink "That sure is funny smelling shoe polish!"
These memories abide with me. I could interpret them and apply some sociological meaning, but some one else can do that. I believe these were great times that aided my formation and have influenced my life over the years, and I am thankful for that.
