When I was a child, the weeks leading up to Christmas were exciting and culminated in a party hosted by my Great Uncle Ed and Aunt Geneva on the Sunday night before Christmas.

We looked forward to this party all year long. In October, my mother bought fabric and a pattern to make me a special dress, which I also wore on Christmas Day. It would usually be sewn of taffeta or satin, with a stiff crinoline underneath, and a sash around the middle that she’d ask my dad to tie in a large bow at the back. It was a night when my mother also dressed up, wearing her best necklace and matching earrings, high heels, coiffed hair and a shiny new dress.

After piling our coats on the bed upstairs, we all headed for the rec room in the basement where the upright piano stood over an expansive parquet floor that was better for dancing on than the broadloom running through the rest of the house.

My grandmother parked herself down on the piano bench for the evening, playing all the old favourites like “Ain’t She Sweet” and “Sweet Sue” for my second cousin Suzanne. All the older relatives sang along, becoming louder and louder as the evening wore on, especially Great Aunt Catherine and second cousin Diane, who, linking arms, danced the Charleston with gin and tonics in one hand and cigarettes in the other.

I hung out with my brothers and the other younger second cousins Linda, Lisa and Caroline at the side, making disparaging remarks about how drunk the adults were getting. Aunt Catherine would mix up my brothers Brian and Norman, calling each by the other’s name, and we’d chuckle about that behind her back.

Then my dad would join in on the saxophone, playing “Body and Soul,” which took everything up another notch. Through it all my grandmother kept a steady beat, bolstered by her little glass of sherry on the piano, which she sipped on through the night. Someone would call out another tune, and she’d launch in with a flourish of arpeggios. Even the little kids would start dancing, me with Norman, or Uncle Roly, and little Caroline with cousin Michael.

My grandfather would be off in the corner having a serious conversation with his brother Ed or brother-in-law Hube, about politics or the economy, somewhat apart from the merriment. (He wouldn’t play the piano unless he was getting paid.)

Aunt Geneva would hand out carol song sheets and we’d sing along to “White Christmas” and “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer,” then head upstairs for an elaborate buffet with jellied salads, cold meats, olives and exotic dishes like chicken à la king. We kids ate the bare minimum for the first course, then stuffed ourselves on dessert — tiny pastries like petit fours, macaroons, shortbread and all kinds of Christmas cookies. 

At end of night, Suzanne would come down with presents for all the kids. In her early 20s, she was already working and loved indulging us. Her gifts were things we didn’t get from anyone else, like little girls’ makeup sets, nail polish, perfume or colourful jewelry, which we were allowed to open on the spot.

After the party, we’d drive around the streets to admire all the colourful light displays, twinkling against the stars in the pitch-black sky far away from the city lights, with the snow lightly falling, and I’d think that it really was “The Most Wonderful Time of the Year.”

Looking back, I feel that if I could open that door again, I would see them all having fun, my grandmother playing, everyone singing and dancing, forgetting about their troubles for one night of the year.

© Peterborough Examiner