A CHILD’S CHRISTMAS IN NEW JERSEY

By Jane Lamb

It started with the arrival of the Sears Roebuck Christmas catalog. I fell upon it the moment it skidded through the mail slot in the front door and spent countless hours picking out the doll of my heart’s desire. There were toy stoves, pots and pans, trikes and skates to point out to Mother and Daddy, too. They didn’t seem to be paying much attention, but by mid-December, the attic door was locked, and whatever lay behind it was judiciously placed so as not to be visible through the keyhole.

My recollection of Christmas shopping is rather dim, probably because kids in the 1930s didn’t do much of it and were darned lucky if their parents did. We made one annual expedition to Bamberger’s Department store in Newark. My reward for patiently helping pick out shirts for Daddy, ties for the grandfathers, was a thrilling escalator ride to Santa’s Workshop on an upper floor. To me it was fairyland. Santa himself presided over golden-haired dolls, fully-furnished dollhouses, and glorious toys beyond description. The idea of getting there via a secret stairway spurred my imagination to the point where I even believed that the little closed doors in the walls of the Holland Tunnel, on the way to visit relatives in Brooklyn, led to a year-round Santa’s workshop.

Speculation bubbled within us as the countdown to the big day continued. It didn’t seem that much in the way of preparation was going on, but there was a certain air of mystery in the house. Mother, who was totally incapable of deceit, somehow managed to keep a straight face when my brother Willy and I bombarded her with questions.

At last school was out for the holiday. I think we were lucky if we got Christmas Eve off. First thing in the morning we kids and Daddy went looking for a tree. They didn’t grow wild in New Jersey and finding just the right one at a local nursery took some time. Today, whenever I smell Christmas greens outdoors in the melting snow I can still smell those rows of trees in the damp New Jersey air. When we got home, Daddy and Willy would set to work building a stand while I went inside to help Mother frost gingerbread men.

We had to scrunch out of the way in the kitchen so they could drag the tree through and set it up in the corner of the dining room. Part of the ritual was Daddy’s fussing and fuming as he tried to get the lights working. Daddy didn’t have much luck with electricity, though he managed to jerry-rig a light behind the manger scene over the fireplace. It had come, like paper dolls, in a punch-out book, the figures beautifully colored and as magical for me as the most elegant Provençal nativity set.

Sometime in the midst of all this, we had to go pick up Nana and Grandad. We drove through the wealthy sections of Montclair to marvel at the Christmas lights, wondrous in our eyes, though no match for today’s extravaganza. Nana always helped us trim the tree. She was very particular about how we put on tinsel, strand by stand. She wouldn’t let us get away with any careless bunches. I helped her wrap presents in white tissue paper, tied up with old-time red and green silky string, wound about with silver tinsel.

On Christmas Eve we were too excited to eat supper beside the glowing tree, wondering what we would find under it in the morning. Then we sat by the fire in the living room while Mother read the Christmas story, and I imagined angels and shepherds and wise men. One of the grownups would read The Night Before Christmas. It still gives me goosebumps every time I hear it.

Willy and I hung up our stockings, put out cookies and a thermos of coffee for Santa and were packed off to bed, but not to sleep. We jabbered and were shushed for what seemed like hours, but dropped off soon enough. I woke up every hour. “Didn’t you hear sleigh bells?” I’d call to Willy. He wasn’t sure, but I was. We tried bouncing up and down in our beds, just in case the grownups didn’t know it was morning.

Finally they let us come downstairs when it was almost daylight. We could dig into our stockings and get a peek at the tree and the packages that had appeared overnight. They were never piled up around the tree before Christmas. Of course the big things—sleds, a new doll or an old one dressed in new clothes—were in plain sight, but we didn’t open our simple gifts—crayons, coloring books, toy cars—till after we’d eaten.

One of the big presents, the kitchen cupboard that Grandad made for me, became a family heirloom. It was painted 1930s green like Mother’s kitchen. Some years later I painted it blue with pink hearts for my daughter. My granddaughters played with it, and now my great-granddaughter has taken possession.

One year I begged for more beds for my numerous doll family. Daddy built me a lovely pair of twin beds, mother made real bedding for them—and bought twin dolls to put in them. I had to adopt those unwanted children and love them like my own, but my plan was foiled. Grownups don't always hear what you’re saying!

Aunts and Uncles came for Christmas dinner, and afterwards we sang carols with Aunt Gena at the piano and Daddy on the violin. After the relatives moved away to Cape Cod, I tried to carry on the tradition, but my jerky piano and Willy’s scratchy violin sounded nothing like the music of our talented elders.

Many another way of keeping Christmas has come and gone since I was an enchanted little girl, dreaming of dolls and playhouses, shepherds and angels, and the certainty of sleigh bells. But what has always stayed with me and never loses its magic is the forever-green fragrance of the Christmas tree, outdoors in the frosty air, and indoors in the warm dark, glowing with colored lights and unimaginable promise. 

 

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