Memories of Dad on

Christmas
December 20, 2010 By Tom Matlack 4 Comments (Edit)

Tom Matlack and others share

their most indelible Christmas
memories of their fathers and
grandfathers.
When I was a kid, my parents were hippie-Quaker-pacifist-
over-intellectual activists who spent most of their time
hanging out with lesbians, smoking pot, and getting arrested.
By the time I was 8 years old, I had found an antidote to my
sense that I had been born a freak: football. Compared to
the free-for-all at home, football made sense to me; it didn’t
require complex philosophical debate or civil disobedience.
Controlled violence with clear winners and losers was manly
and “normal.”

I worshiped the “Purple People Eaters,” the Minnesota

Vikings’ dominant defensive line. For Christmas that year, all
I wanted was Viking gear, and Santa obliged. Under the tree
Christmas morning were full pads and a real football. Yes.
My grandpa Jesse was bald as a bowling ball, and he’d
mastered the art of moving his scalp to make his enormous
ears wiggle. He was a big guy who had once played football;
that made him a god in my eyes. After all the gifts were
opened and wrapping paper cleared away, Grandpa Jesse
and my dad took me—suited up in my new gear—to the field
across the street. Dad threw me a bomb. The ball whistled
toward me and I reached out for it, holding on for dear life as
it brought me to the ground. For that moment, nothing else
mattered but the connection to my dad and my grandpa. As I
lay motionless, breathless, on the frozen ground, staring up
at the clear blue sky, I felt like I had just scored a Super
Bowl–winning touchdown. Best. Christmas. Ever.

With Christmas approaching, we asked people to share

holiday stories of their dads and granddads. Here’s what
they said. We’d love to hear your favorite, or most indelible,
Christmas memories, too—please share them with us in the
comments section below.
♦◊♦

My dad, Gary Miller, sends himself Christmas presents from

other women to get my mom riled up. A tried and true
favorite is from the “Girls at the Copa Cabana.”
—Casey Miller, Durham, North Carolina
♦◊♦

My father could tolerate only so much company during the

holidays. So one year, to get everyone out of the house on
his own terms, he recorded an episode of the Weather
Channel during a severe winter weather advisory. You know,
the one where they say an impending storm is about to drop
a foot or more of snow within the next several hours. Then,
when he was tired of the merry-making, he put that tape into
the VCR and made a huge commotion that everyone should
get home where they’d be safe. People grabbed their coats
and high-tailed it out of there.
—Brian Hyland, Little Ferry, New Jersey (story occurred
in Brick, NJ)
♦◊♦

In the summer between my sophomore and junior year of

college, my father was all over me about my grades. I made
him a bet: if I made the Dean’s List, he’d have to lose 30
pounds. Instantly, he yelled, “Done!” He chuckled like a
hustler. “No way you ever make Dean’s List.”
I spent the fall semester in London, where—in spite of
the shenanigans—I got a 3.67. When my mother, brother,
and sister picked me up at JFK in mid-December, I told them
the good news. Mom nearly cried happy tears at the thought
of her heart-attack-waiting-to-happen husband shedding 30
pounds. I like to think she might’ve been proud of me, too.

That night Dad asked me about my grades. I inhaled deeply

and shook my head. “I dunno …” He reacted predictably:
“Why did I pay for this semester?”

The trap had been set.

Like all fathers, Rich Reidy is “difficult” to buy presents for.

Which helps explain his unbridled glee as he opened the
first one from me: Double Stuffed Oreos. “How did you
know?”

The next package brought more elation: Chips Ahoy

chocolate-chip cookies. But then he remembered his wife
doesnt encourage such treats. He stifled his idiotic beaming
and looked at her with an innocent shrug. “Honey, your
eldest son did this, not me!” Finally, he finished his
unwrapping and ended up with three packages of each
cookie brand. For him it was truly a Christmas miracle. I
smiled.

“Enjoy it now, Dad, because starting January you’re losing

30 pounds!” This absolutely did not compute in his brain.

Mom jumped up. “Jamie made Dean’s List!” He looked to me

for confirmation of the impossible. I nodded with a Cheshire
grin. “Three point six seven.” Dad coughed in disbelief. He
knew he had to congratulate me. And he tried. And failed
miserably. “That’s, uh, wow, that’s … just … terrific.” Our
living room glowed with the Christmas joy of four Reidys, my
mom, brother, sister, and I. And that spirit lasted days longer
than normal.

Of course, my old man never lost the weight!

—Jamie Reidy is author of Hard Sell: The Evolution of a

Viagra Salesman. Jake Gyllenhaal just received a
Golden Globe nomination for playing Jamie in Love and
Other Drugs, the movie based on his book. His parents
have always lived in Rockland County, New York.
♦◊♦

My mother has these antique porcelain figurines of angels

holding small candles and letters that spell out “Noel.” She
had a few pairs of these around the house, and every
Christmas, my paternal grandfather, a very quiet and staid
man who rarely cracked a joke, would go around and
rearrange them to spell “Leon.” Once she’d fixed them, he’d
go back and do it again. How this 80ish-year-old man could
do it so stealthily, we’ll never know, but he was very good
about it.
—Amanda L. Sage, Columbus, Ohio
♦◊♦

My dad was Jewish, as was my whole family, but I loved

celebrating Christmas. Dad would put a Jewish star on my
Christmas tree, and one year he bought gifts for himself and
put them under my tree. To this day, I still remember our last
Christmas together.

A friend of mine was away from her family and all alone, so
of course I invited her. I made sure there were little gifts for
her under the tree. My dad was not well and I thought that
perhaps this would be our last Christmas together. I was
worried that I had made a mistake inviting my friend. I was
surprised and happy to hear him tell me that inviting her over
was the right decision. After all, this was the season to give.

He died that next February, 27 years ago; he was only 61

years old. He may have been Jewish, but he knew what the
Christmas season was all about.
—Martyne Lo Russo, Brooklyn, New York
♦◊♦

In 1958, my father had just returned to Havana from another

of his frequent trips to the mountainous, eastern part of
Cuba. Never a talkative man, my father asked me to
accompany him to a farm next to his shop on the outskirts of
Havana early on Christmas Eve morning—the day families
in Cuba traditionally gather for a holiday dinner of roast pork.

The farmer led us to a hog pen, where my father sized up

the candidates and made his decision. I was 8, and my
father must have felt it was time for me to understand the
grim facts of life. As I watched, the hog was slaughtered,
dressed, and taken to the pit where it would cook for the
next several hours. I am not proud to say this, but the pork
was delicious.
—Raul Ramos y Sanchez, Beavercreek, Ohio
♦◊♦

The screen on our chimney blew off and we didn’t know. A

squirrel found it during the night, crawled down, and settled
in our Christmas tree. The next morning one of our dogs
kept whining, so I went over and realized there was a
squirrel nestled in close to the trunk on a branch. My
husband flipped out and started screaming, “Everyone out of
the room!” He wanted to open the doors to let the squirrel
out, but one of my sisters told him not to. She said the thing
would run and poop all over the house and knock things
over.

We called WDC animal control. They came fairly quickly

(this wasn’t their first visit to the house) and used gloves and
peanut butter to grab the squirrel. “What would you like me
to do with him?” asked the woman as she held the squirming
thing. My husband said, “Um, I guess take him to another
neighborhood.”

A few days later, the girls found a stuffed squirrel that looked
real and planted it in the tree. “Oh, Daddy,” they said, “it
looks like it’s back!” Their dad screamed, “Goddammit,
everyone out of the room.”
The girls cracked up and it took my poor husband a few
minutes to realize they were playing a trick on him. It is now
a tradition to get him one squirrel item every Christmas: a
tie, a tray, a glass squirrel.
—The Evans Family, Washington, D.C.
♦◊♦
On Christmas Day in 1991, my dad gave me an envelope.
Inside was a contract for four seats at the brand-new local
minor-league baseball team, the Kane County Cougars. The
best! I had only mentioned I was interested in discovering
how much these tickets may be—and here I had an entire
season of baseball ahead. Dad was so excited, so happy for
me! This gift meant he really “got” me, that he knew I liked
sports, especially baseball.

The phone rang during lunch at my parents’ house. It was a

call from the GM of the Cougars. He was “very sorry” but the
four front-row tickets we had were unfortunately sold to a
large corporation and we needed to reselect our seats. My
dad was crestfallen. He stopped everything. He told me to
get my coat and hat. It was snowing outside and a foot had
fallen the day before. We showed up at the stadium, all
smiles and excitement. The GM invited us to walk around
the new stadium and pick out some other seats. Dad and I
giggled, slipped, fell, got up again, and sat in piles of snow
on seats to see our vantage points of the field. It was a
wonderful daddy-daughter bonding experience. I still have
the season tickets to this day. I will always have warm
memories of that day and how Dad was so happy to give me
something he knew I’d love.
—Katie Podl Fish, Fox Valley, Illinois
♦◊♦

My Christmas memory is of my dad, Scott Thompson,

running around our house with sleigh bells on Christmas Eve
when my brothers and I were very young. He would circle
the house, shaking the bells loudly as our mom would
excitedly tells us Santa was flying over our house to drop off
presents for the neighborhood. He kept this up for years,
sprinting around the house no doubt in a bright green robe,
looking like a crazy person, but he did it out of the love for
his kids. The gig was up when we got older and saw those
mysterious sleigh bells hanging on our front door one year
as a Christmas decoration, but in the end, it’s the thought
that counts.
—Hailey Thompson, Westlake Village, California
♦◊♦
Many years ago my dad would call the neighborhood kids
pretending he was Santa Claus. He’d stuff wax paper in his
mouth to disguise his voice and put on his best Santa: “Ho
ho ho! This is Santa Claus. Have you been a good boy this
year? What would you like for Christmas? Don’t forget to
leave me cookies and milk.” One year he called our neighbor
and did his usual. Then an hour or so later he called again
but didn’t disguise his voice as well. She picked up on it and
said: “Mr. Alpert, I know this is you. The real Santa called an
hour ago.”
—Jonathan Alpert, author of the syndicated column “No
More Drama”
♦◊♦
My father was complex. An intelligent and generous man
with loving qualities, he was also a violent alcoholic who
tormented my brother, mother, and me with his brooding
silences, controlling behavior, and angry outbursts.

Christmas seemed to tame the demons inside him and he

embraced the season with a child’s enthusiasm. At
Christmas, he lavished presents on us. After the stockings
and presents were unwrapped, he’d get up from his recliner
and leave the room. “Wait, wait. I think there’s one more
present.” And then he’d walk back in with another gift for us,
usually something really big.

December 1999. My father’s hoarse voice hadn’t cleared up

so I had urged him to see a doctor. “The doctor thinks
there’s a tumor. Can you call him please?” he said over the
phone. I called a physician colleague who arranged a
consultation with a cancer surgeon. A week later we flew
down. “What do you want for Christmas?” he asked me at
the airport. “One of your shotguns,” I replied. His face
crinkled. “What the hell do you want one of those for?”
“Because its yours.” I knew it was going to be his last
Christmas. I wanted something meaningful from him.
Ironically, his guns were a link to a part of him I adored—the
strong, nurturing character that the outdoors brought out in
him.

Christmas Eve. I phoned the surgeon’s office for the test

results. My father called to check in. “Did you hear
anything?” I hesitated; I hadn’t wanted to spoil Christmas.
“Do you really want to know?” “Of course,” he said. “It’s
positive. They said it’s lung cancer.”

Christmas night we all gathered at my father’s apartment in

Montreal. The cancer had weakened him and dampened his
usual Christmas buoyancy. But despite the bad news, he
was cheerful, as much for his grandkids as for himself. We
were finishing up the presents and I was cleaning up
wrapping paper when my brother, Rich, disappeared
upstairs and came back into the room with an empty gun
case. “It’s at the house. A 20-gauge. Rich will show you how
to use it,” my father said. There was always one last present.
—Wendy Knight, New York, New York
♦◊♦
My Grandpa was bald all the time I knew him. As a teen, or
maybe preteen (I’m 48 now; he died 8 years ago), I
developed a bad habit of picking split ends out of my long
hair. So Grandpa teased me that he wanted my hair. One
day, probably in early December, I got my hair cut. I had my
beautician save the hair and I wrapped it up and gave it to
him for Christmas.
—Ellen Porter, San Bernardino, California
♦◊♦
It was December 8, 2000. I was just noting the date and
recalling where I’d been where I’d learned John Lennon had
been shot 20 years before (at my parents’ house in Chicago,
watching the news). Now it was a Friday and I was at work;
my then-boss Ray—a real father figure to me to this day—
sat right behind me.

My phone rang. I picked it up and heard my mother’s voice

on the other end. “I’m at the hospital,” she said. “Your
father’s had an accident.” Then she said something about
falling off the roof (hanging lights, of course) and brain
swelling and observation. I dropped the phone and
remember yelling in that deep, guttural way people do when
that visceral horror strikes. My coworkers came around to
see what was going on and Ray said, “Do you need to go
home? Go home.” I lived 300 miles from my parents and I
didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t stand the thought of losing
my actual dad. And so I remained frozen.

Sometime later that day I was still at work, unable to do

anything but lay my head on Ray’s desk and relive the call,
when the phone rang again. I braced for the worst. It was my
father, who had sustained two broken arms, two broken
wrists, a broken nose, torn lip, and had most of his teeth
knocked to the opposite side of his head. “Honey,” he
slurred, “if you have to fall off a roof, land on your face. It
doesn’t hit anything vital.”

I did go home for Christmas, one of the last times I did so.
Dad’s arms were in casts and much of the bruising was
gone. He stood off to the side at the edge our family portrait,
his arms tucked behind his back. But he was smiling.
—James Mitchell
♦◊♦
My father-in-law loved Christmas. He loved it so much that
he would spend hours searching for just the right tree. Later
in life, he would decorate his own tree as well. My mother in
law would make absolutely gorgeous trees that I envied, but
my father-in-law wanted the colored lights and all the same
old ornaments. So he had his man tree in the family room
basement.

Christmas was always a time that brought out my father-in-

law in my husband. His actions showed the memories
nestled deep within. The tree-buying ritual, the joy and
patience in hours of decorating and the same thing my father
in law would always say (“That’s a great tree, isn’t it?”). So
much pride in that tree. When my father-in-law passed away
several years ago, my husband was on a mission for a
certain present for our three boys. When he came home with
three sets of golf clubs, I knew exactly what he wasn’t able
to express to me or our boys: that he missed his dad and the
passion for golf they had shared together—and the
Christmas joy his dad had passed along to him.
—Colleen Sheehy Orme, Virginia
♦◊♦
My father was supportive, always attending Little League
games, parent-teacher conferences and the like, but he was
also pretty strict and worked long hours. I looked up to him
and admired him, but rarely felt like I bonded with him. One
Christmas, when I was about 10 years old, he got up from
the dining-room table during dinner and went into the kitchen
to get something. As he did so, he started whistling the
melody from “The Carol of the Bells.” Impulsively, I started
whistling the harmony (loud enough for him to hear), and we
whistled together for several measures. When he returned to
the dining room, he didn’t say anything, but gave me a look
as if to say, “Where did you learn to do that?” I always think
warmly of the moment many years ago when I actually
bonded with my dad, if only for an instant, during Christmas
dinner.
—Scott Swanay, New York, New York
♦◊♦
I remember my dad with a shirt and tie and apron cutting the
turkey in a very organized fashion. He was especially good
at this because when he was in high school and very poor,
he worked in a small kitchen where they made chicken pies
and sold them at a store near his home. My dad told me that
he always did a terrible job cleaning the chickens, so he
would take the carcasses back to his mom who then made
soup, stews, and food for the family. Since his own father
had died when he was young, he always had to look for
ways to provide.

To come from a poor family and then provide food for 30

people each and every year was important to him. I smile,
knowing how he got this experience, and know how proud
he was always looking out for his family.
—Robin Samora, Readville, Massachusetts
♦◊♦
It was snowing Christmas morning. My siblings and I, ages 3
to 9, had our noses pressed against the cold glass window
as we watched my grandparents’ car pull into the driveway.
With boundless energy, the other kids raced to the door. I
remained at the window, wiping away the fog, as I watched
my grandfather, De-Dad, open the trunk of the car and
produce package after package of beautifully decorated
Christmas presents. I saw my dad hurry outside to grab an
armful of gifts and take my grandmother’s arm so she did not
slip on the ice. As De-Dad was walking up with the last stack
of gifts, a bright red bow blew free from a package and got
stuck in the branches of a bush. It stayed there for a week.

One by one, as they came in the front door, boots were

stomped, hats, gloves, and coats were shaken free of snow,
hair was fluffed up, noses were red, and hugs and kisses
were exchanged where warm cheeks met cold ones—ones
that warmed up fast in front of the fire and with the warmth of
family.
—Brenda Jones, Southampton, New Jersey
♦◊♦
My dad would wait until Christmas Eve to wrap his gifts and
would use all of the remaining teeny-tiny scraps, so his gifts
always looked like a wrapping-paper quilt of sorts. We also
had a fun family tradition trying to guess what was inside the
package before we opened it, so he would “disguise” all of
his gifts. For example, one year he put one of those nail
clippers with a little chain inside a box for me that contained
an item of clothing. So the package rattled in an unusual
way, throwing me completely off track.
—Susan DiMezza, Erdenheim, Pennsylvania
♦◊♦
When I was 19, a girlfriend and I decided to move out on our
own and share an apartment. Trying to be fiscally
responsible, we decided we couldn’t afford a Christmas tree
and all the trimmings; no matter, we thought, we’d be visiting
our families anyway. Well, my dad wouldn’t hear of it. The
week before Christmas, he unexpectedly appeared on our
doorstep wearing his woolly toque, a grin from ear to ear,
and sporting a live Christmas tree in one hand and a bag of
trimmings in the other.
—Susan Harrison, Mississauga, Ontario
♦◊♦
Sometimes men have a hard time putting words to their
feelings. In my large Irish-American Catholic family, the men
didn’t shower their kids with words of praise. We didn’t hear
the words, but we sensed the feeling. When I was still young
enough to sit on his knee, my grandfather would put his arm
around me sing me a song:
David, David ain’t no good
Chop him up like kin’lin’ wood
Put him in a stove and he’ll be hot
He’ll be good for mutton chop!
Everyone would laugh and clap. Of course, I loved it and
wanted to hear it over and over again. Mostly, I wanted the
undivided attention of my grandfather. Only as an adult,
recalling the words, did it hit me what a horrible song it was!

The ghoulish words belie the warm and loving feelings I

received from my grandfather on those rare and special
moments when I sat on his lap, the center of his world, on
Christmas.
—David G. O’Neil, Newton, Massachusetts
♦◊♦
We live in the beautiful Pacific Northwest, so our tradition
was to get up the last Saturday before Christmas, pull on the
hiking boots and sweaters, and head out for a day-long
adventure. With Dad at the helm of our truck, we’d go at
least 100 miles to find a cut-it-yourself Christmas tree place.
Once there, it was a trek to the farthest tree, then a hunt for
the perfect specimen. We’d have to walk all the way around
it. Once you found one as tall as your arm raised up and as
wide as your wingspan, you could think about cutting it. After
the entire family voted yes, the cutting would begin. Dad
would saw and saw. With glee, we’d wait for the sign to yell,
“TIM-BER!” Then he’d push the tree over and we’d carry it
down to the car. I thought every family did this.
—Holly Duckworth, Lake Oswego, Oregon
♦◊♦
When I was 6 years old, my dad thought it would fun to
surprise my brother and me by dressing up as Santa and
visiting us at our home. He and my mom had an elaborate
plan they knew would make for a lasting memory. After
dinner my mom had us sit on her lap by the Christmas tree
while she read “’Twas the Night Before Christmas.” The
scene was set perfectly! There was a fire burning in the
fireplace, we were sipping warm mugs of cocoa and the
lights on the tree were twinkling. About halfway through the
story, there was a knock at the front door. My mom said, “I
wonder who that could be.” As she opened the door, my
eyes grew wide when I heard, “HO HO HO!” and saw Santa
Claus standing in the doorway.

My little brother jumped up and ran toward Santa with his

arms wide open, ready to give him a big hug. Unfortunately,
the family dog, a German Shepherd named Rosie, beat him
to it. Only Rosie didnt want to hug Santa. She wanted to
taste him! Instantly, Santa stopped ho-ho-hoing and
started NO-NO-NOing. My mom literally had to pull Rosie off
Santa Claus. I stood there frozen, thinking Santa would not
be leaving us any gifts that year.
—Karen Hoxmeier, Canoga Park, California
♦◊♦
When I was a kid, my mother Christmas-shopped for the
three kids, her parents, my dad’s parents, the cousins, the
mailman, the paper boy, and who knows who else. Dad
shopped for her. He was always tight lipped and never
asked for help or opinions. By Christmas Eve, speculation
about Dad’s gift to Mom ran high. When I was 7 or 8, I
blurted, out of the blue, that he had bought her a mink stole.
(It was quite a long time ago, when women still wore stoles
and fur was not yet politically incorrect.)

Sure enough, the next morning my mother let out a whoop of

joy and danced around the living room with the soft, warm
fur draped over her bathrobe. After the excitement died
down, all eyes turned to me. I just shrugged. I just knew.
Unwilling to throw caution to the wind, the next year Dad
pulled me aside a few days before Christmas. He wanted to
know if I could again divine his plans for my mother. I
thought for a minute or two and then gave an answer close
enough to the truth to make him nervous and cement my
reputation as a Christmas psychic.

We began a father-daughter tradition. In exchange for my

silence, I became his sidekick and joined him on his
Christmas shopping expedition. Driving home, Dad would
remind me that this was our secret and I was again sworn to
secrecy. He needn’t have worried. I never dreamed of
telling. I didn’t want to be left at home on the next
clandestine shopping trip. Even more important, I felt a fierce
rivalry with my older sister. I would have carried those
secrets to the grave. Knowing something that she didn’t was
just too good to give up.
—Susan Nye
Filed Under: Featured Content, Good Is Good Tagged
With: baseball, Christmas, Christmas
tree,dad, death, family, father, football, Good Is
Good, grandfather, jews, Tom Matlack

About Tom Matlack

Tom Matlack is just foolish enough to believe he is a decent
man. He has a 16-year-old daughter and 14- and 5-year-old
sons. His wife, Elena, is the love of his life.
Comments

1. Karen Jones says:

December 20, 2010 at 9:14 am • Edit

My father had the (Guts? Love? Tenacity?) tough job of

coming to our house every Christmas to be with us as we
decorated the tree on Christmas Eve (we didn’t do it until he
arrived that day) and to share in the present-opening chaos
of Christmas morning. He’d stay a few days, and then go
back home. How he managed to do that every year, when
(as I understood when I was older) he had to spend time
with the woman who had left him, and the one he loved until
the day he died, and to be with the family he’d lost.
Amazing.
Reply

o Tom Matlack says:

December 20, 2010 at 9:22 am • Edit

Karen what a great comment. The turning point in my life

was being without my two babies–Seamus was nine
months old and Kerry 2 years old Christmas of 1996. Ever
since Christmas has been a complicated holiday, as it is for
every divorced dad. What I have come to realize is that it’s
not about the Hallmark card Christmas morning but about
the feeling of love and family and gratitude in whatever
shape and size that happens to come in. Sounds like your
dad got to that place too and gave you an amazing gift.

Reply

 Karen Jones says:

December 20, 2010 at 9:49 am • Edit

My father’s greatest gift to me, ultimately, was my profound

empathy for men. It’s driven me to have the most precious
things in my life: my marriage, and my “mission.” Out of
that came my book, “Men are Great,” which is all about
trying to help women see the greatness in men I love what
you’re doing, Tom. Thanks for being such a great man!
 Reply

2. Mike Sorenson says:

December 21, 2010 at 5:17 pm • Edit

This will be the first year without my dad. Tragically, we lost

him to liver cancer in October. He always loved Christmas
and I have many great traditions to pass along to my son
because of him. Some of my favorite memories of
Christmas with him involve the annual hanging of the
Christmas lights. Each year we would plan on getting the job
done in early November to avoid freezing our asses off, and
inevitably we would be perched on the roof in a foot of snow
in December shivering as we strung strand after strand –
and every year, of course, we would try to go bigger and
better with our display.
One year when I was about eight, my dad stood on the top
of the ladder with a rake in his hand, trying to push a stand
of lights to the top of one of our trees as I stood trying to
stabilize it. Suddenly, I heard a crack and the leg of the old
wooden device snapped off. My dad yelled as he fell to the
ground, landing flat on his back. Terrified, I ran over to him,
certain that he was dead. He just laid there staring at the
sky for a minute before breaking into laughter. He picked
himself up, totally unharmed. In fact, he said his back had
never felt better.

Reply