Over the hills and through the woods to Grandmother's house we went

We used to go to Grandma’s house for Christmas Eve every year. Early in the afternoon, Mom, Dad and I trudged through Grandma’s front yard, where mole tunnels made it a challenge to walk on the ground because my heels would sink into the dirt. We stumbled up to her evergreen porch and rang the door bell. We never just walked in, and Dad always let me ring the door bell.

The front porch had a bay window that looked in on the living room of the house. The Christmas tree stood in the center of the window. Grandma and I would decorate it together a few weeks before Christmas. It was a plastic tree. It was tall and skinny, and fit perfectly into the nook we created for it every year.

We always made the tree colorful. Grandma owned bobbles from when she was a little girl and newer, shinier ones that she had bought that season, because she could never have enough. We put multi-colored twinkle lights and silver ribbons on the tree with the ornaments, and on the top we placed what looked like a revolving disco ball: light shined out of it to reflect all the colors of a rainbow on the walls like when the sun shines through a crystal.

Once we got past the tree then surrounded by red, green, and gold presents, we’d go into the den where the smell of biscuits and gravy wafted from the kitchen. Grandma always used to burn the biscuits. Eventually when my two cousins and I got old enough, we took over biscuit duty.

Dad would go outside to smoke his pipe and talk to his brothers, Uncle Wayne and Uncle Joe. Mom and I would help out in the kitchen. My mouth watered when I saw the spread on Grandma’s counter. There were biscuits, hopefully unscathed, homemade brown gravy, candied yams, mashed potatoes, turkey, green beans, cranberry slices, corn bread, and devilled eggs. My Uncle Wayne and I used to fight over the devilled eggs; they were my Mom’s recipe. And then there was always some freshly brewed sweet tea to cap the meal off.

We’d all sit in the den with our plates piled with food, and then three brothers would start their stories.

My dad is the quiet brother, the middle child. Uncle Wayne is the oldest, and the most colorful. He always wears cowboy boots, jeans, and a belt buckle that covers a third of his waste with some sort of western design on it. When he’s feeling particularly ‘country’, he’ll even where a cowboy hat. Uncle Joe is the youngest. All three of them have deep southern drawls.

They’d tell stories about when they were teens and twenty-something’s. They were usually about girls and bar brawls. And often the stories ended with one brother beating the other up. They’d tell us about how Uncle Joe used to sneak out of the house to go drink with his buddies, and how Dad and Uncle Wayne use to run liquor across county lines when they were fifteen and living in Atlanta. Grandma always learned something new during story time.

After several helpings, the brothers would start nosing around for dessert.

We had to put the dessert on the garden porch because there was never room for it in the kitchen. Grandma always made the brothers’ favorites: fruit cake for Uncle Joe, fudge for Uncle Wayne and coconut cake for Dad.

After dessert, we’d move into the living room to open presents. Grandma always stuffed three large Christmas stockings for me and my cousins with goodies like chocolates and twenty dollar bills. Grandma always got the most presents, though. That was how it should be in our eyes. She was the matriarch of three rowdy boys and three prissy granddaughters, she deserved to be spoiled. It was a time when we laughed with Grandma, because she loved to laugh, especially on Christmas Eve.

At the end of the evening, after all the presents were unwrapped and we sat around sluggish from food comas, we’d grab our coats and hug and kiss Grandma a Merry Christmas. The last thing I remember from those nights is seeing Grandma’s grey eyes crinkle as she smiled and waved to us from her front door.