Elmeda's Magic

All my childhood memories of Christmas are lit by soft, hazy, multi-colored lights, Bing Crosby's silky voice and ice cubes clinking in glasses of spirited cheer. At some dinners and parties, we kids could be under the table for hours, asleep or awake, it didn't matter. With the Christmas classics playing and our parents' voices floating around, we were having fun. We were safe, Santa was coming soon, and the grown-ups were oblivious to the fact that we had our own festivities going on under the table. I remember the same feeling on Christmas Eve at my grandparents' house. I'm sure I got some great gifts, but the thing I remember is that we burned all the wrapping paper in the old, iron fireplace. I can still see the bright paper and the ribbons going up in flame and disintigrating to ash floating up the chimney.

When all the celebrating was done, we always went home and read the story out of Luke from my family's antique Bible. No matter what the year, whether I was a small child, an emotional teen or a conflicted college student, the story was always the same, read in my dad's deep voice. Some years, we had guests who read the story in their own language: Dutch or Spanish or Japanese. Or Portuguese, when my brothers returned from their missions. There was still the same comforting cadence to the story, and it seemed to put just the right light into Christmas Eve.

For years and years, there was one Christmas party that was just as important as Christmas itself. We called it the Elmeda Party, because it was Aunt Elmeda's house in Provo. Elmeda was Nana Ruby's sister, so the party included all five of my grandmother's siblings and their descendents. It was a big party, and nobody would dream of missing it. Ever. One year there was a raging blizzard the day of the party. It looked like we wouldn't be able to get to Provo, so my parents bought a four wheel drive, and we made it through the storm on time. You didn't miss Elmeda's party.

The invitation arrived in the mail well in advance, revealing the theme of the party. Elmeda always went completely overboard on the theme, and it was incredibly exciting to find out what it would be. One memorable year, it was A Dickens Christmas, where we all got pretend money to shop for gifts at a Victorian Christmas Shoppe. Elmeda made all the gifts by hand, and there was a clothespin doll for each girl. Each one had an exquisite handmade dress and yarn ringlets. I looked and looked at each doll and finally chose the very best one, a brown-haired doll with a pink satin dress trimmed in colored lace.

And I haven't even told you the best part. Downstairs, a whole room was decorated as a child-size dollhouse that you could walk into. There was a parlor, a kitchen and a living room, as well as a front yard where you could have tea. Another room housed a train track that went all around the room and had mountains and a ski tram. And the room where we had dinner had a velvet swing suspended from the ceiling. After eating a meal that Elmeda prepared (corn she had picked and bottled in August, chocolates made from scratch, Elmeda's Chicken Roll-Ups...), we had a musical program and waited for Santa Claus to arrive. Everyone could hear him walking on the roof - he really did! - and then he'd be there in the living room, right next to the baby-blue piano. (Are you getting a feel for Elmeda's Baroque style!?) He brought presents for everybody, then he vanished.

Elmeda died several years ago of a heart attack she suffered while preparing Thanksgiving dinner. It was fitting, yet far too soon. There was never anybody like Elmeda, and I was fortunate to be a small guest at those parties where wonder and fantasy never ceased. Christmas Eve and Christmas Morning have a magic all their own, and Elmeda somehow took that magic and extended it to a family party that became legend.