Karl's Kolumn

CHRISTMAS COLUMN TRADITION CONTINUED…

This is the 48th year I have published my Christmas column as being a part of the Bayer Christmas tradition.

Every year I seriously consider not printing it. When I express doubt as to running it again, I get responses from folks asking that I keep the tradition going. From family members and friends alike, all expressed that their own holiday memories were stimulated by my story.

This is close to the original written in 1976, as my first Christmas column as assistant editor of the Capac Journal. As it happens, it is also the only Christmas column I have ever written. With a few annual changes, this column just works for me. Now having grandkids Willy, Karli, Ben, Elaina, Zoya, Polly, Evie, Eli, and Kendall to share those memories and to create new ones is something truly wonderful.

Over the past seven years, a new generation has been started in our Karl & Anne Bayer clan. William V, 7 years old, Jaxon nearly 6, and Walker Bayer who turns 2 the day after Christmas, are the great-grands celebrating with us at Christmas, sons of Willy and Brook Loshbough. We also celebrated the marriage of Zoya to Maverick Saine in 2023.

The addition of third generation grandnieces and grandnephews swelled the family ranks at the Bayer Christmas last weekend, by my estimation of two dozen grandchildren, great-grandchildren, step-brothers & step-sisters. There is always hope for new additions to join the fun at a summer picnic.

After all, what is Christmas without being surrounded by children, family, and friends?

My own warm, bittersweet memories of Mom and Dad; my father-in-law, Nubbs; dearest mother-in-law Elaine; and the kids and family get-togethers on Christmas morning blend with those that were in my heart when I wrote that column 47 years ago as a young father looking forward to Christmas with my kids and thinking of my Christmases past as a youngster.

From that burgeoning Chris and Margaret Bayer family of 13 children, now there are more than 300 happy souls; husbands and wives, sons and daughters, nieces and nephews, grandkids and great-grandkids. Our happiness in welcoming new babies and spouses to the family is mingled with the sorrow of missing those who are gone. The painful remembering of their passing, hopefully, will be lessened by the recollection of the joy, love, and good times they always shared with us. R.I.P. Mom and Dad, Nubbs and Elaine, Marian, Doug, Joan, Joe, Greg, John, Steve, Rosie, Bob, Silky (Dennis), Steve T., LeRoy, Doug T., and Sonny.

I hope you get some enjoyment from this column and that it evokes your own warm memories of those with whom you have shared this family and holy day… Christmas.

OUR FAMILY CHRISTMAS

This is the most exciting time of the year for the little Bayer “cubs.” “How many days to Christmas?” they ask. “Is it Christmas yet? Is Christmas Jesus’ birthday? Is it today after church?”

My own favorite childhood memories of that time are the deliciously long-drawn-out hours and minutes leading up to Christmas. Then there’s that greatest time of all, Christmas morning.

As one of 13 children occupying a five-bedroom house, my childhood memories are jumbled together with the sights and sounds of living with a large family. Those memories have become a composite of many experiences; if not happening directly to me, they’ve become a part of me in the retelling of the stories.

On Christmas Eve, there were my older sisters squabbling over use of the bathroom before Midnight Mass; my older brothers would be mysteriously busy in the basement, assembling and making toys like elves. Mom and Dad’s bedroom door was kept locked; from every nook and cranny of that room peaked bits of wrapping paper and ribbon; and one never ventured to look in the trunk of Dad’s car, for we knew that’s where many of the gifts were kept.

In our house, most family gatherings centered in the huge kitchen; that’s where Mom was, always at the stove or sink.

Christmas was the exception… that’s the day the living room was the scene of all the action. That’s where we all collected and where all of our memories were created.

The woodwork about the mantle over the fireplace and the bookshelves alongside it were festooned with greeting cards of prayers and best wishes. On the mantle itself was the nativity set laid out with plaster-of-Paris figurines, a straw manger, and a three-legged cow; somewhere off to the left, hidden behind a line of graduation pictures, the Magi waited for the cue to appear on January 6, the Epiphany.

In the corner of the long living room, up near the front windows, stood the tree… oh, that tree… Dad would go out on a Saturday morning, perilously close to “that day,” and return home with the biggest, greenest, prettiest tree in the world. He would let it lean against the back of the house for a day or two, “for the branches to drop.” He’d cut off a couple inches of the trunk and affix the stand to it by a nail.

LET’S TRIM THE TREE

When the time came to decorate the tree, it was a family affair. First, the top came off, to be decorated by us small ones and then placed atop the piano. Meanwhile, the big tree would be trimmed and wound in electric lights. Next come the small ornaments placed at the top, with larger ones placed on toward the bottom.

Then Mom would unwrap her special ornaments - old, dull pieces of thin glass, plumed birds, and tiny snowflakes; mom’s memories… a bit from her mother; an aunt or uncle; one from her first tree as a married woman; one from a friend during the war; and so on.

Lastly, the tinsel was added; long strips of thin metal-like stuff to be draped over the ends of branches and lower limbs. Never mind it got tangled up in a big ball; pop it in your mouth and enjoy the weird taste next to your teeth. It didn’t matter an older sister came behind and rearranged the clumps you left on the branches. When the job was done, the tree was the world’s most beautiful.

The decorated tree in the living room was the signal Christmas was near. Other signs were a kitchen full of baked things, holiday music on the radio, and mysterious evening trips Mom and Dad made “to see a man about a dog.”

Finally, it’s the night before Christmas. We youngsters are tucked in our beds; the older ones get to stay up for Midnight Mass. Those put to bed have no visions of sugarplums; there’s too much excitement. We scurry from bed to bed, bedroom-to-bedroom… someone calls up the stairs, “Better get to sleep or Santa won’t come!”

The years Grandma Leib lived with us, she’d guard the stairs door to thwart our childish attempts to catch Santa in the act.

Eventually, sleep takes over; long waking hours are transformed to swiftly passing ticks of an unheard clock and we hear Dad call up the stairs, “Get up, Santa’s been here!” (One year, Santa even brought baby brother Stephen Christian Bayer.)

There, below the tree, along the walls, behind chairs and in front of the fireplace… piled, bunched, scattered, and artfully composed… were the gifts: games, clothes, bikes, microscopes, dolls, trains, perfume, boots, and books (gifts mostly new, some repainted just like new, all given with love) - ready to be passed out to all in the family.

FIRST, THERE’S CHURCH

But time, the children’s great cross to bear, marches inexorably through the Christmas tradition. First, we went to 9:15 Mass. Oh, how Father Laval Landry’s sermon seemed so long, the songs never ended, Communion never came; and, then, magically, we were heading for the doors and on to home!

Home to presents - but time’s tradition is again served. To pass out so many presents, Dad needs a good breakfast and we all must eat. Mother makes homemade waffles, fries pounds of bacon and dozens of eggs, toasts toast until the room smokes; and the faster we eat, the more Dad dawdles. That man spent more time on Christmas (we thought) eating breakfast than on any other day of the year.

Finally, with a twinkle in his eye, Dad draws the breakfast ritual to a close. He sits in his large chair near the tree, stretches his arms wide, scratches his ankle, and reaches for his morning newspaper.

A cry, the likes never heard since the fall of Jericho, erupts from big and small throats alike, causing him to drop the paper and, with his happiest grin, reach for the presents.

Swiftly and sure-handedly (who knows how he knew where to reach), he passes gifts to everyone. Each person has something to open. It is only for a split second (there’s that agonizing time again) that he hesitated before calling out a name on a present… Christine, Marge, Greg, John, Francis, Rosie, Paul, Karl, Babette, Jeanne, Steve, Liz, Richard, Mom, Grandma, Grandpa, and there’s even one for Dad.

Ah, memories… those kids around that tree have all grown; Grandma and Grandpa, Mom and Dad are gone. Our family of 13 siblings has grown to more than 300 and the presents are scattered under Bayer Family Christmas trees from Michigan to Texas, California to St. Louis.

It takes the passage of time and children of our own to appreciate this happy day as it becomes a cherished memory for all of us… and who among any of us wouldn’t wish for a little of that time again.

God Bless you all! Have a very Merry Christmas!