In a Short-Term Society, Traditions Are Greatest Gift of All

I n a whirlwind society such as Southern California, a rock-ribbed tradition is something that’s been going on since 1989. We get weepy with nostalgia over any event preceded by the words “Second Annual.”

Still, most men and women of a certain age can look back a few years and recall holiday events with family and friends that have turned out so well that repeating them each December seems natural. We look at a few of our favorites.

HE: A college pal of mine, the former Julie Fosgate, married a Norwegian, the current Bjarne Heggli, and the two of them have been throwing the world’s greatest Christmas party for about a dozen years.

The guests are a mix of neighbors and old school friends and local Viking types, and it’s a feast-and-a-half. Lots and lots of beautifully prepared Norse delicacies and bottles of aquavit frozen in blocks of ice and everybody yelling “Skoal!” every couple of minutes.

Through pure attrition, this party has come to mean a bit more to me, because I’m the only one who was on the original guest list who’s made it to every one. I flew down from my home in San Francisco to make it in 1983. It’s that good.

SHE: I have a dear friend, Carolyn, who annually tosses the most elegant holiday brunch. She bedecks her house with three Christmas trees. The fir in her entry is smothered with tiny children’s toys. The tree in her family room is hung with handblown ornaments. And her living room tree is frosted with the most exquisite gold ornaments, some of which she has owned since childhood.

We gather at her family room bar for Champagne and eggnog, then sit in her dining/living room area and feast on Honeybaked Ham, baking powder biscuits, sweet rolls, string beans with almonds, fresh fruit, lime Jell-O salad (crunchy with chopped walnuts) and cheesecake. The menu never varies.

Afterward, we--Carolyn’s friends--exchange gifts with her, and everybody watches. Fun.

HE: Some people hate me for this one, but I can’t bring myself to give it up: I play golf early on Christmas morning.

Before I make the trek to relatives’ homes, I get up at dawn, head out to the local course and tee it up. I’m invariably all by myself, and it’s just about the most peaceful couple of hours or so I spend all year. The air is cold and still and bracing and possibly misty, and it’s just me and my clubs and the course and lovely silence. The only sounds I hear are my footsteps and my breath and the crack of the club on the ball.

It’s like going to church before going to church.

SHE: When my children were small, I found that kind of peace when I sat by the Christmas tree late at night to wrap toys. After the Conway Five and their father had gone to bed, I’d put a holiday record on the stereo, pour myself a huge glass of eggnog, and, with the taste of holiday stickers on my tongue, revisit the Christmases of my own childhood.

HE: I tend to remember the smell of things. In my house, the aroma of the tree permeated everything. I don’t know where my folks found them every year (I’ve never been able to track down a really good, fragrant one since), but I imagined I could smell that tree halfway down the block.

Christmas music could be blaring out of the radio, cookies could be baking in the kitchen, presents could be wrapped in the corner and school could be out, but if that tree wasn’t up and trimmed and blasting pine smell all over the house, it might as well have been July.

SHE: For our family, it wouldn’t be Christmas without a game of charades after dinner. When my three brothers and I were young, our biggest holiday laughs came when we watched my dad, a shy but game kind of guy, act out sayings and song and movie titles.

We kids would split our sides watching him struggle. Hmmmm. Now, that I think about it, he probably struggled because of the laughs he got. Sly guy.

HE: He would have done well in the line on Christmas Eve at King’s College at Cambridge. I was there in 1987 to see the famous Festival of Nine Lessons and Carols at the King’s College Chapel. We had to wait all day in the big quadrangle, standing on cold flagstones, but everyone in line was typically jolly.

We all took turns over the hours going into town for provisions--sandwiches, sherry, apples--and bringing them back and sharing them and telling jokes and stomping up and down to keep warm.

I met a couple who had been going to Cambridge for that service every year for 45 years. And the service itself was English musical and religious tradition at its best. Now, every year, I wake up at exactly 7 a.m. on Christmas Eve to catch the live broadcast of the King’s College Choir.

SHE: Now you’ve really got me thinking about the old days. Here’s my favorite Christmas story: I was dating another guy when my husband, Bob, started asking me out. So just about every time Bob called to ask me for a casual date, I’d fib and tell him I’d just washed my hair. That was BBD, before blow dryers. We mostly slept with our hair in rollers in the ‘60s.

But during the holiday season, Bob called and asked me if he could take me to church on Christmas Day. That got my attention. Nobody had ever offered to take me to Christmas Mass.

I said yes but warned him my favorite service was at 5 a.m. No problem, he said.

He was late. He’d been in such a hurry a policeman pulled him over for speeding.

After church, when he’d taken me home, I opened the door to get out of his car. But he asked me to stay and handed me a wrapped gift. I was stunned. What could it be? We hardly knew each other. It was a hair dryer. My heart did the wildest flip-flop. What girl could resist a guy that gullible? That hopeful? That was the moment I began to love my husband.

Even now, our kids love to hear that story at Christmas. And someday, our grandchildren will probably love to hear it too.