It’s been tough getting into the Christmas spirit after recently losing Uncle Richard and my nephew Marc last December, but I’ve busied myself with walks, spending more money than I should, hosting friends, stressing out over whether I’ve gotten enough gifts for people, and non-stop baking.

The worst thing about getting older and losing the elder in the family is realizing that elder post is now filled by my oldest brother, Bernie, who I still think of as 40, because I am clearly delusional. After all those years of being the kid, the goofy teenager, the young adult, the professional, the middle-aged parent and now the retired person, it’s rather sobering to realize that the Grim Reaper will be pointing his knobby finger at me and my siblings sooner than I care to consider. How can this be happening to us Baby Boomers? We were supposed to be young forever! Thank God, I can still be found acting like a goofy teenager.

But if Uncle Richard taught me anything, it’s to eat, drink, have fun, sing and share great memories while you still have a couple of brain cells left to do so. Reflecting on how lucky I’ve been to be surrounded by such exceptionally loving people in my life helps, which is why I’m re-posting this story about the St. Joseph’s Elementary School Christmas play, plus a recipe for some new cookies I tried this year. If you like maraschino cherries and chocolate, you will love these. I found the recipe on the Taste of Home website. I changed the icing because chocolate ganache rules.

This was my very first blog post back in December of 2013. I can’t believe it’s been 10 years. Enjoy!

Nurse Doll Hell…A Christmas Story

DECEMBER 23, 2013

My most vivid memory of my mom takes me back to Saint Joseph’s Elementary School and the cultural event of the year, the Christmas play.

In first grade a classmate got to portray a “cute toy doll” sitting in Santa’s lap. She wore a beautiful light blue dress that matched her eyes. The dress had a big bow in the back, a very fluffy petticoat AND this classmate got a speaking part.  She got to say, “Mama.” This was clearly a plum role.

In first grade, I was forced to make my Christmas debut as a lifeless nurse doll sitting on the floor. I should have never asked for that nurse’s outfit in the Spiegel Catalogue. As soon as the nuns got wind of it, I was typecast. I had to sit in my little white cap and navy blue cape with Red Cross emblem and do my best to look like a comatose nurse doll. I perfected a sort of a glazed over stare that made me look more like a small, dead nurse.

In second grade, the nuns decided that since I’d done such an outstanding job as dead nurse doll in first grade, I should do a repeat performance. By third grade my enthusiasm for the Christmas play evaporated as I graduated from lifeless nurse doll to invisible member of the chorus.

Finally, in sixth grade I got my big break as one of the snowflake dancers! There were eight of us; four girls and four boys. Finally, I’d made it to the big time. The nuns even brought in classmate Kathleen Helble’s sister, the local dance teacher.  She worked with us repeating “step, shuffle, hop, step shuffle, hop, step shuffle, hop, step, step, step,” until we could shuffle no more. We practiced through November and December until the big night.

Our Christmas extravaganzas were held in the dry, dusty basement of St. Joseph’s Church.  During the school year we quietly filed down the stone steps into its musty silence to get our ears and our eyes tested. In the fall we left brown shopping bags filled with canned goods on the concrete floor for the Harvest Festival food drive. But at Christmas, the church basement was transformed into a winter wonderland. Backdrops with snow covered hills and magical toylands set the scene for our annual production.

Mom and Dad even made a special trip to J.C.Penney because the nuns demanded that I have a red skirt and white turtleneck for the occasion. The boys were in pants and white turtlenecks and we were all powdered and rouged to simulate a fever of 105.

I stood on stage in formation, holding my partner, Jerry Leahy’s sweaty hand and started off with a step shuffle hop, step shuffle hop. The creaky plywood stage swayed with every move we made, but we were dancing!

Until some of us stepped when we should have hopped and our momentum was crushed. We stood watching each other, like paralyzed sheep, thinking, Somebody move for God’s sake!

Everything was hopelessly ruined, we all wanted the dance to end, and Jerry, the boy with the worst temper in class, was making matters worse by scowling on stage. Even then, I knew the show must go on, so I smiled sweetly at the audience, hoping my joie de vivre would distract them from my lumberjack dance moves. In desperation, I whispered Jerry’s ear, “Smile or I’ll break your neck.” I think the shock did force a slight smile to his face.

Our parents were packed in on folding wooden chairs with even more parents crowding the back and the aisles. I looked up, flushed from excitement, embarrassment and several pounds of rouge, scanning the dark audience.

I spotted her in seconds. First the silver, horn rimmed glasses reflecting the light, and then – the broadest grin in the entire group. There was no missing my Italian mother. I could see her pointing me out proudly and probably loudly to my Dad and everyone else.

I couldn’t believe it. There I was, desperately shuffling, like I had a nervous condition, and she was pointing to me with pride. As I caught her eye my stomach knotted up and I flushed with what I realized was happiness and only a little embarrassment, that she was there for me as usual. We finished that performance deflated, but were perfect the next night like Mom knew we would be.

I remember how calm, polite and, TV mom reserved, the other parents seemed as they sat smiling and clapping. But my mother was ready to burst out of her seat and explode with pride, having no idea what being reserved meant when it came to her children (even ones screwing up the snowflake dance).

All my young life I begged God to make my mom more like June Cleaver; a nice normal, American mother. But this time Mrs. Cleaver paled in comparison and I couldn’t have been more proud to know that beaming woman was my mom.

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Chocolate Covered Cherry Cookies