The Best Christmas Ever!



The Andersons, Christmas 1986

Let me first start by saying the title of this post is a misnomer—I've had so many memorable Christmases I couldn’t possibly name just one of them as the best. But I don't like the sound of “One of the Best Christmases Ever,” or “One of Twelve Magical Christmases I Could Write About,” and the creative well is a bit dry today. So... here is a list of Christmas memories I may one day post about, followed by a memory of one of them. And of course random Christmas photos of all things Anderson. Merry Christmas! Some memorable ones for me:

1.       The Christmas when I got my first bike (I was three and I still remember it)

2.       The Christmas when Darcie got me my first pretty good guitar (we’d only been married 2 months)

3.       The Christmas when we got a Color TV and VCR (like 30-something years ago)

4.       The Christmas that we spent in Michigan with my mom’s side of the family (1986—it was super cold and tons of fun. We took the portrait above that year)

5.       The Christmases that we spent at Nevada City with my grandparents (there’s nothing like Christmas in the mountains)

6.       The Christmas when we got Atari (no comment needed)

7.       The Christmas in Modesto with our best friends ever (Trish, Richard, Chelsea, Spencer, Abbey, and their bird Albus)

8.       The Christmas when I got a great skateboard (total surprise, parents picked out the perfect deck/truck/wheel combo)

9.       The Christmas I spent in England with my missionary companion Elder Schumann (he was one of the first East German missionaries to be let out of the country; we watched the Berlin wall come down together on TV that November and had an amazing, memorable time)

10.   The Christmas we spent in Utah about ten years ago (the last one in which our whole family was around)

11.   All the Christmases I’ve had as a dad (what a blast!)

12.   The one I’ll write about today…

At Christmastime in 1979, the Anderson family consisted of Mom, Dad, Mike, Rusty, Tim, Ryan, Carly, and me (Christiana and Kellie would come in the next few years). We were living in the San Francisco Bay Area, and each Christmas we spent there was predictably perfect in so many ways. Christmas Eve was spent at Grandma and Grandpa’s. We’d pile into the 1976 Dodge Aspen Wagon (Motor Trend’s Car of the Year!) and drive the hour or so it would take to get there. At Grandma’s, we’d have a great dinner, and then enjoy some Christmas fun—a passage from the Bible, a story or two, and of course lots of singing. And best of all, we each opened the one present Grandma and Grandpa got us, and a pair of new pajamas. (That’s me in the photo below, rocking my new Vinny Barbarino jammies a few years earlier).

Grandma and Grandpa always chose great gifts, either because my grandparents were extremely in tune with what the youngsters liked, or because they got help from my parents (who must have been extremely in tune with what the youngsters like). Either way, these gifts never disappointed—they were fun games and toys that provided a great time that night, and really got you aching to open everything else the next morning. They were like The Great Christmas Appetizer. (That could be the title of an ABC Family very-special-made-for-TV movie, couldn’t it? I should pitch that).

The drive home in the family car usually calmed us down a bit, as all six kids would strain our necks and eyes, each of us trying to be the first to spot Rudolph’s red nose in the sky, rubbing the fog off the windows (in spite of Dad’s reminders that rubbing the windows would certainly put us on the naughty list). Only Mike would ever be lucky enough to have a confirmed sighting of Santa, on a rooftop off to the side of the 580 as the rest of us slept. Come to think of it, Mike was also the only one of us eight kids to ever see the Easter Bunny. Man, Mike was lucky.

By the time we’d get home, we were typically pretty worn out and ready for bed, maybe even more so due to the comfort of the new, warm pajamas. I’m sure some of the little kids probably pretended to be asleep so they could be carried into the house and into bed, a benefit that I, as the oldest of eight, never got. In fact I even remember doing some of the carrying. Anyway, one way or another, we’d end up in bed, and then we’d try to stay awake as late as we could, listening for any sign of reindeer on the roof or Santa in the living room.

5:00 a.m. was our official wake-up time. We’d go ask mom and dad if we could get up, of course sending a spy or two to the living room to check things out while we waited for everyone to wake up and gather around the tree. Then we’d open presents, one at a time, youngest to oldest. Then several hours of assembly, playing, sorting, and comparing—lots of merry mayhem. In the afternoon, we’d get ready in our new clothes and head to the home of Nani and Papa—our great grandparents, who lived just under an hour away.

The whole family would gather at Nani and Papa’s—aunts, uncles, cousins, grandma and grandpa, and it was a lot of fun. We were the only kids there, so we got all the attention and were spoiled immensely . One of our favorite things was the cheese tray, chips, dips, and lots of hors d’oeuvres—we would just devour that stuff! And lots of soda too—always Cragmont, in every flavor you wanted, poured into brightly colored metal cups that made the soda taste a little like brightly colored metal-- not unpleasant, but just something I remember. We’d get more presents, and have a great time as the adults opened their gifts from each other too. Just tons of laughter, practical jokes, singing and playing with all our new stuff—as I said before, predictably perfect every year. But one year in particular stands out.

So back to ’79… My dad had learned that Nani and Papa were not going to have a Christmas tree this year. They had always gotten a small tree and set it on top of a little table in between their recliners in the front room—right in the window that overlooked their small front yard and the street the house sits on. It’s always neat to see a tree in a window isn’t it? Even now, when I drive by a house with a Christmas tree in the window it takes me back to my predictably perfect childhood Christmases.

That year, with Nani and Papa getting pretty old and having a harder time getting around, they decided they just couldn’t get a tree. So, a few Sundays before Christmas, my parents decided we’d surprise them with a small tree, and help them decorate it. So we went to a tree lot, got a suitable tree for putting on the table in the window, loaded it on top of the family-filled Motor Trend Car of the Year, and headed to El Cerrito to surprise Nani and Papa.

Nani answered the door and was of course delighted to see us. She was born in 1900! I remember even as a little kid I was amazed that she had seen the radio, telephone, phonograph, TV, cassettes, cd's, airplane, computer and automobile all invented and developed in her lifetime, and she was even old enough to remember the great earthquake of 1906. And even approaching 80, she had lots of energy and a great attitude and presence—just always laughing, asking us kids how we were doing, talking 49ers and Giants with us, working away in the kitchen, making sure everyone was fed, and giving everyone big, lipstick-y great-grandma kisses when we arrived and when we left. But Papa… Well, Papa was a little different.

Papa didn’t say as much. He had his big old comfy recliner, which no one else sat in. When Nani was up and about, working in the kitchen, we’d fight over her chair, sitting in it two or three at a time, making ourselves comfortable. But you didn’t mess with Papa’s chair. When Nani was giving us those big kisses, Papa would grab us, tickle us a bit harder than perhaps we liked, maybe give us a noogie or pinch our cheeks. He was kind of scary—we’d stay clear of him! Oddly enough, one of my clearest memories of all our visits to Nani and Papa’s, whatever the occasion, is of Papa going to bed pretty early, like around 7 or 8 at the latest. He’d usually need a hand getting up out of his chair, and then he’d gingerly, slowly make his way to bed, not saying much to anyone.

Papa was tough, an old school blue-collar guy who worked hard to provide for his family. He worked in a slaughterhouse—tough, dirty work that certainly would harden me… I bet I’d be a bit gruff too if I did that kind of work for decades. Gruff—that’s probably the best word for him. I never heard him say a particularly nice word about or to anyone. I never heard a mean or derogatory word come from him either, but again, he tended to be a bit prickly on the outside.  

So we filed in, bringing the tree and a couple boxes of stuff to put on it. We got the obligatory whoops of delight and kisses from Nani, and did our best to stay out of Papa’s reach, while still trying to be polite great-grandkids. We put lights and tinsel and ornaments on the tree, and baked some cookies and enjoyed them with Nani and Papa. We sang them some Christmas carols and reminisced for a while. The entire time Papa sat in his chair, gruff as ever—not mean, not disinterested, just mostly silent as he watched.



Nani with Ethan, 1996

Finally it was time for Papa to head to sleep. We wished him a Merry Christmas and told him good night as he creakily made his way out of his chair and shuffled, oh so slowly toward the short hall that led to the bedroom. Just before he got to the hall, he turned back around and looked at us, his eyes tearing up. “Thank you, Larry, for all you’ve done,” he quietly said to my dad, then turned around and headed to bed. We were all silent, in awe of tough old Papa showing his love and gratitude for this simple act of service and kindness. That is my last memory of Papa, the only really vivid recollection of him that I have. The noogies and pokes and pinches are all kind of in a hazy background, but I’ll remember that Christmas moment forever.

There are lots of lessons to be learned from this anecdote; about judging and being judged, thanking and being thanked, serving, working, being kind, expressing feelings, and so on. I don’t remember what I got for Christmas that year. I don’t remember which TV character or sports team logo adorned my new pajamas. In fact, I don’t remember anything else about that Christmas; I’m not 100% positive of the year even. But I remember the wonderful spirit that kindly serving others brought me. And I remember how much joy that simple act brought Nani—she was able to have a tree that Christmas after all, to everyone’s surprise a couple weeks later when we all gathered there on Christmas Day. But mostly I remember seeing Papa’s heart melt, feeling true love and understanding for this man I’d always feared, seeing him at his best and most honest. It was a perfect illustration of peace on earth, and goodwill toward men.

I think it really was the best Christmas ever.