Christmas in Miami ...

As a little kid growing up in Miami, Christmas was a big event.

The Holsum bakery in South Miami would pull out all the stops with elaborate animated window displays and – as always – the smell of fresh-baked bread that traveled for miles. Department stores like Burdines and Jordan Marsh dominated Christmas shopping.  Shopping center Santas surrounded by fake snow and pink flamingo props sporting little Santa hats were a big draw.

On one of the three TV stations in Miami back then we watched the black and white Christmas classics – It’s a Wonderful Life, Miracle on 34^th Street, A Christmas Carol – that always had people bundled up against the bitter cold and usually snow, which most of us had never experienced. There were also always Christmas specials on TV, with stars like Perry Como, Dean Martin and others. Local weathercasters like Jim Dooley (“Come on down!”) and Weaver the Weatherman would track the progress of Santa’s sleigh for us. 

As kids in Miami, we wondered how Santa came down the chimney, since almost no houses in Miami at the time had real wood-burning fireplaces and, as such, no chimneys.    

Always the best part of Christmas was going to my grandmother’s house. She and my grandfather still lived in the same house they'd moved to from Ohio in the mid-to-late 1920s, along with one of their married daughters, her husband George and son.  My grandparents had raised four girls and two boys of their own in that house. There was a lot of history in that house, which still stands.

My grandmother (Anabel) and grandfather (“Cappy”) could not be more different from each other.  She was a former teacher, a staunch Methodist and serious teetotaler; he was a practical joker who always kept a bottle of Old Crow or Old Grandad around, loved to play checkers, torment his daughters' dates, and head down to “the corner” with my Uncle George for a “cool one” (beer).

Outside of Christmas, when I would come over my grandmother would teach me how to read.  My grandfather would whip me at checkers and play pranks on me.  If he was heading to “the corner” I could often tag along and get an ice-cold Yoo-Hoo. I loved going there. 

And Lord, how my grandmother could cook.  Sunday dinners there were a feast.  

But back to Christmas. To understand our Christmas you need to understand the family.  There were a lot of characters.

Amber was the oldest daughter and was married to George. Amber was a former schoolteacher and George worked for the Post Office delivering mail from a bicycle (yes, that’s how they did it in Miami then). Amber was regal; George was the epitome of politically incorrect.  George had an identical twin brother Forrest (always pronounced Foist) and was originally from West Virginia. We rarely saw Forrest.    

Josephine was the next oldest and married to Ray – who played tennis at the University of Florida, was part of the D-Day invasion, and was later the tennis pro at The Greenbrier Hotel for decades. Josephine also worked for The Greenbrier in the tennis shop.  Most of the year they lived at the hotel and rubbed elbows with the rich and famous, even though they were technically staff. To us they were as close as we came to having celebrities in the family.  

Then came Ilo, who was also married to a Ray. She was the manager of women’s sportswear at the Burdines on Miami Beach for decades while Ray owned a furniture refinishing business. Ray was also in WWII but stationed in Pensacola spray-painting planes.  While Josephine’s Ray who actually saw brutal combat never talked about the war, Ilo’s Ray never ceased talking about it.  But I really liked Ilo and Ray; they were ferociously in love and solely dedicated to each other as long as they lived. To his dying day, Ray always called Ilo "Babe." 

Ruth came after Ilo and broke ranks from the Methodists by marrying Joe, a Catholic, and moving to North Carolina where Joe worked for a tobacco company.  Unlike Josephine and Ilo, they had kids and of course raised them as Catholics.  We rarely saw Ruth and her family.

Jimmy also married a Catholic, Margie, and had a couple of kids. Jimmy worked for FPL his whole career and had to deal with Margie’s nasty mother who moved in with them.  Margie’s mother made it a point to belittle Jimmy at every opportunity; Jimmy was a nice guy but his life was a living Hell. 

My mother Jean was the youngest girl, spoiled rotten by everyone, apparently. She married my father when he was a 25-year-old Captain in the Army Air Force and she was at FSU. Like Ilo’s Ray, my father never saw combat, but naturally talked about his war experiences all the time. 

To his credit, however, he earned his degree at the University of Miami, then after the service worked nights at the Post Office to support us while he got his Masters in Far Eastern History.  At 55 he earned his Ph.D.  He was extraordinarily well educated and had an amazing memory, perhaps eidetic, but didn’t have a lick of common sense or much in the way of people skills. Or self awareness. His arrogance about his education tended to rub the rest of the more down-to-earth family the wrong way. He came off as a stuffed shirt.       

Finally, there was Buddy, the true baby of my mother’s family. Buddy was brilliant and had a Ph.D. in Biology or Chemistry. Buddy was also crazy.  He married another crazy person with an advanced degree, Molly, and had a bunch of kids who, like him, were brilliant but crazy.  I think all of them ended up with Ph.D.s. But they were really weird; kind of like nuts not falling far from the original nut tree.  Pale, strange, distant people as a group who really wanted nothing to do with the rest of us. Especially Molly.   

So here’s how Christmas shaped up. 

Christmas Eve.  Big tree.  Presents under the tree.  Adults in the living room.  Kids in the piano room. Adults – except for Grandma – would be drinking. 

Uncle George – Amber’s husband – would enter the piano room and ask the kids if they wanted a Coke; then he would wink conspiratorially and ask sotto voce if we wanted “something extra” in our Coke. Older kids knew what he meant; younger kids just knew something was up.  Of course we all said yes, please. George would return with our Cokes to which he’d added maybe a teaspoon of rum and swore us to absolute secrecy – we could never tell our parents.   

Thus compromised, we never said a word. We just sipped away and smiled knowingly the rest of the night.  He had coopted us into best behavior. 

For years, none of the adults could ever understand why all the kids behaved so well at the family Christmas.  But we did. 

As the party heated up, the inevitable gossip about the still missing Buddy and Molly would begin. Would they actually show up? Would they even remember to come?

Then, an hour or so after everybody else had arrived, Buddy, Molly, and their strange kids would show up. As always, Buddy would have a bag from the drug store and as always Molly would have a bad attitude.  Buddy would hand out Whitman’s Samplers he’d obviously picked up on his drive over.  Molly and their kids would ignore everyone.  Which was okay, because their kids were like aliens from a distant planet.  Plus, nobody ever knew what would set Molly off, prompting her to tell Buddy they weren’t welcome there and it was time to go.  With Molly you always knew it was coming.      

Before long, suddenly, predictably, Molly would get in a huff – nobody ever knew the reason – and start her dramatic exit; Buddy would apologize, gather up their weird brood and leave. Everybody would remain mystified for a few moments, shrug it off, and the tension in the room whenever Molly was around would subside. 

Meanwhile, not far behind Buddy and Molly’s leaving, Jimmy and Margie would start to argue.  Most often it was something Margie’s mother had said about Jimmy before they got there. Or it was about his drinking, which wasn’t excessive by any measure, and which, knowing what a complete bitch Margie’s mother was, and Margie was as well, no one could hardly blame him.  Jimmy’s spoiled kids then would start whining and before we knew it the whole bunch of them were out the door. 

Josephine would tell off-color jokes; her husband Ray would cringe. My father would start telling politically incorrect jokes.  Ilo’s Ray would reminisce about winning WWII in Pensacola with his spray gun. My mother would bring up Dinky, the dog her family had when she was little.  Uncle George would continue making sure everybody had a drink.

It was the same every Christmas. 

And it was great.