The Traditions and the Families We Take for Granted

As far as I can remember, Christmas and New Year’s Eve celebrations were depressing for kids unless it snowed heavily and they could go sledding, ice skating in the streets, and having snowball fights with all the children residing in the apartment complex. Being stuck in a cold apartment, layered to the hilt to stay warm, with nothing to do except read, was really miserable for most kids. We wanted to be outdoors.

It was depressing to watch our parents struggle to find food to cook a special meal for Christmas, for the New Year, and to make ends meet on small state salaries. We were too young, but we understood the word “no” and the phrase, “we can’t afford it.” There was more food in the stores provided for the masses, but the lines were still endless.

Dad always found a small Christmas tree which brought into our small apartment the fragrant essence of fir, bright, shiny colors, and cheer. The kitchen smelled like roasted chicken and pork chops, potatoes, fried sausages made by grandpa, mamaliga (polenta made with yellow corn meal), and mom’s special cornulete (little horns) baked with walnuts, cocoa, sunflower oil, and powdered sugar.

When mom could find beef, she made us a special salad called salata de Boeuf, boiled chopped beef, boiled and chopped potatoes, green peas, and mixed with homemade mayonnaise. The job of mixing the eggs until the mayo took shape was mine on account of my young hands and arms which did not get tired and achy as quickly. We did not have a mixer and frankly, I had never seen one until I came to the United States as an adult. I had never seen any other kitchen appliance or vacuums that most people in the West took for granted.

Mom also made a special Christmas bread, cozonac, with Turkish delights and chopped walnuts folded in cocoa. The loaf was drizzled with a mixture of egg and butter, and it smelled divine while baking in the gas oven.

We were not drinkers, but dad brought home for the holidays two bottles of wine and some plum brandy or rum. It was a tradition to toast the New Year with a full glass of wine in hopes that life in the coming year would be easier and good health and luck would prevail.

We went to grandma’s Orthodox Church in the village on Christmas Eve. When the mass ended, the congregation circled the church three times with burning candles in celebration of Jesus’s birth. The church was empty throughout the year, save for the older ladies in the village who attended regular services, but during Christmas and Easter the church was always full. Those who mustered the courage to attend came to church to praise the birth of Jesus and to pray for a better life.

People shared their extra holiday food with the less fortunate, those alone, sick, widowed, or left without any family.

Christmas time was for families to be home with their loved ones and New Year’s Eve was the time to have a party with the extended family, usually in the country where food and drink was more plentiful. People had gardens and canned a lot, and some raised pigs to feed many at Christmas. It was the time of the year when we had the most protein and everyone shared in the bounty.

Holidays became more sedate as the years flew by and we got older. We have plenty of food now but fewer and fewer people to share it with. The Christmas tree seems lonely without the laughter of children. There is no Bogart to drink the tree water and to sleep under the low hanging ornaments and the twinkling lights. He crossed the Rainbow Bridge five years ago.

Mom died a year and a half ago and her loss changed our lives fundamentally. She was our matriarch, the super glue that kept our small family together. Her happy spirit is always with us. She is finally reunited with my dad in Heaven.

Our people have scattered around the world, with their own families, unable to visit their loved ones. Many passed away. Gone are the times when the children remained in the same village or even the same town with their parents. They have dispersed everywhere for better opportunities and to build their own homes, seldom returning to the place they were born in or spent their formative years.

It is true, you can never go back home, you will not find what you were looking for because life has moved on, but the Christmas traditions we once took for granted will endure no matter where we are, and so will the memories.

My Perfect Christmas Treats

On December 6, all children waited anxiously the arrival of Saint Nicholas, the old, bearded man with ragged clothes. Everyone put their shoes outside the door in hope that they would be filled with candy and chocolate.

Many do not know the story of Saint Nicholas, the Bishop of Myra from Turkey. The story goes that he had become the symbol of anonymous gift giving when he donated three sacks of gold to an old man whose daughters could not marry because he was so poor, he could not afford their dowries. St. Nicholas threw a bag of gold each night into the old man’s house through an open window. When the story was told in colder climates, St. Nicholas dropped the gold through the chimney instead of an open window.

Thus St. Nicholas came to represent the secret gift giving. He was portrayed in meager clothes with three round discs, the three sacks of gold. In the town of Bari, Italy, where the bishop was buried, pawnbrokers hung three gold disks in front of their shops in remembrance of St. Nicholas’ gift of gold.

Eastern Orthodox churches celebrate services on the night before December 6 when St. Nicholas appears as a bishop, not in a red suit. Parishioners leave their shoes outside the door and, upon departure, find gold disks of chocolate wrapped in foil inside their shoes, in remembrance of the three gold dowries that St. Nicholas provided to the poor man.

My childhood friends in Romania left their galoshes outside the door. The one pair of leather boots each of us owned in winter was too precious to leave out in the elements. We wore galoshes over boots in order to protect them from rain and the dirty slosh when snow mixed with salt began to melt. We trusted that nobody was interested in taking our rubber galoshes.

Every morning on December 6, I would find an exquisite orange, a banana, a large chocolate bar filled with raisins, and a small bag of hard candy. I felt very special and was always curious why I could never catch St. Nicholas bringing the delicious treats.

The communist economy we lived under never delivered enough basic and decent food for everyone, much less luxuries such as fresh fruit in winter. A banana or an orange were exquisite gifts that we dreamed about all year long.

People waited in long lines for the lone salami in the window of a butcher shop. Unlike the privileged elite that shopped at their own stores, we had to contend with empty shelves and long lines. To pacify the masses at Christmas time, the communist party leaders would order extra food, fresh fruits, and the lines were shorter.

December 25 was a secular holiday with “Mos Craciun,” Santa Claus, who was dressed in red with a fake cotton beard. We still believed, however, that he had the power to place a small gift by our pillows the night before. I would wake up to find a small rag doll with a porcelain head, a book, or a small puzzle.

Although the communist party did not allow people to go to church, we always went to my grandmother’s village for Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve, circling the church with lit candles three times for the Holy Trinity.

Groups went caroling from house to house at night and were received with gifts of food, hard pretzels, or a warm cup of plum brandy. No matter how hard the communists tried to suppress our traditions, faith survived.

Magically, a tree decorated with real candles, colorful handmade crepe paper baskets filled with candy, hanging apples, cookies, and a few ornaments appeared. The glass ornaments must have cost my dad a fortune since they were hard to find. The Christmas tree did not have electric lights, but we would light up candles carefully for a short while on Christmas Eve. The scent of the blue spruce filled our small home and made me happy. I was walking on air, oblivious to my parents’ financial sacrifice.

Nobody exchanged presents, the holiday was about our faith in God, children, togetherness with the extended family, visiting each other’s homes, eating and drinking whatever we had. Villagers slaughtered pigs for Christmas and shared them with family members. The leftovers were preserved in a cellar or smoked to feed them throughout the year when meat was hard to find. 

Eating chocolate was an acquired taste. Grandpa convinced me to try the gooey confection I melted on the heater to spread on my doll’s face. I was playing house and feeding my doll chocolate. Grandpa never told me how many bars of chocolate I ruined this way. Once hooked, chocolate became a favorite treat for special occasions.

My Christmas banana was always green, and I had to wait until it turned golden and sweet. I placed both fruits in the middle of the table so I could see them from every angle in the room. The orange was wrapped in white onionskin paper. I kept it for days admiring its perfect orange color and the fragrant smell emanating from its pores. It came from a faraway place, Israel, whose language I could not read.

I wondered what exotic place grew such perfect fruits and how long it took to travel to me. Will I ever journey to see the tree and pick this perfect orange myself? The wind was always howling outside, and the snow was coming down very hard, but I was dreaming of the tropical location that grew my perfect Christmas orange.

How Many Christmases?

As my Christmases become more senescent, I think more about the fact that God only gives us so many Christmases to celebrate if we live the average life expectancy in our country.

With each Christmas, people should not be looking for gifts, but should be thankful for being because life is a perfect gift for each of us, we should be grateful for what we have and for our families.

As a child, living under an atheist, communist regime, I decorated our pine Christmas tree with ornaments I made from colorful crepe paper and filled them with candy. I strung a garland made from shiny paper links glued together, the occasional cookie, an apple, a rare chocolate bar, and an orange. A few expensive glass ornaments were handled with care and hung on the more solid branches. Metal holders with small red candles were clipped to the outer branches. I was allowed to light up a few on Christmas Eve while mom supervised, to make sure that the tree and our apartment did not catch fire.

As I decorate our Christmas tree, it takes us much longer than it used to.  We start early and do a little bit each day and it may take two-three days, but the final result is beautiful. I take down a few boxes of ornaments and realize that I have collected way too many over the years, but which ones do I discard? Some have special meanings, and it is hard to part with them.

Gone are the live blue spruce trees that Mr. Alan used to set up in our living room year after year. Mr. Alan is smiling from Heaven because our tree is now artificial.  His trees smelled so fresh and divine and filled our house with the scent of Christmas and the visions of frost, icicles, and snow.

We watered the tree daily but our Tiger, a bottomless ‘camel,’ drank as much water as we added. At least he did not try to eat the ornaments or climb the tree to chew on the electric wire and lights. When the needles started falling, the wonderful fir smell persisted for a short while. Despite vacuuming, we still found sharp fir needles on the carpet late into the summer.

Christmas is a different time for many people. But the left has tried to diminish and destroy it by introducing the Elf on the Shelf and the non-Christian Kwanzaa started in 1966 after the Watts riots.

On a recent trip to Disney World, although there were a few large fir trees with ornaments and red and pink poinsettias everywhere, there was no reference to Christmas at all but there was ample reference to Kwanzaa.  A black choir sang on a large stage, entertaining visitors, and advertised Kwanzaa celebration on December 26. No mention whatsoever of Christmas.

The joyous Merry Christmas has been replaced by Happy Holidays, in a progressive attempt to be “inclusive,” and now by “Merry & Bright.” I am personally confused what is “merry” and what is “bright,” but it does not seem to bother other people who go about their daily lives ignoring it, until the ‘Merry Christmas’ practice disappears completely. The stores look bleak, almost no decorations to remind people of the celebration of a very important tradition for the western world – Christmas.

It is a special day for Christians and a spectacular day for all children around the world. They wait with bated breath for old man Santa Claus with his white beard and Ho, Ho, Hos, to bring them some desired toy they wanted all year long. This magical man embodied the selfless act of giving:  toys, food, warm clothes, health, love, familial peace, friendship, and joy.

The flying Santa Claus is a tradition, an idea, and a miracle man who can make that special wish come true for all children of the world, small and grown.

Christmas is now for me a time of reflection of our past, present, and the future. The previous Christmases have flown by, with my small family around a table laden with food and our happy children with their toys, and now alone with my husband.

Instead of giving gifts to baby Jesus each year, we chose the less fortunate children who placed their wishes in the Angel Tree at our local mall, and we gave gifts to children who eagerly expected the miraculous Santa to visit them while they slept peacefully in their beds.

Like them, we do not have much family left and those remaining are scattered around the globe. Only the idea of instantaneously traveling Santa Claus with his magical sleigh and the amazing flying reindeer could reach them all. Santa can squeeze through any chimney, avoid any fire, open any door, and eat billions of cookies left by children eager to please him.

But in the material chase to bring happiness to others and especially to children, we forget the simple pleasures of Christmas, love, laughter, being here and now, songs, prayer, and the presence of God in our lives.

Photo copyright: Ileana Johnson

 

Christmas Rush is Over

Fishing Pier on the Maryland side 

Photo: Ileana Johnson

It’s a chilly but sunny day in late December. Christmas rush finally passed and the skirmish to buy a loved one that perfect gift has ended – the constant flurry of delivered and sometimes lost packages, seemingly joyful but hurried crowds, the constant strangling traffic on all roads, fewer and fewer decorations and Merry Christmas wishes in stores, and even less cheer in people’s hearts. But the children were happy, oblivious to reality and drowning in gifts from everyone, scattered toys all over the floor, and discarded empty boxes in the driveway.

Churches provided angel gifts to the local needy children who asked for the latest electronic gadgets but got toys and clothes instead; one lone Salvation Army red bucket was collecting financial donations.

Grocery stores were asking for food and money donations for disadvantaged children, the same children who a few months ago had caught the interest of the all-knowing leftist media, railing against their obesity and excessive meat intake and other harmful foods distributed in schools or by eager-to-please and overwhelmed parents.

The Christmas songs of my youth have been replaced by modern PC versions of happy holidays, rap, and other personal and distorted renditions of songs that are allowed on the radio waves by the PC police.

If one atheist group or person claimed that they were offended by traditions and God, out went the Christmas tree, the ornaments, the Nativity Scene, the reference to Christ, everything was scrapped and sent to the dusty shelves of offensive history ruled by the “diversity” police that scoped hate before it even happened.  

Freestone Point

Photo: Ileana Johnson

Seagulls rookery on the Potomac shore

Photo: Ileana Johnson

It’s peaceful again, so it seems, and I escape to my beloved woods and the river. It’s a serene silence interrupted by nature’s sounds, the gurgling of water, the waves lapping at the shore, the sea gulls squawking, the rustling of the carpet of dead leaves beneath squirrels darting about, and the chirping of hopping birds.

Fishing pier view from the battery

Photo: Ileana Johnson

I don't think this squirrel missed many meals

Photo: Ileana Johnson

I counted eight grey squirrels so far, more than I’ve ever seen in the woods before. One portly Chip or perhaps Dale, was cracking nuts on a branch, a quite plump specimen that did not seem to have missed any meals. Perhaps the fishermen on the pier below had fed them if they were brave enough to make their way down half a mile to the river’s bank.

Fairfax home chimney of 1825

Photo: Ileana Johnson

I pass by the lone chimney, the ruins left from the Fairfax family home built here in 1825. Captain Henry Fairfax purchased the 2,000-acre property from Alfred Lee, the grandson of Henry Lee II. Henry and his third wife Elizabeth lived and raised seven children here from 1825 until their deaths in 1847. They are buried further up the hill in an enclosed cemetery covered in a thick carpet of dry leaves. In 1849 the $16,253 property, with twenty-four slaves, was left to his children, Martha and John Walter.

Potomac River shore on the Virginia side

Photo: Ileana Johnson

John inherited the portion of the plantation that is now Leesylvania State Park. John Walter Fairfax joined the Confederate Army and General James Longstreet’s staff. John Walter returned to live in Leesylvania after his wife’s death where he rebuilt his father’s residence and lived there until his death in 1908. I find it curious that his home burned shortly after his death. If only the still-standing brick chimney, weathered by time, could talk!

Civil war cannon facing the river

Photo: Ileana Johnson

Up the bluff at Freestone Point, with a spectacular view now partly obscured by scraggly bushes and a few dormant trees, there is a civil war cannon preserved from the original Gun Battery. This northernmost battery was a decoy along a six-mile front. The more effective batteries were located down river at Possum Point, Cockpit Point, and Evansport.

What's left of the battery at Freestone Point

Photo: Ileana Johnson

Confederate General Robert E. Lee issued orders on August 22, 1861 to blockade the Potomac River’s sailing channel. The Confederates effectively closed commercial traffic on the Potomac by December 1861 and maintained the blockade until March 9, 1862.

From the diary of Sgt. Wilmot Walter Curry, we know that the Freestone Point battery contained two rifled six-pounders and an eleven-foot-long thirty-pounder cannon known as “Long Tom,” captured at Manassas plains. Sgt. Curry described one such battle on September 25, 1861 when “the Lincolnite men of war,” floating on the Potomac, engaged the battery eleven times before the Confederates answered with their own guns. Fortunately, there were no casualties on either side.

Bluff over Potomac where the battery was located

Photo: Ileana Johnson

The view from the battery bluff today overlooks a fishing pier, quite busy on most days – one third of it is in Virginia and two-thirds in Maryland. How exactly does one measure the distance of ownership over the flowing river?

Christmas, the Season of Faith, Family, and Charity

Photo: Ileana Johnson

 Christmas was my Dad bringing home proudly a scraggly fir with sparse branches - fragrant with the smell of winter, tiny icicles hanging from the branches, miniature crystal daggers, melting on my mom’s well-scrubbed parquet floor. I never knew nor asked how he could afford it from his $70 a month salary that barely covered the communist subsidized rent, utilities, and food. No matter how bare the branches of my Christmas tree were, it was magical to me.

We decorated it together with home-made paper baskets filled with hard candy, raisins, and small butter cookies, crepe paper garlands, small pretzels, an orange wrapped in fine tissue paper coming all the way from Israel, a few apples dangling from a string, and 12 red and green 3-inch candles clipped carefully away from overhanging branches that could catch on fire.

Mom’s hand-stitched table cloth made a convenient tree skirt. Two metal bars forged by hand helped Dad nail the tree to the floor at the foot of the couch where I slept in the living room that doubled as my bedroom.

I fell asleep and woke up every morning setting my eyes on the scented tree. It lasted two enchanted weeks before the dried needles fell all over the floor.

Christmas was lighting one of the 12 candles for a few minutes every night, careful not to set the tree on fire, basking in the soft glow while Daddy’s twinkly eyes were beaming with pride that he made his family happy once more. We were rich with love and God’s blessings.

Christmas was standing in shorter lines for freshly baked bread, butter, milk, cooking oil, flour, sugar, and the small pork roast mom always baked in the gas oven. Grandpa’s homemade smoked sausages with pretzels toasted on the stove top were always on the menu. Grandpa used to joke that life was so spectacularly good, even the dogs ran around with pretzels on their tails. Pretzels were sold by big bags, hard and stale, but toasting them on the stove made them taste just baked.

Christmas was Daddy opening the ceremonial bottle of red wine freshly brewed that year by cousin Mircea from Grandma Elizabeta’s vineyard grapes.

Christmas were the village carolers in hand-sewn folk costumes coming door to door, trudging through 3 ft. of snow, pulling a plough decorated with a real fir tree, singing traditional songs and snapping their whips in spite of the Communist Party moratorium, forbidding the observance of such religious traditions.

Christmas was sneaking at midnight to the village Orthodox Church with aunt Leana, the singing deacon, lighting candles and praying, surrounding the building when the crowd overflowed its tiny confines into the yard and the cemetery. The cold chilled us to the bone but the inside eventually warmed from our bodies, the candles, and the excitement of prayers and closeness to God.

Christmas was eating with my Mom and Dad, feeling full, happy, and loved in our tiny apartment, sometimes sharing meals with family members who had traveled far to be with us. The spare wool comforter aunt Nicuta had woven, a blanket, and set of sheets painstakingly hand washed would make cozy beds on the floor for the tired traveler – no fire place to light up, just the coils of steam heat which the government generously made sufficiently hot during Christmas to make up for the cold misery during the winter.

Christmas was peering in the shop windows at the glass ornaments we could not afford but I wished I had. They were made in Poland, whimsical fairy tale characters, no religious symbols of any kind, they were “verboten.”

Every Christmas I longed to have the same doll in the window at Omnia department store, dressed with miniature detailed  clothes, real curly hair, blue eyes, and eyelashes. I never asked my Dad because Mom said it cost three months of his salary. I still had my raggedy cloth doll aunt Stella, the village seamstress, had made for me when I was two years old. When my first child was born, Dad mailed her a large doll similar to the one I had longed for. The doll was so big, it stayed in a corner untouched. My spoiled children had too many other toys to play with and never appreciated the sacrifice their Granddad had made in sending such a gift of love.

On Saint Nicholas Day, December 6, I would put my boots outside the door, hoping that they would be filled with candy in the morning and not coals. Grandpa had a wicked sense of humor – he would sometimes fill one boot with switches and another with candy and a chocolate bar. Chocolate was always in short supply and hard to find.

Photo: Ileana Johnson

Grandpa never bought a blue spruce - we cut a fir tree from the woods. We were careful not to cut down a tree that had bird nests in it. We decorated it with garlands made from shiny and multi-colored construction paper. We cut strips, glued them in an interlocking pattern and voila, we had our garland. For ornaments we used walnuts and shriveled apples from his cellar, tied with Grandma’s red knitting wool.

The warm adobe style fireplace built from mud bricks mixed with straw cast a dancing glow on the tree decked with  tokens of food, something our heathen Roman ancestors did during the celebration of Saturnalia. On December 17, the polytheistic Romans celebrated Saturnus, the god of seed and sowing, for an entire week. As Christians, we celebrated the birth of Christ and the religious traditions in our Orthodox faith, in spite of the communist regime forcing the transformation of Christmas into a secular holiday.

On Christmas Eve, after we ate Grandma’s traditional Christmas supper, roasted pork, sarmale (stuffed cabbage rolls with ground meat and rice), and mamaliga (corn mush with butter cooked in a cast iron pot), we went to the midnight service at the Orthodox Church not far from her house. Sometimes it was a sloshy trek and other times it was icy and slippery. If we got lucky, a heavy snow would turn our walk into a winter wonderland with dancing snowflakes shining in the weak street lights. We had to bundle up well – the church was not heated and we circled it three times during the procession with burning candles in our hands. I always wore my flannel pajamas under many layers of warm clothes. To this day, pajamas are my favorite garment – cozy and comfortable, keeping my body warm.

When my children were born, Christmas became a tradition of toys and happiness seen through squeals of innocence and twinkly eyes when unwrapping a favorite game, book, toy, stuffed animal, or bike. I taught my children to be charitable and to share with other children who were less fortunate than we.

I decorate my Douglas fir with beautiful lights and shiny ornaments now. My heart fills with loving and longing memories of glowing Christmases past and of family members lost who made our Christian traditions so special.

I hope and pray that American Christmas traditions will be passed on to future generations to light up the season of faith, family, and charity.



Note: An abbreviated version of this article appeared in my first book, Echoes of Communism, 2010 edition.

Notre Dame, A Symbol of our Collective Western Civilization

My husband and I visited Paris for ten days around Christmas and New Year seventeen years ago. It was blustery and drizzling the whole time and we eventually got used to the bone-chilling cold. It did not stop our adventurous streak at all and we took the metro everywhere.

I had visited Paris twice before but only for a couple of days each time with my youngest daughter - the Louvre, the Eiffel Tower, the Notre Dame cathedral, and Versailles.

With my daughter, March 2001

Photo: Ileana Johnson, Christmas 2002

Notre Dame spire

This time we had more time and we went inside Notre Dame and lit up a candle for my dad. We prayed and walked around in amazement at the beautiful stained glass windows. The paintings, the floor mosaics, and the solid columns gave us a feeling of eternity as if this church has been there forever, almost nine centuries of civilization.

Photo: Ileana, Xmas 2002

We tried to imagine how many millions have stepped on those floors before us in the last nine centuries and how many prayers have been lifted to Heaven and to God.

How many sacrifices poor and rich Christians alike have made to contribute financially through tithes and donations to the construction of so much beauty that generations have admired and enjoyed in silent prayer and people from around the world have visited?

There was a meager nativity scene to one side and I remember commenting that it was rather simple compared to the awe-inspiring beauty sorrounding us. But then there was not much indication around the secular Paris that Christmas was an important holiday to the Parisians. They had partied heavily on New Year's, trashing the famous steps of the Basilica in Montmartre.

Nanook of the North admiring a gorgyle

Photo: My husband David, Christmas 2002

We then stayed in line in blistering rainy winter wind for almost an hour in order to climb to the top to see the famous Notre Dame gargoyles up close and to admire a breathtaking view of Paris.

I was dressed like Nanook of the North and the frigid cold still reached to my bones but it was worth every icycle hanging from my frozen face - I felt the winds of history touching my being.

I never believed that in my lifetime this 860 year-old jewel of Christian art and prayer, a symbol of our collective western civilization will be partially turned to ashes, a victim of “accidental” fire.

Brimming with Christmas Spirit

Wikipedia photo

I recently met a young couple giddy with the jubilant spirit of Christmas. It was a rare encounter as Christmas traditions are under assault and condemned on the altar of progressivism and Islam. He wore a red and green elf vest and a Santa hat over his regular clothes and a big smile of good cheer. His lovely wife had donned a beautiful red dress with sparkling tinsel on the left collar. He told me how much he enjoyed Christmas and decorating trees which he left up every year late into January, even past the Russian Orthodox Christmas on January 6.

We started talking and I told them about our Christmas celebration and our fir tree, thin and puny on branches and ornaments, but high on spirits. They listened politely but then I realized from the expression on their faces and the look in their eyes that neither one could relate to the description that followed.  They were millennial young and recently married.

I told them how we decorated the blue spruce with real candles, apples, cookies, and home-made shiny paper ornaments, with a few and rare Bohemian glass ornaments, and how we lit the tiny candles every night for a few minutes - they were clipped as far to the outside branches as possible to avoid catching the tree on fire. To mom’s exasperation, Daddy would nail the base of the tree stand to the parquet floor. A few oranges, apples, and cookies were hung on each branch with colorful string, and chocolate bonbons and plump raisins filled home-made cardboard tiny baskets decorated with red and green crepe paper.

Larger cities decorated a huge tree in the center of town with colorful lightbulbs and organized a winter carnival with rides on St. Nicholas Day, December 6. New Year’s Day was a secular holiday decreed so by the Communist party but Christmas was not really a holiday at all.

People who lived in villages stuck to tradition and celebrated Christmas. Priests opened the modest and very cold churches for services on Christmas Eve. I attended services with my aunt Leana who was a deacon and a cantor. Churches in the mountainous areas were more active so far away from the prying eyes of communists.   

Caroling, donations of food to people less fortunate, and having an extended family meal to celebrate Christmas was the highlight of our year.  During certain days, we went from house to house with elaborately prepared plates of food and baskets of goodies for those less fortunate, widowed, old, or sick.

Villagers learned to care for each other in good times and bad.  They bartered services and things they had in excess with other neighbors since money was so tight. People learned to adjust to their communist-imposed poverty in so many creative ways.

My parents, my secret Santa (Mos Craciun), would put a small food item by my pillow which I would find on Christmas morning – an unwrinkled apple, a fragrant orange from Israel, a green banana from Greece, or a bittersweet chocolate bar. Christmas was good for us kids because we were oblivious to our state in life. We had no idea how hard adults struggled to make ends meet.

How could I make this well-off American couple understand that Christmas was a gift of prayer and time to be with the extended family to share love and abundant food that was otherwise missing the rest of the year?

Nobody can comprehend that an entire nation can be held hostage for decades and suffer so much in a fight for survival every day to find food we take for granted here, bread, milk, butter, flour, sugar, rice, cooking oil, and needful things such as toilet paper, vitamins, and basic medicines. It is hard to believe when the shelves in America’s grocery stores are brimming with food.

As Oleg Atbashian said in his book, Hotel USSR, after he legally immigrated to the U.S., he cried when he saw the abundance surrounding him, not tears of happiness, mind you, but of anguish for all the unnecessary and cruel pain the proletariat endured for decades at the hands of communist autocrats who enjoyed making the population suffer for many generations through constant shortages of food, long lines, lack of basic necessities like hot water, heat, having to depend on bribes, black markets, kickbacks, and bartering to survive.

An artist, Atbashian entered an art supplies store in Manhattan and wrote, “Rows upon rows of shelves brimmed with products that catered to every artistic need. No gatekeeper was checking permissions, and no Artists Union card was required to make a purchase… After the first floor, I went to the second, and then to the third. And then I imagined how different my life could have been and broke down in tears.”

Americans are so unappreciative of and spoiled by their abundance created through the hard work of many past generations, that they have no idea how other people live or that life can be any other way but good. But this American knows better and my Christmas spirit will always grow inside our Christian home and in my heart.

 

Symphony of White

Two of the strongest memories from my early childhood are the muddy yards and roads soaked into deep ruts by rivers of steady pouring rain and the pristine whiteness of the winter wonderland stillness when the dirt and mud are covered by a blanket of gleamingly white and fluffy snowflakes, blanketing snow glittering in the bitter and biting cold sunshine, accumulated and piled high above my head.

I could not imagine a prettier color than alpine white in the majestic Carpathian Mountains set in a wild and rocky terrain ringed with blue-green spruce.

Our snow at Christmas in grandpa’s yard was stained red with the splashed blood of the sacrificed pig raised to feed our entire extended family that otherwise would starve.

My memory brings back the red poppies in the fields of green and yellow wheat, guarded by a man armed with an axe; he meant business when he chased kids trampling government wheat in search of the bountiful and beautiful flowers that had more “useful purposes” to the guard’s communist bosses. The bright red was inviting us to pick them and take them to our moms to add a splash of color in the otherwise dreary and utilitarian grey space we called communist apartment homes. Picking wild flowers in a small bouquet was such an innocent delight which flooded my eyes with God’s beauty.

A sea of red hammer and sickle communist flags dominated the landscape when the population was forced out into the streets, rain or shine, to march in praise and glory to the dear leader and his wife.

Yellow and white were the fields of chamomile flowers we picked and dried to make tea, a soothing greenish liquid that relaxed us at night and helped clean infected wounds.

Our uniforms were plain shades of green, grey, brown, and navy. For a proper contrast, our school shirts were blue, freshened in the wash by hand with a cube of blue dye when they faded.  Hands would look blue for a while as we did not have latex gloves to shield the skin while doing laundry.  Girls as young as five were taught how to properly wash clothes.

Our hands would turn chocolate brown when it came time to pick and shell the green casing of walnuts which had not dried completely on its own. The purple plums we gathered for brandy and the juice we squeezed out of grapes in the fall to make wine stained our hands magenta.  

We cried crocodile tears when the pungent and juicy yellow onions had to be pulled by hand from the ground. We dug potatoes with a hoe and brown became embedded under fingernails for the duration no matter how much we washed our hands. The smell of fresh dirt and the worms we dug up with the potatoes was overwhelming. When it rains and the first drops fall on dry dirt, the smell reminds me of digging up potatoes from the soil which we then spread evenly on the floor of the cellar to dry up.

Grandma’s flower garden blossomed in summer and autumn with fragrant roses, dahlias, narcissus, tulips, chrysanthemums, lilacs, peonies, and lavender.  She was proud of her garden located close to the cast iron water pump that brought fresh ground water from the deep well. I helped by pumping enough water to nourish her precious blooms twice a week. Grandma and mom looked at the plants as God’s colorful gifts that filled the soul and eyes with beauty. The colorful and scented blooms were mom’s treasures.

Grandpa gave me a box of watercolors one year and, without consulting mom, I painted a small red rose on the wall by the couch where I slept. Each morning, when I first opened my eyes, I saw the rose.

We did not have any paintings or pictures on the wall except my parent’s oil portrait from their imaginary wedding. It was a fantasy wedding portrait as they were too poor to have a proper wedding and a formal dress. I wish I had that painting today! It had been long confiscated by God knows who.

Nature’s colors amazed me and I often dreamed that someday, when I could afford to, I would never wear anything else but bright colors, teal, pink, purple, lavender, grass green, magenta, orange, white, and reds.

I often wander in the woods to capture on camera nature’s palette. Fall is a symphony of yellows, browns, greens, and maroons that take my breath away. My husband laughs that I must have photographed the same trees for the last ten years but to me, each autumn brings another shade of color that I have not seen before with my naked eye. And the sun adds that little sparkle, a glint of gold, orange, pink, and cerulean blue streaking from the soft white clouds.

The fragrant green fir trees at Christmas and the tiny real candles we lit, the few glass ornaments, brought a warm glow of yellow light, joy and color to our otherwise drab existence.

One summer mom bought enough material for a new dress. It was not often that I got a new dress. Everything had to be altered, let out, let in, and hemmed to last several seasons. The print was small red roses with green leaves set in a black background. My seamstress aunt‘s masterful fingers created a work of art without a paper pattern. Every time I wore it, the splash of color made me feel special and I rode on a cloud of happiness all day, bathed in the hues of red and green.

My wardrobe today is an eclectic splash of cheerful and sunny colors. It’s not hard to find me in a crowded airport. To me, black is for somber occasions and funerals; navy is ceremonial; and brown is best served in dark chocolate.

The whiteness of snow is still so pristine that no garment can possibly match it. But I wear white long after Labor Day, a bright spot in a crowd of winter.

Grandma Elena's Socks

Sheep Grazing outside Grandma's village
Photo: Ileana Johnson 2015

Last week I gave away at the nursing home dozens of socks wrapped in red ribbon. Some people were happy to accept them, some were thankful, some were surprised, and some were even reluctant to take them as if they were a trick. Only after I explained why I was doing it, were they semi-smiling.

Americans today are so spoiled and so well-off when compared to other countries, they cannot possibly understand the poverty and the dire need we had growing up under communism, especially since schools and the main stream media today teach them how wonderful and romantic communism is.

I did not do it because people cannot afford socks on their own or the facility does not provide them with traction socks, but in memory of my grandmother who used to knit a couple of pairs of wool socks for me as a Christmas gift each year. My feet were really warm while I sledded down the hill all day long. Walking to school in knee high snow was also much more pleasant with warm feet.

I had a couple of ugly cotton pairs my parents had bought me. Made by the communist label, they were ugly, ill-fitting, and never stayed on right nor kept my feet warm.

Thank you, Grandma Elena, you sheared the sheep, you spun the best wool, dyed it, and knitted the best socks, mittens, hats, and scarves! Since I no longer know how to knit, I have to buy my daughter a hat since she likes to go skiing.

I am sorry the knitting skills died with you and your oldest daughters! On the upside, I still remember how to do counted cross-stitch and needlepoint, none of which are really helpful to keep me warm.

Christmas, the Season of Faith, Family, and Charity

Caroling in Romania, 1841 Photo: Wikipedia

Christmas was my Dad bringing home proudly a scraggly fir with sparse branches - fragrant with the smell of winter, tiny icicles hanging from the branches, miniature crystal daggers, melting on my mom’s well-scrubbed parquet floor. I never knew nor asked how he could afford it from his $70 a month salary that barely covered the communist subsidized rent, utilities, and food. No matter how bare the branches of my Christmas tree were, it was magical to me.

We decorated it together with home-made paper baskets filled with hard candy, raisins, and small butter cookies, crepe paper garlands, small pretzels, an orange wrapped in fine tissue paper coming all the way from Israel, a few apples dangling from a string, and 12 red and green 3-inch candles clipped carefully away from overhanging branches that could catch on fire.

Mom’s hand-stitched table cloth made a convenient tree skirt. Two metal bars forged by hand helped Dad nail the tree to the floor at the foot of the couch where I slept in the living room that doubled as my bedroom.

I fell asleep and woke up every morning setting my eyes on the scented tree. It lasted two enchanted weeks before the dried needles fell all over the floor.

Christmas was lighting one of the 12 candles for a few minutes every night, careful not to set the tree on fire, basking in the soft glow while Daddy’s twinkly eyes were beaming with pride that he made his family happy once more. We were rich with love and God’s blessings.

Christmas was standing in shorter lines for freshly baked bread, butter, milk, cooking oil, flour, sugar, and the small pork roast mom always baked in the gas oven. Grandpa’s homemade smoked sausages with pretzels toasted on the stove top were always on the menu. Grandpa used to joke that life was so spectacularly good, even the dogs ran around with pretzels on their tails. Pretzels were sold by big bags, hard and stale, but toasting them on the stove made them taste just baked.

Christmas was Daddy opening the ceremonial bottle of red wine freshly brewed that year by cousin Mircea from Grandma Elizabeta’s vineyard grapes.

Christmas were the village carolers in hand-sewn folk costumes coming door to door, trudging through 3 ft. of snow, pulling a plough decorated with a real fir tree, singing traditional songs and snapping their whips in spite of the Communist Party moratorium, forbidding the observance of such religious traditions.

Christmas was sneaking at midnight to the village Orthodox Church with aunt Leana, the singing deacon, lighting candles and praying, surrounding the building when the crowd overflowed its tiny confines into the yard and the cemetery. The cold chilled us to the bone but the inside eventually warmed from our bodies, the candles, and the excitement of prayers and closeness to God.

Christmas was eating with my Mom and Dad, feeling full, happy, and loved in our tiny apartment, sometimes sharing meals with family members who had traveled far to be with us. The spare wool comforter aunt Nicuta had woven, a blanket, and set of sheets painstakingly hand washed would make cozy beds on the floor for the tired traveler – no fire place to light up, just the coils of steam heat which the government generously made sufficiently hot during Christmas to make up for the cold misery during the winter.

Christmas was peering in the shop windows at the glass ornaments we could not afford but I wished I had. They were made in Poland, whimsical fairy tale characters, no religious symbols of any kind, they were “verboten.”

Every Christmas I longed to have the same doll in the window at Omnia department store, dressed with miniature detailed  clothes, real curly hair, blue eyes, and eyelashes. I never asked my Dad because Mom said it cost three months of his salary. I still had my raggedy cloth doll aunt Stella, the village seamstress, had made for me when I was two years old. When my first child was born, Dad mailed her a large doll similar to the one I had longed for. The doll was so big, it stayed in a corner untouched. My spoiled children had too many other toys to play with and never appreciated the sacrifice their Granddad had made in sending such a gift of love.

On Saint Nicholas Day, December 6, I would put my boots outside the door, hoping that they would be filled with candy in the morning and not coals. Grandpa had a wicked sense of humor – he would sometimes fill one boot with switches and another with candy and a chocolate bar. Chocolate was always in short supply and hard to find.

Grandpa never bought a blue spruce - we cut a fir tree from the woods. We were careful not to cut down a tree that had bird nests in it. We decorated it with garlands made from shiny and multi-colored construction paper. We cut strips, glued them in an interlocking pattern and voila, we had our garland. For ornaments we used walnuts and shriveled apples from his cellar, tied with Grandma’s red knitting wool.

The warm adobe style fireplace built from mud bricks mixed with straw cast a dancing glow on the tree decked with  tokens of food, something our heathen Roman ancestors did during the celebration of Saturnalia. On December 17, the polytheistic Romans celebrated Saturnus, the god of seed and sowing, for an entire week. As Christians, we celebrated the birth of Christ and the religious traditions in our Orthodox faith, in spite of the communist regime forcing the transformation of Christmas into a secular holiday.

On Christmas Eve, after we ate Grandma’s traditional Christmas supper, roasted pork, sarmale (stuffed cabbage rolls with ground meat and rice), and mamaliga (corn mush with butter cooked in a cast iron pot), we went to the midnight service at the Orthodox Church not far from her house. Sometimes it was a sloshy trek and other times it was icy and slippery. If we got lucky, a heavy snow would turn our walk into a winter wonderland with dancing snowflakes shining in the weak street lights. We had to bundle up well – the church was not heated and we circled it three times during the procession with burning candles in our hands. I always wore my flannel pajamas under many layers of warm clothes. To this day, pajamas are my favorite garment – cozy and comfortable, keeping my body warm.

When my children were born, Christmas became a tradition of toys and happiness seen through squeals of innocence and twinkly eyes when unwrapping a favorite game, book, toy, stuffed animal, or bike. I taught my children to be charitable and to share with other children who were less fortunate than we.

I decorate my Douglas fir with beautiful lights and shiny ornaments now. My heart fills with loving and longing memories of glowing Christmases past and of family members lost who made our Christian traditions so special.

I hope and pray that American Christmas traditions will be passed on to future generations to light up the season of faith, family, and charity.

 

Why Do We Give Christmas Gifts?

1881 Thomas Nast depiction of Santa Claus
Photo credit: Wikipedia

The Christmas tradition of gift-giving is tied by many to the Wise Men who gave Jesus Frankincense, Gold, and Myrrh. Frankincense was a perfume used in Jewish rituals of worship. Gold was the symbol of Kings, and myrrh was a perfume used on dead bodies.

The historical Saint Nikolaos of Myra was a fourth century Greek Bishop of Lycia. He is said to have given secret gifts of coins to those who left their shoes outside, a practice celebrated on his feast day, St. Nicholas Day on December 6 in the West and December 19 in the East. He is the model for Santa Claus. The patron saint of sailors, merchants, archers, repentant thieves, children, brewers, pawnbrokers, and students, he is revered by Anglicans, Catholics, Lutherans, Orthodox, and by some Baptist, Methodist, Presbyterian, and Reformed churches.

Saint Nicholas comes in Europe on December 6. Children put their boots outside the door, polished and presentable, in hopes that St. Nick will fill them with candy, not switches. In some parts of Germany children are “kidnapped” in a jute sack and given a pretend “spanking” for their bad behavior or poor school performance during the year.

On Christmas Eve, French children leave their boots in front of the fireplace, to be filled with gifts of candy, nuts, and small toys hung in the tree by Pere Noel.

Romanian kids find small gifts under their pillows, candy, chocolate, oranges, flannel pajamas, or a small toy brought by Mos Craciun (Old Man Christmas) or Mos Gerila (Old Man Frost), the communists’ version.

The Italian La Befana tradition dates back to 13^th century. A benevolent old woman with magical powers, she travels on her magical broom to bring gifts on January 5, on Epiphany Eve. The custom of Babbo Natale (Santa Claus) has not been around that long in Italy, only since WWII.

La Befana travels throughout Italy in search of Baby Jesus, bringing gifts to children. The three Wise Men had asked her to go with them to find Baby Jesus but Befana refused at first. She changed her mind and tried to find the Three Wise Men in search of Jesus but was not successful.

La Befana goes down chimneys all over Italy to bring “caramele” (candy) or fruit to good children and “carbone” (coal), onions, and garlic to naughty children. Children leave their stockings and shoes out in hopes to find candy on January 6. To appease La Befana, children leave out notes, food, wine, sausages, and even broccoli.

Russian children receive their gifts under the New Year’s tree from Father Frost (Ded Moroz) accompanied by Snow Maiden (Snegurochka). Father Frost carries a staff, wears valenki (felt boots) and travels in a troika (sleigh pulled by three horses). Christmas is celebrated on January 7 because the Russian Orthodox Church lives by the old Julian calendar which is 13 days behind the Gregorian calendar.

Sinterklaas is the Nordic version of the historical Greek bishop and gift-giver of Myra. An 1881 drawing by Thomas Nast solidified the modern image of Santa Claus in our culture, along with Clement Clarke Moore’s poem, “A Visit from St. Nicholas.”

Hanukkah or the “Festival of Lights” is celebrated by Jewish people for eight days in remembrance of their military victory and the miracle of the oil supply for the Temple. Family and friends eat holiday treats, give gifts to children, and play the dreidel game. This year Christmas and Hanukkah overlap for the fourth time in 100 years.

We give gifts for many other reasons at Christmas time. We are obligated by family customs, job duties, commercialism, consumerism, and societal expectations to overwhelm children with the latest toys, gadgets, and games. A few more traditional parents give books, food, and candy.

Compensation for a job well done is an opportunity for gift-giving, thanking a person for their hard work, for the long hours, dedication and exceptional effort all year long. Some gifts are for bravery in the line of duty or selfless sacrifice in saving another human being.

Exhibition is my least favorite reason to give a gift. It is a well-to do person asserting their wealth by giving away vast amounts of money publicly. Some prefer to remain anonymous but most choose the venue of all-out publicity for their generous gifts.

Compassion is the anonymous way of giving to a person you don’t know and cannot ever thank you for their gift, a person in need who has prayed for a miracle to save them from the abject poverty or the difficult situation in their lives. Gift-giving is always more rewarding in such a charitable circumstance.

Appreciation for someone you know or love who has overcome a professional hurdle after years of difficult effort is a wonderful opportunity for a gift. Reminding someone in your life that they matter and you care about them.

Duty is giving thoughtless gifts to family members, a boss, or colleagues, usually re-gifting  unwanted items received in previous years from relatives and colleagues who also felt a sense of duty to send a present to someone they did not care that much about nor did they put much thought into their generosity.

Love is the gift of togetherness, a symbol of the union of two souls who have found each other after years of searching. It is also the gift to beloved family members.

Tradition is the gift on December 6 when children in Europe put out their boots to receive switches or candy from Saint Nicholas.

The guilt of something from the past, the fundamental belief that wealth and good fortune should be shared at Christmas time is gift-giving driven by the need to share.

Giving a gift in the expectation of receiving one in return, a favor for your gift, a quid pro quo of sorts, is buying benevolence and acceptance into a group.

And then there are those Christians who would like to celebrate Christmas but are too poor and oppressed by their totalitarian governments who forbid them faith-based public displays and celebrations. They are just happy to be alive, to enjoy a good meal with their families, to have food, electricity and heat, and to be able to go to church on Christmas Eve.  Those are priceless gifts.
Copyright: Ileana Johnson 2014

 

Leave Your Secularism at the Door

The atheist minority in this country is challenging everything the majority holds dear in their traditions, faith, and beliefs in order to satisfy their agenda of fundamentally changing America in their view of “social justice” promised by the hollow “hope and change.”

Merchants have caved in afraid to say Merry Christmas anymore. We now have Happy Holidays. Nativity scenes, Christmas trees, and decorations seem to offend liberal atheists more and more each year. Frivolous and vindictive lawsuits are filed to remove crosses that have been in place for decades, honoring those who served in the military and gave their lives to our country.

Christmas parties are now holiday parties and start without a prayer – they don’t want to offend anybody.  If liberal atheists are so offended, why not leave your secularism at the door or come to work on Christmas Day and Easter? They are federal holidays designated to celebrate our Christian traditions, the birth of Christ and the resurrection of Christ.

The Military Religious Freedom Foundation challenged the two nativities scenes in the public dining rooms of the Guantanamo Bay Naval Base and caused their swift and immediate removal. If the plastic crèche was so offensive, why isn’t anybody among the 18 soldiers who complained, coming out to tell us why they must be removed?

Bill O’Reilly, in an interview with the Religious Freedom Foundation president debated that “The crèche and the nativity scene just basically portrays what happened on Christmas Day and because it is a federal holiday it seems to be in context, it’s not like you’re making anybody at Guantanamo Bay pray or go to church or say, ‘Hallelujah! I love Jesus.’ It’s a depiction of the federal holiday.”

Weinstein argued that “Christian privilege previously unchallenged <is>being challenged….Christian privilege is now gone and now welcome to the land of equality. You must all share your toys.” When he talks about the “land of equality,” is he talking about the progressive agenda of "social justice?" I thought all Americans were free to practice their faith and could take time off to observe days that are not necessarily sanctioned as a federal holiday. And what “toys” is he talking about?

O’Reilly insisted that Weinstein did not make any sense and called the complaints cowardly. “It was cowardly because this is a depiction of a secular holiday that was signed into law… and if someone’s offended about it, I want to know why and your guys don’t have the courage to stand up and tell me.”

www.theblaze.com/stories/2013/12/20/cut-him-off-hes-a-jerk-oreillys-fiery-exchange-over-guantanamo-nativity-removal/

Weinstein contended that “… your Christian personal rights will always be trumped by the civil rights of your fellow American citizens.” As I said earlier, these employees who are offended by our Christian traditions and holidays and demand their civil rights can go to work on Christmas and Easter.

Liberals argue all the time when it is convenient to their agenda and want to stifle their opponents’ freedom of speech that “we cannot mix church and state.”  I never read that exact statement in our Constitution yet they conveniently use and hide behind the deliberate misinterpretation of the First Amendment to the Constitution that says, “Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; …”   

Phil Robertson was released by A & E from the successful Duck Dynasty show because his honest opinion based on Biblical beliefs outraged the small minority who abusively and vitriolically silence anyone who disagrees with them. The majority must now give in to the minority in order to keep their jobs. The PC police have become the official “controller” and “stifler” of free speech, followed by universities with their “free speech” corners.

Yet the government runs outrageous ads, urging people to enroll in ObamaCare, one with semi-nude men prancing around and dancing in pairs dressed in speedos that leave nothing to the imagination. And this is not offensive to the majority of Americans?

We cannot walk through life with such a degree of sensitivity that we are offended by others with a different point of view, opinion, or belief system. Liberals do not have carte blanche to pick and choose what they deem bigoted and hate speech, especially when they are the biggest offenders at times.

As a wise person said, “If you want ‘change’ in this country, it won’t be achieved by censoring those that don’t want change, it happens from just living your life as you see fit.” You should not impose your value system on others by hiding behind government fiat or the judicial system.