Tis the Season - part 1

Hey, y'all. I was going to wait until Christmas Eve to post this, but seein's how I'm going to Virginia to spend the Holiday with my older daughter and her family, I somehow don't think I'll have the time.
So let's get some background on Mu before I launch into my lecture:
I was German for the first eight years of my life. I went to a Catholic school for three years, which may account for my distaste of religion. Hell, I was scared to death of the nuns (those mamas is MEAN), the priests that came once a week to hear our confession I believed to be demons straight out of our coloring books and I truly knew the holy water fonts were filled with acid that, while not burning my fingers, would surely burn my sinning soul. PTSD, anyone? I lived in a tiny one-bedroom apartment with my Oma and Opa cuz Ma was working, and as children are wont to do, accepted all, questioned nothing and was happy. This may seem like a scene out of the last century, but in post-war Germany, we honestly had no hot water or central heat. We burned coal for warmth in the kitchen and living room (I remember stacking the bricks in our cubby of the apartment basement - next to the potatoes), and took baths in a big tub filled with warm water heated on the coal-burning stove. I knew my Opa left to go work...somewhere...while Oma cooked, cleaned and shopped all day. We had seperate stores for everything - the butcher, the dairy, the bakery, the green-grocer, and we hoofed it, toting bags of vittles damn near every day. On Fridays, we loaded up the laundry in a wagon and headed for the communal wash-house. Then we hauled it all back home where Oma spent the rest of what was left of the day ironing. Did I mention that my aunt and two cousins lived in this tiny apartment with us? They slept on the couch and floor. I slept with Oma and Papa in their big, down-covered bed, with a hot-water bottle at my feet. It was wonderful and wonder full.
Come Christmastime, Oma (in addition to all the other responsibilities she handled without whine or whimper) baked exquisite cookies and cakes. We observed Advent by sitting around the kitchen table. The centerpiece was a real evergreen wreath wrapped in red velvet ribbon, sporting three red candles and one white. We would light the candles on their respective Sundays, pray, and then eat the sweet, satisfying goodies Oma worked to hard to bake. Since suger, butter and eggs were still extremely expensive there and then, I think the rich sweetness we enjoyed was the love she put in.
On the day of Christmas Eve, Opa came home early, panting and cussing (NOBODY can cuss like a German), dragging in that most symbolic icon of the Season: the Tree! Oh, how fresh it smelled. For a kid growing up in a concreted building, with a postage-stamp back courtyard that boasted an even smaller area of grass, that Tree represented freedom; a world outside and of course, MAJIK! After much further cussing, consumation of brandy and more cookies, Opa got the Tree put up. Taking a much-earned feetsup, Oma and I and whomever else (meaning the whole fam-dambly) decorated the honored Pine with a dozen crystal ornaments, lots of tinsel and would you believe - real candles in their own little tin holders that clipped onto the sparse branches. Fire hazard be damned - that Christmas Tree was the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
Since we celebrated on Christmas Eve in the old-country tradition, suddenly Saint Nicolas in full official regalia would appear, accompanied by the Christ Child, who, in a flowing white gown and veil topped by a bejeweled crown seemed as pure and light as the falling snow. At the time, I didn't realize that these Majikal visions-come-to-life were actually one of aunts and uncles dressed to impress. The kids got bare branches that had chocolates tied to them with golden thread and the grown-ups all got bottles of wine. Only now does it dawn on me that my guardians saved and scrimped all year to afford these costly luxuries. Our revered visitors then blessed us all and took their leave. I guess sometime later the actors reappeared; we were too busy opening the present or two that Oma and Opa bestowed upon us with great solemnity. And then the party started. I remember one year very clearly, when Opa had imbibed one too many glasses of Christmas brandy, sang a traditional German carol in a quite impressive baritone and promptly fell backward into the Tree, which blazed up like a bonfire what with all the candles lit, kinda like in the movie, "Christmas Vacation". We got Opa up n outta there post-haste, put him out, brushed him off, grabbed the water bucket(we weren't totally safety challenged), doused the Tree and partied on.
That's enough for tonight. I'm going to recall that dreamish time while it's fresh in what loosely passes for my mind. Tomorrow you'll read about Christmas in America. Don't worry - I really AM going somewhere with all this. But maybe you'll enjoy the journey, too.
Sleep well.
Mu