“Yes, operator? Oh, hello, yes, can you connect me to Mrs. Annie Davis please? Yes, that’s Murray Hill 5-9975. Thank you, operator. Hello? Oh, Annie! Hello, Annie. How are you, dear? John is good? That’s marvelous, darling. Kids are good? Little Jack and Harriet are well? Oh, good, yes, good. Listen, Annie darling, I was just wondering what I can bring to the Christmas party this weekend. Oh, don’t be ridiculous, of course I’m bringing something. Did you want me to make my Swedish meatballs? Oh, Eloise is bringing those? You don’t say. Darling, how about a cucumber sandwich tray? You know how John loves my cucumber sandwiches. What’s that? Oh, he ate himself sick on those at Thanksgiving? Oh, what a shame. What’s that Annie? My chicken salad jello mold? Oh, yes, dear, that’ll be perfect! I’ll use the lime jello. It’ll be so festive. Ok, darling, we’ll see you Friday at 7 sharp. Uh huh. Uh huh. (polite laughter) Oh, Annie, you are a real riot! Oh, my dress? Oh, I haven’t decided. Yes, you’re right, the gold lame would be dreamy. I have a smart new lounge jacket with pants I might wear. I know, Annie, PANTS! Darling, of course Eloise will talk about me if I wear pants. That’s the whole point (raucous laughter). Alright, Annie. You know Mrs. Wilson is about to cut in with her afternoon call to her sister. Ok, love. See you soon. Goodbye, dear.” Welcome to Christmas in the 50s.
Cue scene. The living room floor was covered in olive green sculpted carpet that resembled a forest floor with clumps of clover growing intermittently. The furniture was early American, the couch covered in a beige fabric with images of eagles and liberty bells in earth tones. The furniture was all made of maple. The brown formica table in the next room had matching red Naugahyde chair cushions that coordinated nicely with the tangerinecolored countertops in the kitchen. Marble ashtrays abound. Some have little bean bags attached to the bottoms and others rest on elaborate, decorative iron stands. Down the hall was the one bathroom in the house, with its walls tiled in baby blue ceramics that perfectly matched the tub and toilet. The ceilings in this postwar boomer home were only 8 ft tall. Its kitchen cabinets were full of melamine dishes and pyrex containers and plastic cling wrap and an abundance of casserole dishes. Crackers sat in square, metal containers printed with slogans and pictures of children eating. Milk was still delivered daily to front stoops. Grocers were just neighborhood folks. You could tie a headscarf around your head, sit down on the divan to put on your earscrews, and wear your pumps and pearls to the Piggly Wiggly anytime you fancied. But, the craziest part of the 50s had to be the Christmas décor. Why, if our grandmothers and great grandmothers could see our multiple flocked trees with pre-installed lights and their enormous wicker skirt surrounds with the ribbons and picks and garlands and Hallmark ornaments and the….. whew. They would require ample smelling salts. Because, Christmas in the 50s looked very different, starting with the trees.
My mom often talked about the problematic Christmas tree situation of her 50s childhood. It seems there weren’t tree lots back then. You couldn’t just run up to Western Auto and buy a tree. You had to go cut your own. This required some finesse. If you didn’t own property, you had to know who did and who wouldn’t mind a seasonal trespasser or 10. Then, you went with your dad, who had to rustle up and sharpen his axe, out to a random pasture somewhere. Dad would put one foot on the bottom of the barbed wire fence and pull up the center strand of bloodletting wire so that you could reverse limbo between the two. Whatever you did, you’d better not snag your good coat. Then, there would be roughly 5 miles of walking, looking for that perfect tree: chop, drag, tie on top of the house-sized Buick, and finally, traipse inside your living room. The tree that looked 4 ft tall in the field was now grazing that 8 ft ceiling. This resulted in more dragging, more chopping, and infinite turning to hide the bald spot mom hates but that you swear wasn’t there when you saw it in the pasture. Decorating was a snap, though, because there were only 3 steps. There were multi-colored lights. There were glass ornaments that would fall and cut your feet every morning as you tried to spot newly placed gifts. There was tinsel. Loads of tinsel. After all, nothing says joy like giving your toddler fists full of tiny metal ribbons to throw both at a tree and into their mouths. But, something else happened in the 50s. Suddenly, faster than you could say “no trespassing,” everyone ran out and purchased the aluminum Christmas tree. Gone was the scent of pine. No more were the clothing rips made by the barbed wire. Now we could gather around a metal tree with an electric rotating cellophane wheel to turn it all colors of the rainbow.
Kiddos today have never had the joy of a Christmas Jello mold, or a real fruitcake, or ribbon candy. We rarely make fudge from scratch. No one knows what divinity is anymore. But, guess what? That’s ok. 30 years from now, my granddaughter may write a column about me and my ridiculous number of artificial trees, my buffalo check ribbon decorations, my old timey Christmas music, and my annual demands to watch Christmas Vacation. Traditions come. They go. They come back. Wherever the holidays find you this year, I hope you get ample relaxation time on the divan, a few rides in the Buick, and enough of your own traditions to fill Santa’s sack. Let’s not bring back tinsel or marble ashtrays, ok? God bless us, everyone.
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