An Ebenezer of an uncle tested my parents’ Christmas joy
Christmas at the McGraths’ was not always perfect.
I was reminded of that truth by the photograph my sister Nancy posted online.
It shows her when she was about 5. She is dressed for bed in her pajamas and slippers but wearing a smile since, after all, she’s nestled with our mother, Gertrude, in a big easy chair next to the Christmas tree.
My mother is dressed to the nines: necklace, earrings and the fancy black dress with the lace top she first wore to Aunt Betty’s wedding. She is being careful, it seems, not to muss her makeup or her hair. Although she is seated with Nancy, her “baby” and the youngest of eight, the generous warmth to which we were accustomed is missing.
Her stony facial expression, a detachment that might otherwise be considered artful by photographers, simply isn’t the mom we knew.
All these years later, my siblings and I, with one glance at the photo, know exactly what was going on.
We grew up in a working-class neighborhood, six boys and two girls, steeped in a brew of Catholicism and Irish and Polish heritage, for whom Christmas was not only the most important holiday, but also an obsession. Lights and decorations went up the day after Thanksgiving and didn’t come down until the Epiphany, Jan. 6. And “Santa” frequently phoned or made landings and surprise appearances all year long at the McGrath house as a discipline aid.
Our parents, Gert and Charlie, were yuletide party animals, coming close to celebrating all 12 days of Christmas. They hosted gatherings for each separate category of relatives and friends. All of us pitched in, readying for a dinner party one night, and then cleaning up the next morning to prepare for the next. Through the holidays, a hundred people might dine and drink and exchange gifts in our paneled basement, since my mother deemed it important, on the occasion of baby Jesus’ birthday, to hug every person who had ever been in her life.
But before the party for the Cichoszewski side of the family, and then the McGrath side, and then the Vojtech cousins, and the Witters and Contino cousins, and then the Morgans and the Mortises from the old neighborhood on 54th and Winchester, followed by New Year’s Eve with the Mittermans, Booths, Doyles, DiBennardis and the rest of the Evergreen Park neighbors — prior to them all, was the office party at the home of Dad’s boss, who was also his uncle. That was the occasion in 1960 for which Mom was coiffed and simmering.
Eleven years old, I sensed her crossness but could not fathom the reason. Mom and Dad, after all, were going to our rich uncle’s, the only home in Evergreen Park with a wet bar, a jukebox and an in-ground swimming pool.
Their four kids, our second cousins, had a pool table and a pinball machine, along with a fridge full of Pepsi, Coke and Good Humor ice cream bars.
But the annual office party was complicated in ways I would learn only later. For Dad sold tile for his uncle’s company and hadn’t had a raise in 10 years. By 1960, things were so hard that a man came knocking to take back our Pontiac.
Meanwhile, I had not realized we were poor, since didn’t every boy share socks with his brothers, waiting his turn for the single pair with no holes?
Nor did I grasp that Mom resented living a real-life version of “A Christmas Carol,” starring Dad as Bob Cratchit and our rich uncle as Ebenezer Scrooge, while she scrimped on other necessities to make sure we had enough food.
Exasperated with “Uncle Ebenezer,” my parents turned on each other.
The night of the company Christmas bash, Charlie Jr. was babysitting while we watched “Gunsmoke” on the living room TV. We heard the station wagon arrive home early, tires squealing to a stop.
Only Mom came in, as the Pontiac sped away.
Nancy was asleep, and Rosemary started to cry. The drama, however, seemed exciting to my brothers and me. Until, that is, Mom hugged each of us without a word, and I choked up, as well.
The next morning, as we ate Cheerios in the kitchen — Charlie Jr., Kenneth, and Jimmy on one side of the Formica table and Patrick, Rosie and me on the other, with Nancy and Kevin on the piano bench at the foot of the table — Dad emerged from the bedroom. He brushed past Mom at the sink, neither of them looking at the other, and our world, I feared, was coming to an end.
Iciness persisted through the next day, and the day after, even as we hosted the Witters and the Continos.
At breakfast on Christmas Eve, Rosie and I were charged with buttering 18 pieces of toast made with day-old Holsum, while my mother stirred oatmeal at the stove.
When my father entered the kitchen, he stood at the head of the table, and I held my breath.
“Did you hear that noise on the roof last night?” he finally said, and Nancy gasped.
On his way to get his favorite cup, he stopped behind Mom and put his arms around her waist. She seemed startled — we were watching closely — then she turned and smiled over her shoulder.
And the words from the carol would never mean more: “All is calm. All is bright.”
David McGrath is among the storytellers who contributed to the book “Chicago Exposed,” a collection of news photos recently archived by the Chicago History Museum. Email him at mcgrathd@dupage.edu.