Memories of a Manhattan Christmas

My childhood Christmas memories center on my aunt and uncle’s Manhattan apartment, overflowing with relatives, holiday trappings, and delicious food. But before the festivities began, my family had to travel to Manhattan. We lived on Long Island, normally an hour’s drive from Manhattan. Nothing was normal about driving on Christmas Day. New York City roads can be nerve-racking any time, but especially during the holidays. Maneuvering thoroughfares like the Long Island Expressway and Manhattan city streets requires patience and time. 

My parents did not have either on Christmas Day. The drive strained the patience of all four passengers – the driver, usually Dad, Mom, my sister, and me.

We endeavored to leave early enough to avoid traffic jams, but it never happened.

A lot of yelling occurred. 

My parents shouted at each other. “You missed the exit!”…”We should have left earlier.”…”Damn, I think I left the Jell-O in the refrigerator.”…”Watch out! You almost hit that car.”…”Wow! That car almost hit you.”

My sister and I taunted each other. 

“She’s touching me.”…”She hit me.”…”Ouch!”…”Shut up!”…”She is on my side of the car.”…”She went over the line.”…”Stop it!”…”Are we almost there? I have to pee.”

My parents hollered at me and my sister. 

“Shshshsh.”…”Stop yelling at each other.”…”Be quiet, please.”…”I don’t care who is on whose side of the seat. There is plenty of room for both of you.”…”Keep your hands off each other.”…”If you don’t stop we’ll turn around and go home.” 

We finally arrived in front of the apartment house, everyone tired, irritable, hungry, and a bit bedraggled. Three of us unloaded shopping bags full of presents and proceeded into the building while Dad slowly drove around the block, frazzled and cursing, searching for a parking space.

I am not sure how he did it, but he always made it to the apartment in time for dinner. 

Entering Aunt Nettie and Uncle Harry’s apartment a stately tree, adorned with multi-colored shimmering lights, was prominently positioned by the fireplace, touching the ceiling and cascading into the living room. Stockings brimming with goodies hung on the mantle. Around the tree a huge pile of colorfully wrapped presents awaited hands eager to unravel golden bows and tear off holiday wrappings.

The best part of the day for me was unwrapping my presents. Beautifully wrapped gifts morphed into a massive pile of torn wrappings, opened boxes, and toys strewn everywhere. Toys were not the only gifts received, but the ones lingered over and most warmly embraced. My obsessively neat aunt fretted over the mess but did so with a smile on her face. She loved watching the expressions on the children’s faces as boxes flung open and newly acquired possessions scrutinized.

The kids hurled themselves around the apartment, fooling around and running after each other, testing Aunt Nettie’s tolerance. She held her breath, our mothers scolded us, and we temporarily halted our antics. Until we started up again.

I doubt gifts were the high point of the adults’ day. I am sure the feast spread out on the dining room table was the best part of their day. Aunt Nettie’s plum pudding stands out as a unique Christmas dessert proudly served every year. Her specialty, it was not my favorite. I preferred fruit pies –usually apple and cherry plus a couple of others, including Mom’s favorite pecan pie – and chocolate cake. 

By evening everyone was tired, cranky, and anxious to return home. Yet another frustrating, tense, traffic-clogged drive loomed ahead. But my family did it every year throughout the 1950s and most of the 1960s, when my aunt and uncle decided to spend their retirement years in the warmth of the Florida sun.

Years later I hosted Christmas Day dinner. There was no tree, but lots of gifts assembled around the fireplace. I prepared a sumptuous dinner that included many of the same dishes found on Aunt Nettie’s table. No plum pudding, however.