Books, Arts & Manners: Holy Nights

I wonder what it would be like to live in a country that did not keep Christmas. Never mind the joys and attractions of India and the Far East —I would miss the tinsel, the lights, and the whole atmosphere of this most joyous of holidays. I would miss the infinitely touching Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve; I cannot imagine remaining indifferent to the story of how there was no room at the inn for the very pregnant woman, or not being proud of the Three Kings who found their way to Bethlehem from far away, across countries that must have been even more unpleasant then than they are now.

My love for Christmas was come by early in life, through my German father, who cherished the Christmases of his own childhood. My very Italian mother, used to the unfussy Roman Christmas of those long-ago times, went along with my father’s notions, like any obedient wife of her generation, the result being the unforgettable Christmases of my childhood. My mother would start weeks ahead, baking dozens and dozens of cookies with the help of the maids. Then, as Christmas drew near, she would set aside one room for the Christkind (Baby Jesus) to rest in when He was laboring over a large, richly and colorfully ornamented Christmas tree. And she consented to making Christmas Eve the night, contrary as this was to her own tradition of Midnight Mass followed by the veglione di Natale, a large, sumptuous supper.

NH

About the Author

Nika Hazelton

Featured Tags

I wonder what it would be like to live in a country that did not keep Christmas. Never mind the joys and attractions of India and the Far East —I would miss the tinsel, the lights, and the whole atmosphere of this most joyous of holidays. I would miss the infinitely touching Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve; I cannot imagine remaining indifferent to the story of how there was no room at the inn for the very pregnant woman, or not being proud of the Three Kings who found their way to Bethlehem from far away, across countries that must have been even more unpleasant then than they are now.

My love for Christmas was come by early in life, through my German father, who cherished the Christmases of his own childhood. My very Italian mother, used to the unfussy Roman Christmas of those long-ago times, went along with my father’s notions, like any obedient wife of her generation, the result being the unforgettable Christmases of my childhood. My mother would start weeks ahead, baking dozens and dozens of cookies with the help of the maids. Then, as Christmas drew near, she would set aside one room for the Christkind (Baby Jesus) to rest in when He was laboring over a large, richly and colorfully ornamented Christmas tree. And she consented to making Christmas Eve the night, contrary as this was to her own tradition of Midnight Mass followed by the veglione di Natale, a large, sumptuous supper.