Christmas -- it's a tradition

Christmas in the Jackson household was never about Santa.

Sure, the jolly old elf made an appearance now and again. When that red-velvety figure strolled out of Grandma’s back bedroom on Christmas Eve, a sack full of toys slung over his shoulder, his “ho, ho, ho, Merry Christmas” ringing through that homestead, one look at those twinkling eyes and even the littlest ones knew it was really Uncle Stan and, to the next generation, Uncle Mickey.

From earliest memory Christmas in the Jackson home has been about the account of Christ’s birth in chapter 2 of the gospel of the physician Luke. Grandma’s living room would overflow with her grandchildren, and then great- and great-great-grandchildren, and plenty of presents. The noise must have been deafening, but before eager fingers could tear into those gifts, a hush would overtake the room as Grandpa sat in the recliner and reached for his Bible. At his feet, little ones planted elbows on crossed legs, eyes glued to the man in the chair.

“And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy,” came the much-anticipated and oh-so-familiar refrain.

It’s a cherished tradition that stayed pretty much the same for decades as the adults edged into frailty and the children grew, marrying and producing little ones of their own.

Somewhere along the line a piňata was introduced. And then duct tape. As the clan grew in size and stature, Dad and oldest son Alan decided that, to make sure everyone got a swing -- or two -- the thing had to be duct-taped. Indestructible duct tape wrapped seemingly endlessly around cardboard and bits of brightly colored tissue and battered repeatedly by great-grandsons and great-granddaughters adept with a bat. By the end of the night that piňata bore little resemblance to its original shape, as did the candy inside.

When Grandpa passed away, Grandma set aside her grief, hosting grown grandchildren and their own broods in her home every Christmas Eve. Her table was covered with sandwich fixings, tamales, casseroles and sweets. Eucalyptus logs in the fireplace that Santa never stepped foot in would glow and flare, embers popping against the screen.

Then it was Grandma’s turn to leave and our tradition underwent a major overhaul: It came to our house. When it was time, Dad would sit in the recliner and read Luke 2. As the years passed it became clear that each one might be the last. Then that day came.

Last year our tradition underwent another major overhaul. We all packed up children, food and presents and headed to San Diego, where caregivers at Dad’s last residence turned over the library to Dad’s family. There we hugged, ate and chatted, cameras capturing every bittersweet moment. The piňata hung from the ceiling, forgotten and unscathed.

Brother Ken handed Dad a Bible and sat on the arm of the sofa, helping hold it as Dad’s voice came loud and clear, “And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy…”

This year our own little clan will celebrate Christmas Eve at our house. There will be a piňata for the little ones -- our grandchildren -- and plenty of food and laughter. And, before tiny fingers will tear into that brightly colored wrapping paper, their grandpa will sit in the recliner and turn his Bible to Luke chapter 2.

Because, after all, that’s what Christmas is all about in the Dale household.