Wishing everyone a Merry Christmas | Staff/Guest Columns

Jeffrey W. Gabel, Majestic Theater founding executive director

On Christmas Eve 1976, I was living in a run-down trailer park in rural Bradford County in upstate Pennsylvania. I was 26 years old and dirt poor because I had gone back to college after an adventurous career as a circus clown on big top circuses. I was trapped in my trailer all alone by a raging snowstorm which isolated me from my family and friends. In short, I was really feeling sorry for myself.

I turned on the black and white TV set that only received four channels, and the local public television station was playing a movie I had never seen before, Frank Capra’s 1946 masterpiece, “It’s a Wonderful Life,” starring Jimmy Stewart. I totally lost myself in the story of George Bailey, a man on the brink of losing everything only to discover that he has much more to be grateful for than he ever imagined. In the movie’s climatic ending, George finds a copy of the novel “Tom Sawyer” that was left for him underneath the Christmas tree by his guardian angel who had written the following line inside the cover: “Remember – No Man is a Failure who has Friends.”

The truth of that message went straight to my heart, and I bawled like a baby because just like George Bailey, I had been given an unexpected gift of healing grace. The power of the movie’s meaning still abides in my heart, and over the ensuing years as a public television executive and theater director, I have had the privilege to program “It’s a Wonderful Life” many, many times to share its inspiring message with thousands and thousands of people. Now that’s what I call a wonderful life!

On the 20th of December, my husband and I will be married 53 years. We spent our honeymoon in the Bahamas and as excited as I was to be there as a new bride, I realized that as beautiful as our “tropical paradise was,” it was a far cry from the Christmas decorations and snow we had left behind and I felt a little homesick. As we walked into our Pink Plantation Hotel, all of those feelings went away as snowflakes, a jolly Santa, a sleigh with reindeer, some adorable elves and blankets of whatever material had been used to make “snow” greeted us, along with beautifully decorated trees and Christmas music. Outside people ran around in bathing suits covered in sun screen while we stood at the reception desk in the North Pole loving every minute of it. Perhaps the the most unique part of the honeymoon occurred on Christmas Day. There was a parade scheduled on the hotel’s lawn. A band comprised of rows of men dressed in the Bahamian military uniforms, marched by playing Christmas carols. It did not matter what song they played, the rhythms were all the same so that the band could march to the carol. The look on my husband’s face was priceless! It truly was our most unique Christmas but we had all the right aspects of any Christmas, love, joy and being together.

Judy Batchelor Wilson, and Ken and Barbara

When my siblings and I were little (this was in the mid-to-late 1960s), my folks would pull all-nighters on Christmas Eve and set up everything (tree, manger scene, gifts, fill the stockings, the works) and probably get about an hour’s worth of sleep. We kids would go to bed with nothing up decoration-wise but advent calendars (one for each child) and having put out milk and cookies for Santa as well as hanging up our stockings. My mother would hand-sew each of us new matching Christmas pajamas every year, which we would get as an early gift on Christmas Eve. We would then wake up to another world in the living room, with a careful mix of wrapped and unwrapped gifts under and around the tree, while my Dad would blind the sleep out of our eyes with the super-bright spotlight from his 16 mm and Super 8 film cameras. That routine lasted a few years, but as we got older, we were allowed to help decorate on Christmas Eve, and slowly over time the tree would go up earlier and earlier. Nowadays, we put up the tree and decorate a day or three post-Thanksgiving and leave everything up until sometime after New Year’s.

One of my earliest memories is of the Christmas season when I was about 4 years old.

My mother assigned me a very important job as she baked her Christmas peanut butter cookies. She rolled the dough into walnut-sized balls, and I pressed them flat with a fork onto the cookie sheets with cross-hatched marking, or in today’s lingo, hashtags.

After some all-important sampling of the warm, freshly baked delights, mom said to get into my pajamas for a surprise. We both sat on the floor on large pillows in front of the radio; yes, I said radio. She said Santa might have something important to say about Christmas.

Santa started his broadcast with the usual “ho ho ho” routine and then introduced his chief elf, Roley Poley, who happened to have a gruff, demanding voice that would scare any youngster.

Roley Poley announced he had a list of nice boys and girls, and a list of naughty boys and girls.

Santa began reading the names of the good kids, complimenting each on their behavior and accomplishments of the year.

And suddenly there it was, Santa was reading my name from the naughty list, warning me to go to bed when mom and dad said, and to always eat my green vegetables, otherwise, my Christmas wish list might not be honored.

Scared out of my 4-year-old wits, things got even worse when mom loudly exclaimed “Look, look, Roley Poley just peeked in the window to see if you are in bed yet!”

Needless to say I broke all previous speed records ascending the steps to my bedroom that night.

Christmas morning revealed most of my wishes were there, including the mohair rocking horse with red saddle and bridle under the tinsel and angel hair laden tree.

Perhaps this memory will not impress others, but it impressed me as it all occurred 80 years ago!

It was less than an hour before midnight on that frosty Christmas Eve at Lake Heritage in 1976. I was quietly watching as Santa busily removed and assembled parts and pieces of a new race track with cars and village for our sleeping sons, Joe and Jeff (ages 8 and 5). I knew that Santa had obtained the race track set at the local Gilbert’s Hobby Shop on Steinwehr Avenue, as everyone knew that Gilbert’s frequently assisted with subcontract work for the old fellow during the holidays.

Then, all of a sudden, his quick movements ceased when he discovered that catastrophe had struck, and that there were no cars with this set. Now, I’m not certain what alerted him to my presence, but to my surprise he turned, looked at me squarely and asked, “Well, what do we do now?”

We, I said? Yes, we, he said! From that, a few brief comments and suggestions jogged me to realize that while it is nearly midnight on Christmas Eve, the goods in question were provided by Gilbert’s Hobby Shop. And, I did know at least one of the Gilbert’s staff, Tommy Gilbert, who at this hour is likely sleeping, making merry or assisting Santa with whatever.

It must be noted that Tommy and I had never socialized together, nothing. We were simply acquaintances at Gilbert’s Hobby Shop and no more. Nevertheless, I called Tommy at his home. Of course I immediately apologized for intruding on his evening then made him aware of our missing car issue. You might well imagine Tommy’s response to my call and request for assistance.

However, I was more than taken aback when he asked, “Can you meet me at the hobby shop in about 10 or 15 minutes?” I said, absolutely, and we did.

Tommy located another set like the one Santa had brought for Joe and Jeff, and he removed the cars, handed them over to me and we were in business for Christmas. As expected, the boys were elated with Santa’s efforts the next morning. So was I, not to mention immeasurably grateful to Tommy Gilbert. “Thanks and Merry Christmas Tommy.”

My Dad died when I was a little boy. Being the age of 6-7, I, of course, did not understand the concept nor the impact of a Father’s death. But, in candid fashion, life rolled along. My Mom had no choice but to adapt from wife to widow. A job at a local employment agency did not provide wealth yet we had our hot evening meals and lunches for grade school packed everyday. Short time passed and another Christmas came around with family, meals, gifts, happiness and our religious devotions. Hoping for a train (12 gauge) which I spotted in the 3-inch thick Sears catalog brought the anticipation of Santa to surprise me. I asked my Mom and her response was we were financially stressed. Wake up that Christmas morning, as my bedroom was adjacent to the living room, and there was an odd clicking sound. I peeked out and there, circling below the tree was my gift. I will never forget that feeling of such happiness.

From the year my little sister, Toni, and I were 7 and 8, our Christmas Eves in Sioux City, Iowa, (100,000 population in the old days) were so magical, and unlike most other children’s. As Toni and I reminisced on the phone recently, (she and her husband are on Cape Cod, while I am in Carroll Valley) we both shared the same magic we felt then.

Daddy, for years an editorial writer and later editor of the Sioux City Journal, was very loving, gregarious and fascinated by all cultures. He had become a close friend of Tony Neri, a Mexican gentleman who also worked at the paper, and his Italian wife, Mary. Our families became close friends and as a result every Christmas Eve from my age of 10 and my sister’s of 9, we were invited to their house at midnight for a Mexican feast and religious display. This continued until we were both married in 1964 and 1965. Our boyfriends accompanied us in the later years and still get excited talking about it.

In Tony and Mary’s cozy, tiny house, which sat by the river that ran through Sioux City, we’d walk down dark stairs into their basement. I can still have sensory overload remembering the smell of homemade tamales boiling in a big gray industrial-size pot (below the stairs) and a pitch dark basement, except for the hundreds of candles illuminating 15 to 20 creche displays set up on three long cafeteria-like tables. We would gawk at the magical assemblages and feast on the hot, hot tamales. It was so new to us at first, and in later years infinitely romantic, religious and comforting.

It’s my most cherished memory of Christmas, and my sister’s also.

My mother, Phyllis Kotula, and my late father, Ted Kotula, raised my two brothers and me with an appreciation for our heritage as Italian Americans and Slovak Americans.

Growing up, the food we ate and the traditions we celebrated, especially during the Christmas holiday, honored both sides of the family. While many people enjoy a traditional holiday meal of ham or turkey, the Strini-Kotula Family feasted on authentic ethnic recipes that were passed from one generation to the next.

My parents were born and raised in western Pennsylvania. My mother’s family immigrated to the United States from Solignano, Italy, in the Province of Parma, and my father’s family came to the United States from Czechoslovakia. Both families brought with them many wonderful traditions — traditions which my parents blended when they married. The holiday meals in our household were carefully planned to include both ethnicities, and everything was homemade by my grandmother and my mother. They literally cooked and baked for days on end!

The holiday festivities started with a Christmas Eve dinner enjoyed by the entire family. Christmas Eve is very special in both the Italian and Slovak cultures. Our meal began with a blessing followed by the breaking of the oplatki. Oplatki, which is an eastern European Catholic tradition, is a blessed wafer, like the Eucharistic wafer used in the Roman Catholic Church. For the meal itself, we went meatless, much like traditional Italian American households, as well as many Slovak American households. The meal consisted of fish, pasta with nuts, bobalki (bread balls sweetened with poppyseed and honey), and more walnut rolls, poppyseed rolls, and apricot rolls than you can imagine.

For dessert, we ate many cookies — favorites included walnut, prune, and apricot kolachy (a sweet bite-sized Slovak pastry), pizelles (Italian waffle cookies), rum balls, and mostaccioli (Italian anise cookies). After the meal, we exchanged gifts and attended Midnight Mass.

As if Christmas Eve weren’t enough, the entire family came back on Christmas Day for lunch. The meal started with a toast of Lambrusco wine. The first course was always “raviolis” cooked in chicken broth (called anolini in brodo and unique to the Italian region of Emilia-Romagna). The raviolis are made from scratch in the months before Christmas. Family members got together to make more than 1,000 raviolis: rolling out the dough with multiple pasta machines; filling the raviolis with a mixture of ground meat, Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese, and breadcrumbs; and cutting and shaping the raviolis. There is an entire assembly process, previously supervised by my grandmother and now by my mother. Each family member has a distinct and important job. The raviolis were always followed by a main course of boiled chicken, served with many sides, including a savory cheese and potato torta, and a sweeter lemon rice torta. The Christmas lunch ended with coffee and sweets such as panettone (Italian sweet bread), torrone (Italian nut and nougat candy), and all the cookies left over from Christmas Eve.

While food was the centerpiece of our holiday traditions, it was the gathering of family around the table for hours that truly made the holidays special. Generations came together to tell stories and strengthen our family culture. I will always be grateful to my parents for these precious memories. While many of our loved ones have passed on, their memory lives on in these sacred holiday traditions, many of which continue today.

From our family to yours this holiday season, salute and na zdravie!

Submitted by Kathleen Kotula in honor of her mother, Phyllis, and in memory of her grandmother, Elena Strini.

During their teenage years my sons Patrick and Christian called me ‘Clark Griswold.’ Helping me decorate the house for Christmas was not one of their favorite things to do, but we were always happy with the results. I’ve tapered off considerably since those days in Fairfax, but I’m happy to say the boys have now far surpassed me. Patrick is more concerned with his yard and pool deck, and Christian’s house would put even Clark’s to shame. People drive by just to see it.

Another tradition was our annual treks into the woods, or at least to a local ‘Tree Farm’ in search of the perfect tree. We all remember the year we cut down one of Micki’s Dad’s Blue Spruce trees. He and ‘Nana’ lived in Elizabeth, Pa., and had too many blue spruce trees in their backyard and wanted us to take one. The one we picked was perfect in every way except it was a lot bigger than we realized. We tied it on top of our van and took off across the windy and rainy ‘Pennsy’ Turnpike. After a couple of stops to check the tie downs we made it back to Fairfax. Needless to say we had to do some serious cutting to get the tree into the house. But we did and after it was decorated it was truly our family tree even more so because it came from Micki’s parents’ yard where she grew up. Those were great times and great memories and I’m happy to say our kids are multiplying those memories. Our grandchildren, Caroline, 14, and Craig, 12, love Christmas and I’m happy to say they also understand the true meaning of Christmas as we all celebrate the birth of our Savior, Jesus Christ!

I am a member of Elias Lutheran Church of Emmitsburg, Maryland. My family has belonged to this church for over 100 years. There were nine children in my family, so we were a big part of the Sunday school and church. Adjoining the church is a large two-story building, built in the 1920s. It has a large main Sunday school room and about eight classrooms. In the basement was a large room called the parish hall.

The church used the parish hall for suppers, weddings receptions, and for large gatherings. On the far end of the parish hall was a large stage; the stage was raised about 24 inches above the floor with a stage curtain that opened in the center, and the curtains would gather on each side when it was opened. There were dressing rooms on each side of the stage. The room to the left of the stage had an opening where someone could reach through to pull a rope that opened-and-closed the stage curtains. When the curtains were fully open it left about 20 inches of folded curtain on each side of the stage.

The Sunday school would put on plays, especially at Easter and Christmas time. Every Christmas, the play was the Nativity scene. The church had plywood cut-outs of a camel and a sheep, and a tin foil star at the back corner of the stage. Mary and Joseph would usually be in the center of the stage. Mary would have a shawl over her head so you could not see her face and Joseph would be dressed in a bathrobe and a fake beard and would be looking down at a small manger. The manger had some straw in the bottom and a doll baby on top of the straw. The edges of the manger came up in such a way that they had to raise the arms of the baby doll up so the audience could see there was a baby in the manger.

To the left of the stage stood the three wise men. They wore bath robes and were holding wrapped-up cigar boxes. Back then, every home had one or two cigar boxes that people kept marbles, buttons, crayons, or knick knacks in. But at Christmas time, they could be emptied out and wrapped up with tin foil that would look like a gift fit for a king. There would be a reader in the back of the room reading aloud the Christmas story. The actors on stage did not have to talk, except for the three wise men. For about three years in a row, I was the third wise man, which was all right. Being the third wise man and on the left-hand side of the stage put my body mostly behind the rolled back curtain.

When the reader came to the part of the three wise men, she would say, “And what gift does this first wise man have for baby Jesus?” I don’t remember who would generally do the part, but I do remember they emphasized and drew out saying the word ‘gold’ so long that the audience would know of its value! You could hear some of the old ladies awe over its value. Then the reader would say, “And what gift does the second wise man bring?” I remember for a couple years it was Ralph Ohler. Ralphie was so very, very smart. Not only would he say frankincense, he would spell it, say where it came from, and what it was used for.

Now, only one wise man left, and that was me trying to hide behind the corner of the curtain. The reader would say, “And what gift does the third wise man bring?” as I was cowering behind the corner of the curtain. So, she would say, “And does the third wise man have a gift for the newborn king?” After about a minute of prompting, I would step out and say ‘myrrh.’ How I hated that word! I would hear someone in the audience chuckle and I would quickly step back behind the curtain again. I think they thought I couldn’t talk. I always wanted the courage to step out and say, “I have gold, too! I have so much gold I had trouble getting the lid closed on this cigar box!”, but I never said that.

This all happened about 70 years ago. Recently I went by myself and walked into all my old Sunday school classrooms. In my mind, I can still see the teachers and the children singing songs and learning about the Bible; and years later, my own five children were doing the same activities I did. But now the Sunday school at Elias ran out of children coming to the classrooms and no longer exist; leaving only memories of the past. I feel that over the years, many Sunday schools and churches have lost what used to be the center of family life. Its value as being a meeting place where communities could come together to share values, fellowship, and even gossip, has been replaced. It is really a big loss.

Growing up in the 30s and 40s, Christmas was such a wonderful and peaceful time. Our tree was from either the field or our wooded area. They weren’t perfect and were much like Charlie Brown’s tree. But we decorated it with old bulbs, tinsel, popcorn

and perhaps cranberries strung by hand. It was simple but beautiful.

The only gifts my siblings and I received were an orange and hard candy shaped like chickens under the Christmas tree. We were truly happy.

My parents were Catholic and took us to Mass early on by horse and buggy then soon after by vehicle. Our pastor decorated the church beautifully and gave a sermon of peace and hope.

Arriving home from Mass, our Mother worked so hard preparing Christmas Dinner. God bless her, she loved her family so much that her family always came first.

With our whole family sitting together around the table, our Christmas day was nothing but peace and happiness. I will always remember those days of long ago.

First, let me set the stage by telling you I am one of six siblings but with only 14 months separating us, my younger sister and I were doomed to share everything, a bed, clothes, toys and anything else that came along. Regardless of how many packages were under the tree or which name was on them, we would be sharing them.

I’m not exactly sure how old we were for this story but we both already knew the existence of Santa was no longer in question. While sharing (again) the task of putting clean sheets on our parents bed we stumbled across the hiding place for wrapped gifts. Right there, under the bed we were tasked to dress. Tell me. What kid(s) wouldn’t be excited and curious? Ever so quietly the bedroom door was closed and even more carefully we each peeled the tape from the colorful Christmas paper with no particular name on the tag which was a dead give away they were something we would be sharing. Both were clothing but we were both very excited about the contents of the one my sister had opened. We “whisper argued” over which one of us liked it best. Once again, we placed the paper back around the clothing as well as carefully pressing the tape where it had been. No one would ever know!

On Christmas morning, there they were, the same said packages with no name under the tree. Mom handed each of us one of the packages. All we had to do was act surprised. My sister forgot. When the coveted piece of clothing rolled out of hers, she stood up and screamed “I told you it was mine.” Busted! Mom and Dad both rolled their stern eyes at us. They knew all along we had gotten nosey but hadn’t said a word. Gifts never showed up under their bed again.

I entered the US Air force in August of 1967. I was 18 years old. After basic training and tech school my first permanent duty station was Osan Air Base, Korea. I arrived December 20 of 1967. My Air Force job was Security Police (security and law enforcement). On Christmas Eve, I was working the swing shift, 1600hrs to midnight. In sub-freezing temperatures I was walking a fence line inside the area where aircraft on alert were staged.

One end of the fence line was across the road from the airman’s club where I could observe the festivities. By the time I was relieved, turned in my weapons and walked to the barracks the Airman’s club was closed. Because my tour was 13 months, I found myself working law enforcement on Christmas Eve. My shift was 2200hrs to 0600hrs and I was posted on the Hill 180 (bayonet hill) gate. Three miles on the other side of the gate was the bomb dump. There was also a mud hut thatched roof village about 50 yards from the fence line. Some of the villagers worked on the base. There was a national curfew in Korea from midnight to 0400hrs and no one was allowed to be on the streets. It was not a very busy post and Christmas Eve seemed extra quiet. A few minutes after midnight I observed a light coming down the road toward the gate. I could tell it wasn’t a vehicle but soon six to 10 Koreans in traditional clothing appeared carrying lanterns. They stopped about 20 feet from the gate and in Korean sang Silent Night. They wished me a Merry Christmas and returned to the village. I thanked them in Korean and wished them a Merry Christmas. I have always appreciated that their singing helped a 19-year-old airman (10,000 miles from home) have a lifelong Christmas Eve memory.

Although we are Carroll Valley residents, we have made it a point to enjoy each Christmas holiday in the Gettysburg area for the past 25 years for the following reasons:

Christmas Eve and Christmas Day church services at the Lower Marsh Creek Presbyterian Church are memorable for its serenity, its talented musicians, the church’s beauty, and the beloved Christmas message so eloquently delivered by Pastor Mark Krieger. The Seminary Ridge Museum offers its Gettysburg Christmas Festival, the Eisenhower Farm and Home is beautifully decorated for the season, and a splendid performance of Dickens’ “Christmas Carol” is featured at the Totem Pole Playhouse. We also ski at Liberty Mountain, swim laps at the YWCA pool, and walk the path at the Carroll Commons Park in Carroll Valley. We shop at our favorite downtown stores for gifts, usually at Artworks for a unique find, at Lord Nelson’s Gallery for another piece depicting native Americans, reasonably priced books we can enjoy or give as gifts from the Gettysburg’s library’s book store, or a crafted piece from Gallery 30. And then there’s New Year’s Eve to look forward to at the Gettysburg Hotel complete with dinner, dancing, fireworks, and a celebration in the town square around the magnificently lit tree followed in January by “dancing with the local stars” on Jan. 13 at the Majestic Theater and “Songs for a New World” on Jan. 6, 7 and 8 at the Gettysburg Community Theatre. Why should we go anywhere else for the Christmas season when, we can celebrate it in, as the Seminary Ridge Museum calls this, the “most famous small town in America?”

In the 60s, we lived in Baltimore County. There were nine children in our family, and I was the second oldest. Money was tight. My dad worked two jobs to support us.

I remember different organizations dropping off boxes of candy canes and ribbon candy, while others donated used bikes for the younger kids. That’s where I came in.

The bikes were stored in a shed on our property, which was rented. My mom would go to the store to purchase new handlebars, streamer pedals and chrome polish. My job was to clean up the bikes to make them look brand new, then take them for a test drive.

It worked. Christmas morning their eyes lit up. They grabbed those bikes and headed out in the freezing cold; I can still see their faces on Christmas morning.

Gettysburg Times’ Staff

My most endearing Christmas memory is when I played Santa Claus for an animal adoption shelter. People paid to have their dogs sit on my lap and take a photo at one of the National brand pets stores.

Most dogs were happy, a few had to leave without their picture with Santa as they were too fearful or began growling. There was one nervous dog who wet himself on me (I wasn’t aware of it until he left my lap and found a little puddle on my suit) but was able to get the job done!

This Christmas, I will say a special prayer for all the unloved or unwanted pets who suffer. I pray they will have God’s grace in finding a loving home, and many Merry Christmases to come.

This memory begins with the ‘assignment’ to me of a spiritual animal in the “early aughts.” My wife undertook this by fiat, assigning spiritual animal types to me and to others. She assigned to me the camel, that handsome, snorting and spitting essential transportation of the ancient Middle East.

It opened the prospect for family members to give me camels that I now need to store and assemble in procession each Christmas. It worked, I now have too many to store and too many to count.

In those same years, a favorite pattern emerged many Christmas Eves ago in which we would walk to the late evening Christmas service downtown at Christ Lutheran Church, sing in the choir, and then walk home around the midnight hour. On one of those years, my wife and daughters, told me they were driving home ahead to get ready for a midnight snack, and take my mother with them.

So I followed a few minutes behind, walking the leisurely pace with two musician friends who had parked near our house before the service. We sauntered home and in the midst of conversation, when we neared our house, my peripheral vision vaguely registered a lit up plastic thing on a house’s porch that signaled to my brain to keep going, for it could not be my house.

A few feet more and I stopped, noticing I was actually passing my own house. And there was, indeed, a lit up plastic camel in front of my house. It was two feet tall, three feet from nose to tail, one that belonged in a large manger scene. Silhouetted inside the house were four heads sitting inside the window watching me begin to walk past my own house and the surprise discovery.

So my house had one of those gawdy plastic things I would never have purchased for myself. But my wife had found a camel to add to the collection. Once inside, one of my daughters introduced me to the newest camel in the collection, whom she named “Bin Had.”

Bin Had still has its place these days on or near our front porch, updated with LED lamp and a replaced fuse, and still on his way to the manger in Bethlehem.

I have something in common with Anthony Fauci. We were both born on the day before Christmas. Not the same year, the good doctor is at least a decade older, but I am sure we have had some similar experiences with the juxtaposition of the two celebratory events.

When I was born, Harry Truman was still president. He was a lame duck until Ike took over less than a month later. That was a long time ago. Today marks my 3.5 scores on Earth. The actual number is a big one and I hope no one tries to put that many candles on a cake. It could set off a few fire alarms. As I often tell my friends and acquaintances, “It’s a milestone, not a millstone.” Be proud of your longevity and don’t waste time worrying about when you “might die.” Some things are out of our hands.

As a lad growing up, the excitement of my birthday and Christmas back-to-back was too much. I seemed to get sick every year.

Nancy is always very careful not to wrap my birthday presents in “Christmas paper.” Frankly, if my mother failed to use generic birthday paper, I don’t recall. It certainly wouldn’t have bothered me as I tore open whatever was waiting to be unveiled.

It was difficult to have birthday parties on the actual day. How rude of my friends to spend time with their families on Christmas Eve instead! My birthday dinners with my parents and two brothers were always special and were often followed by our mom reading us “The Littlest Angel.”

There is a time in our lives when we segue from toys to clothes and more useful presents. I remember such a year, when I received a pencil well for my birthday. That was a little too practical for a 12-year old. Still, I can’t say I was scarred by the experience.

I can’t complain. I hardly ever have to work on my birthday and I have time to reflect on my good fortune and the true meaning of Christmas.

Merry Christmas to you and yours and Happy New Year too.

And Happy Birthday, Tony!

I loved Deb Thomas’ idea of sharing our fondest Christmas memories in this year’s Christmas edition of the Gettysburg Times.

Ironically, my fondest Christmas memory is also my saddest Christmas memory. It was Christmas 1990; I was home from college for a normal Hartman-family Christmas celebration in Pittsburgh. Like every kid, the first thing I noticed was there seemed to be extra presents under the tree that year. There were also definitely more lights and decorations inside and outside of the house that year. My father loved Christmas more than every other holiday and he always did all of the Christmas decorating himself as he said if you wanted something done right, you had to do it yourself. Between the lights inside and outside the house, the huge plastic lighted Nativity scene on the roof of the front porch, the Santa and reindeer set on the front lawn and the speakers on the roof that played Christmas music for the whole neighborhood 12 hours a day, our house could easily have been called the “Griswold House.”

For whatever unknown reason at the time, my father was going to an extreme extra effort to make this Christmas extra special. I remember asking my younger brother and sister what was going on and neither of them had an answer and with all the extra presents, neither were going to question or complain.

On Christmas morning after we had all opened our mountain of gifts, I remember asking my father why so much more than last year and how would he top this next year and he said very quickly, “Cherish the moment, enjoy the present and do not worry about next year.” At the time I just took this a standard answer from an adult to a kid.

The true real meaning of my father’s Christmas antics was discovered six weeks later when my father died from cancer. He had been diagnosed in early December with Stage 4 lung cancer and had been given six months to live. He chose to keep the diagnosis a secret from us until after the holidays and also made the decision not to undergo treatment and live out his last days happy and content without any cancer treatments.

As I think back to that Christmas as I do every year at this time, and that type of memory never fades, I really do see what he meant about living in the moment and being thankful for what you have today and not worrying about what you will have tomorrow or even next Christmas.

The last time I saw my father alive was the day before he passed away in the hospital and he asked me if I understood his Christmas message and it finally made sense to me. I can’t say I always live my life not thinking about tomorrow but whenever I think about my father, his message, and his last Christmas with us, I do bring myself back to the present.

Merry Christmas to all readers of the Gettysburg Times.

I’ve had many Christmas memories in my lifetime (remarkable and bizarre) that stick out to me, but for the sake of brevity, I’ll share three of the rather memorable ones.

One year, I was about 4 or 5 years old (my memory isn’t clear on this one; it was a terrifying time), and one of my uncles decided to dress up as Santa Claus and visit all the nieces and nephews at their homes. Of course, none of us kids knew Santa would be coming to see us. I remember playing with Barbies on the floor in the living room by the wood stove one evening when someone knocked on the front door. My mom answered the door and I peeked around the corner to see Santa. He came into the living room to see me. I froze when he said my name and darted for the couch, covering myself with blankets and pillows. Like many small children, I was scared of Santa. He went into the kitchen and talked to my parents, taking turns taking photos with them. I remember my mom asking me to come out to take my picture with Santa before he visited the other kids. I wouldn’t answer. Finally, Santa came in and tickled my feet before leaving. For years I wondered why Santa specifically came to my house despite my fear of him until my mom told me it was my uncle when I was older. I can still feel Santa tickling my feet through my socks.

Another year, I had just turned 7. It was Christmas morning, the parade was on TV, and we had just finished opening presents in the living room. At the time, we had a pet cockatiel named Calvin, who came out of his cage to join us in the festivities. Calvin was running around on the couch cushion. For some reason, there was always a can of cashews under the tree every year. My mom grabbed the can of cashews and went to sit on the couch, not knowing Calvin occupied the cushion she tried to sit on. Needless to say, Calvin let out a blood-curdling scream and drew blood from her finger. Feathers went everywhere. Thankfully, he was mostly unharmed. Every year around the holidays, that memory from my formative years comes to the front of my mind without provocation.

The last memory I’ll share occurred when I was 23. Growing up, I would wake up exceptionally early to open presents. When I say early, I mean before dawn. This changed over the years as I learned to value sleep regardless of the occasion. My fiancé, who never got to experience holidays the way a child should, spent the night with me on Christmas Eve. He woke me up at 5 a.m., practically dancing in the bed and begging me to get out of bed to open presents. I begged him to let me sleep a bit longer because I had worked late. He went downstairs to spend time with my mom while they waited for me. When I finally came down about four hours later, he made me a hot chocolate. The entire time I sat there drinking it, he stared at the presents under the tree, then at me. I’ll never forget how excited he was, at 21-years-old, to open presents on Christmas morning.

What I value most about Christmas is the joy little kids take in it.

I’m the oldest of three brothers. The other two are three and eight years younger.

When I was about 10, the youngest was a towheaded toddler. He had a Christmas elf costume that he really loved.

He was very cute when he gleefully danced around in his red-and-white striped outfit, complete with a pointy little hat. And he plainly enjoyed the attention he got.

It’s been more than half a century, but my middle brother and I haven’t forgotten.

At holiday gatherings, one of us still always asks the youngest (who is also the shortest), “Hey, does that elf costume still fit?”

Twas’ the night before Christmas, and all through the house,

Not a creature was stirring, not even my pregnant spouse.

Our stockings remain in a box with assorted holiday decor,

In hopes that we will soon move it off our living room floor.

With few days remaining, last minute gifts are our goal,

Unless you’ve been naughty, then you’re getting coal.

Laura Witt Mares, we hope for peace and quiet in your new home,

For Bill Monahan, an Eagles Superbowl win, and celebratory foam.

American patriots like Stan Clark deserve red, white and blue flags,

Because your devotion to our country and veterans definitely never lags.

We hope Max Felty has a nice new bus station for battlefield tours,

His wife Gen, a bottle of wine, please share some pours.

For Harry Hartman some sleep, and Deb Thomas some rest,

You have some great news correspondents, certainly the best!

For my friend Dave LeVan, a glass of fine port,

Nathan Mares, try to behave, and stay out of court.

Wanda King, my favorite mother-in-law, the back pew in church,

There are a few weeks until Epiphany, our souls, we do search.

Dear father-in-law, Kevin King, my wife needs a new car,

The wisemen three, they come from afar.

Adam King, help your dad as he looks for a deal,

Erica King, visit more often, it’s my only appeal.

Obviously, Huntington Township officials need peace and joy,

Don’t ask my wife if it’s a girl or boy.

You see we aren’t finding out, even with all the clatter,

Latimore Township hasn’t raised taxes in 25 years, you ask what does it matter?

You see, the moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow,

Depicts a wayward deer, bolting through the Blue & Gray Bar & Grill window.

I hope for Voter ID in Virginia some day,

Only because someone voted on behalf of my sister, isn’t that cray-cray?

Props to the staff at the Elkhorn Inn, for you’re always at the top of their game,

Even when Grandma orders that “omelet with all the stuff in it,” it doesn’t drive you insane.

Shaun Phiel, you need new clubs when we play at the Links,

Frankly, you can’t hit one straight – and your long game, it stinks!

Ben Thomas Jr., a lengthy retirement is near,

Hey Mom, let’s win a game of 500 this year!

Dad, you’ll be a babysitter, with a new grandkid in your nest,

Mike, your D-3 NCAA basketball team was Number One in the country…the best!

Nate Newberry, let’s win that title for Biglerville, once more,

Same to you Coach Haines, we want state medalists at Gettysburg, galore.

I’ve whistled and shouted and called friends by name,

Love you all, just don’t bother me during Saturday’s Steeler game.

You see, we are 6-and-8, and still in the “hunt,”

Mike Tomlin is on the naughty list, if I have to be blunt.

It is my hope this Christmas brings you serenity and peace,

Just imagine if you were attacked by a gaggle of geese.

Let me exclaim, as I conclude to write,

Merry Christmas to all, and to all a Good Night.

Vanessa Pellechio Sanders

I recall one year Santa Claus surprised my brothers and me with Guitar Hero World Tour and the band kit.

My older brother, Anthony, loves playing the drums, so naturally, that is what he enjoyed doing. Vinny, my younger brother, rocked the guitar, so I was stuck as the singer.

While I did choir, these rock songs were nothing like that. I had to scream “B.Y.O.B.” by System Of A Down in random rhythms.

This was one of those games where all three of us could play and rock out.

Other notable songs included “Crazy Train” by Ozzy Osbourne, “Beat It!” by Michael Jackson, “Everlong” by Foo Fighters, “Eye of the Tiger” by Survivor, and “The Middle” by Jimmy Eat World.

“The Kill” by Thirty Seconds to Mars and “What I’ve Done” by Linkin Park were some of my favorites to play with them. Vinny, who passed away in March, would always laugh when I belted out certain notes during those songs.

At one point, we convinced our grandmother to sing “La Bamba” by Los Lobos, which was hilarious. Born in Uruguay in South America, she proudly belted the Spanish lyrics and lost herself in the song. Spanish was her first language, so it was nice to bond with her over music in that way.

When listening to the radio, some of the rock songs from the game come on at random, and I sometimes think it’s Vinny sending me a message from above that he’s still there for me.

One time, my mother and I were on FaceTime, and her home device started playing “You and Me” by Lifehouse randomly. Vinny and Anthony sang that as my first dance at my wedding.

“The Word became flesh and made his dwelling among us. We have seen his glory, the glory of the one and only Son, who came from the Father, full of grace and truth…” John 1:14 NIV

Walk with me for a second on this one.

With only a short 19 years of celebrating this tradition, I know that it will never get old.

It’s December 24th, Christmas Eve, at approximately 7:40 p.m.

After lighting the advent wreath, rereading the famous stories, and celebrating through timeless hymns, it has now come time for my absolute favorite part of the holiday season.

Pastor Barb announces the singing of the most glorious Christmas hymn, Silent Night.

The organist begins to quietly play the chorus in anticipation, while people pass down the altar flame begin to light their own candles, one by one.

In no time at all, the candles burn bright as the church lights dim, the organist has made it to the beginning of the song, and everyone takes a deep breath.

The world seems to stop for a moment just before we begin the song…

“Silent Night, Holy Night, All is Calm, All is bright”

I watch the light of my candle dance in the darkness.

“Round yon Virgin, Mother and Child, Holy Infant so tender and Mild”

I think of how much care and love a mother needs to hold a child so young and fragile. I remember how much was given just for my life.

“Sleep in Heavenly Peace, Sleep in Heavenly Peace.”

I think of those who have loved and lost, those who have been lost because of a love, those who have never known love, those whose loved ones won’t be joining them around the table, those whose love changed the world around them. But most of all those at peace because of love; specifically, those so sure of the peace promised to them by the Lord.

The song continues into verse 2 followed by verse 3.

“Silent Night, Holy Night, Son of God, Love’s pure light”

I glance around at my family, my Mom, my Dad, my Sister, my Grandma, my Aunts and Uncles and Cousins. I can’t help but to tear up a bit. The fortune that I must share in this moment with the ones I love the most, is a gift that I can never take for granted. These people are the true light and love in my world.

“Radiant beams from Thy Holy Face, with the dawn of Redeeming Grace”

A smile streams across my face as I know that only one Man was capable of creating all these things such as the mountains, the oceans, the galaxies, and He still created me because of His great love.

“Jesus, Lord at Thy birth, Jesus, Lord at Thy birth”

I finally remembered the reason for the season. The love for this world and its people was so immense that The Lord gave our world His only Son to protect us and show us the way to him.

The hymn fades out and again the room is silent, not a breath is uttered. But not for long; candles are blown out and the service proceeds because there is still so much more to celebrate.

Whether or not my interpretation of this famed hymn is accurate, I know for a fact that one message will always reign true.

To love and be loved is the greatest gift of all.

This one hymn, merely four minutes, reminds me every single year, what 1 Corinthians has said for millennia. Love and the gift of “love is the greatest of all things.”

And that’s my favorite Christmas tradition.

Holiday traditions, and especially those around Christmas time, always take me back to being a kid. I’d like to believe that I’ll always have those memories of spending Christmas Eve at my Nana’s house, surrounded by aunts, uncles and cousins. After dinner and presents, with the fireplace roaring, my Nana would put holiday scrolls on her player piano and we’d sing along to the carols.

As time goes on traditions evolve, and sadly, some go away altogether.

However, there are some traditions that should stay away.

Like my failed attempts to bake cookies from scratch, which led to lousy batch after batch being tossed into the field behind our house for the birds, squirrels and deer brave enough to have a nibble.

Or the Chex mix I tried to bake. Not sure where I went wrong, but they don’t make spackling as gooey as the stuff that came out of the oven.

I also used to wait until Christmas Eve when my wife and daughter were asleep to BEGIN wrapping presents. I’d throw the Christmas Story marathon on and go at it, for hours upon hours.

Fortunately, for obvious reasons, those traditions have been altered a bit or scrapped altogether.

What has remained true, is after dinner on Christmas Eve we pile into my truck (or Jeep, now) and drive around looking at Christmas lights. With the Holly channel on Sirius cranking out the holiday classics, we hit all the towns surrounding Biglerville and talk about memories from Christmases’ past.

It’s almost like a literal drive down memory lane.

We’ve been doing it long enough that we have our favorite spots and neighborhoods, where folks go all out with their decorations. I doubt those people know how much we appreciate what they do to light up their houses/yards and spread a little Christmas cheer, but we certainly do.

There are other traditions that have held onto over the years, but I believe this one will stand the test of time. (And so could some of my cookies, which were burned to a crisp and solid as bricks).

Christmas memories… the season began in the Rebert household when my brother, sister and I put pencil on paper creating a list of wants (not needs) for Santa.

When it was time to get a tree, only Dad would take the trip to Grandma and Pap’s farm to find one. Cedar trees were plenty on the farm and he would always cut the first one he saw. Now cedar trees aren’t a perfectly shaped tree like some Christmas trees. When put in the tree stand they look a bit frumpy. But once decorated, beautiful to us kids.

Mom usually left us do the tree decorating, with supervision of course. First Christmas lights were tested before stringing. One bulb out, all bulbs out. (Mom always kept a few spare bulbs on hand.) Next ornaments. Most were glass ornaments used year after year, to be very carefully placed. Dropped they would shatter to pieces and oh boy would you ever ‘get the eye’ from Mom! Tinsel next. Thin long strands of shiny tinsel. Strands had to be hung individually. It took forever! And if you tried to toss a handful on the tree at once? Again, you got the ‘eye.’

Christmas Eve service started at 11 p.m. We never were allowed to stay up that late. The best part of the service was when everyone’s candle was lit, lights dimmed, with everyone singing Silent Night.

Fast forward to Christmas morning. We were up bright and early (even though warned not to). Presents weren’t wrapped, but we didn’t care. Less time to get to the goodies! Presents were practical, new socks, a book, etc. One year I got a pair of fake fur bedroom slippers and a house coat (do kids even know what a housecoat is nowadays?).

We also would get one or two toys. My sister and I would get girly things. One year I got a ‘Drowsy’ doll and she got a Barbie. My brother a toy truck and one year a pocket knife (a taboo gift to give to a kid nowadays). Dad would always give Mom something to use in the kitchen, i.e. pots and pans, a blender, can opener, etc. (His gifts to mom were always wrapped, because the sales clerk at Zerfings did the wrapping.) Mom’s gifts to Dad were pretty bland (probably to get back at him for the gifts he gave her for the kitchen.)

We had good memories of Christmas growing up. We didn’t have much, but we had enough. Wishing all of our readers a blessed Merry Christmas!

My earliest Christmas memory was when I was 3 years old, and it revolves around church. I’m not sure it’s an event of which I am fond, but it sure was memorable.

Each year there was a family night program at church, a couple weeks before Christmas. The Sunday school classes were asked to participate, singing, doing a skit, recitations, those types of things. Mrs. Cutshall taught the class for the youngest Sunday school attendees, the 3-year-olds, of which I was a member, along with Stevie, Mikey, Sammy and David. Yes, I was the only girl in the class at that time, and the only one who was already starting to read, so Mrs. Cutshall tapped me to recite a story, on stage, in front of about a million people, or so my 3-year-old mind conjured up.

My Mom-ma (maternal grandmother) helped me memorize the story. For the life of me, I can’t recall what it was. What I do remember is spending long hours with Mom-ma, thinking how old she was (years younger than I am now), how remarkable she was to know everything she knew, how kind, how loving she was. Dad worked for a farm supply company, and my mom was a telephone operator. I spent a lot of time with Mom-ma, and that was OK with me.

It didn’t take long to memorize that story, whatever it was. I was ready, even for that million-people audience. Mom-ma said so, and I believed and trusted her.

Finally, the Sunday of family night arrived. Mom was insistent I look perfect for by stage debut, even if it was just in the family room at church.

And that’s when she pulled out the hair curlers, just as soon as I got home from Sunday school that morning. I’d gone to Sunday school with straight hair. I couldn’t see what was so wrong with straight hair for the evening program. But mom was determined, and she was bigger than me.

I spent all day in those curlers. All. Bloody. Day.

I couldn’t even take a nap because of all the poking and prodding from those torture devices attached to my head, and everyone knows a 3 year old needs a midday nap.

Finally evening arrived, and if I thought spending a day with a headful of hair curlers was torture, I was in for an enormous, unpleasant surprise.

At first glance, the red cotton dress with some flowers, likely poinsettias, embroidered on the yoke didn’t look too bad. Kind of pretty actually, nice and bright, crisply starched, and brand new. Ok, I could handle the dress.

Mom had already wrestled me into some white tights and shoved shiny, stiff, not-broken-in patent leather shoes on my feet. They pinched, and I wasn’t happy. But even at that age I knew you had to wear ugly, stiff shoes to church. I wasn’t sure who made up that rule, or where it was written, but all the girls and women wore those nasty patent leather shoes to church, and being relegated to the fairer gender (I wasn’t sure how they decided that either at that point in my life since I much preferred tractors, trucks and a sandbox to dolls), it was my curse in life to have to wear those horrible shoes, no use fussing about it.

But, that’s when I saw it. The crinoline. There wasn’t much in life I hated more than a crinoline.

I can still see my 3-year-old self; I was crying, having a temper fit, screaming “It itches!” before my mom even managed to force it over my head and onto my writhing body. Here, go back to hair curler torture; mom was bigger than me and I was going to wear that crinoline to make that way-too-short red dress stick nearly straight out, so I might as well calm down, or get something to cry about.

After grappling with a wriggling, squirming demon child, mom got the crinoline and dress on me, and was trying to tie the big bow in the back – a skill she had yet to master, and actually didn’t learn to do until my younger sister was several years old and big bows were going out of fashion.

Mom-ma came to mom’s rescue, again, and got the bow tied perfectly. She dried my tears, got me to calm down, and we practiced the recitation.

Even though we didn’t have scads of money, my father always got mom a corsage for Christmas and Easter, and that year was no different. Not sure why I remember corsages prior to that, but there it is, another mystery of how my young mind worked. He always got my mom and Mom-ma an orchid.

The difference was, this year I got my first corsage. It wasn’t an orchid, which would have been inappropriate for a toddler. It was a corsage from a five-and-dime, one of those corsages with shiny leaves and mercury glass balls so popular in the 1950s and into the early ‘60s.

When he pinned it on me, I felt so important, so grown up, and still, so itchy! Fussing resumed, even with the corsage.

Eventually they got me to church. After the program introduction and prayer, since I was in the youngest Sunday school class, I was first on stage. I wasn’t even shy in front of those million or so people. I belted out the story, whatever it was, then the boys from the class came on stage so we could sing a Christmas song. I’m thinking it was Away in a Manger, but don’t hold me to that – this was more than three score years ago.

After all the classes performed, cookies and punch were served, and the teenagers went out caroling; they were in Luther League and got to do fun things like that while we ‘little kids’ had to sit with our parents.

Eventually, the night ended. I fell asleep before we even got home, but it was a peaceful sleep sans curlers and crinoline.