It’s odd to me that I have very few memories of Christmas morning as a child growing up at 245 Elias Drive in Pittsburgh. What I do remember is going to dinner at my grandparents and the night before Christmas not being able to fall sleep. Tucked snugly into my bed, my dad listened to my nightly prayers and then, as he always did, told me to roll over and go to sleep. Then closing the door, he left my room. But there was no sleep to be found. Instead, there was tossing and turning with excitement of the eventual arrival of Santa, hours of sleeplessness and the waking of my parents on the hour only to be told that 3 am, 4 am, 5 am was much too early to get up and to go back to bed. With me in my kerchief trying hard to entertain visions of sugarplums dancing in my head, I was just too excited to dream and wasn’t alone. My three brothers shared the bedroom next to mine and they were just as eager to know if Santa had come. With our beds butted up against the thin plaster walls dividing us, I could vaguely hear them whispering together. Most of the time I felt I was the lucky one to have my own room, but those Christmas Eve nights it felt very lonely to be left out. With a little knock on their wall, my brothers knocked back sending us all into a frenzy of laughter. There would be no sleeping for any of us the rest of the night!
Our home was a typical small, post-war all-brick box built in the 1950’s in the suburbs of Pittsburgh. In a neighborhood filled with either 2-story colonial or ranch-style homes, ours had the two floors. Situated on a steep hill with woods behind us, our modest abode had a living room, dining room and small galley kitchen that made for pinched living on the lower level and a lone bathroom at the top of the stairs that kept us all humble. Three small bedrooms occupied the upstairs and I, being the only girl, received the smallest of the rooms – an 8 x 9 space with a double casement window. Made of wrought iron, the single-pane glass frequently frosted over allowing pictures to be etched out with my fingernail. In winter, the gas furnace ran continually pumping hot air through the floor registers which warmed our feet on cold mornings but during the night blasted hot, stifling heat into my exceedingly small room. With all the bedrooms situated closely together, it wasn’t easy to skirt past our parents’ room without being noticed—unless of course they were both deeply snoring as was often the case.
My mom always snored the loudest and slept with a radio earpiece in one ear as she loved listening to talk radio stations all night long. But in hindsight, it most likely was a type of white noise to help her sleep soundly. During this time of deep log sawing, my brothers and I decided it was safe to creep down the steps to see if Santa had arrived. The four of us, ever so quietly, tiptoed past their door and down the staircase where together we saw the most amazing sight of all— not one lump of coal and lots of presents and filled stockings circling the tree! Christmas had arrived! Unfortunately, the exhilaration was now growing exponentially and the worst part was we could do nothing more than race back to our beds before our parents found out we peeked.
Nights like this are etched forever in my memory, but oddly enough the actual opening of my gifts is hazy at best. I can’t remember if we had a train under the tree or what filled our stockings. And other than receiving my Midge doll one year and a foreign language speaking Chatty Chrissie another, it’s only through old pictures that I even know I received a watch or a record player. Obviously, the actual gifts left very little impression on my Christmas experiences, but the celebration of the day such as visiting my grandparents’ home is vivid.
My Grandma and Grandpa Kirk sold their business, retired and moved from their house at Forbes Cottages in Squirrel Hill to the Kenmawr Apartments in Shadyside. Outside of their high-rise were huge Horse Chestnut trees and the first thing I did when we arrived on Christmas day was to collect a bunch of Buckeyes. With my little fists full of nuts, the doorman held the door wide open while greeting our family in his white, gloved hands and blue cap. With a warning from our parents as we entered the main lobby to be respectfully quiet so as not to disturb the many people who lived in the building, my brothers and I nodded that we understood then ran like a herd of buffalo to see who could push the elevator button first. Jockeying for position to each hit the button, the door magically opened as one of my grandparents’ neighbors stepped off the elevator. With a tip of his hat and a Merry Christmas greeting, we politely smiled then pushed into the elevator and again squabbled as to who was going to push the button to go up. As we arrived on the 6th floor, once again we were reminded to be quiet as we walked down the hallway. Door after door we slowly moved down the hallway of carpeted flooring, but with each step becoming quicker and faster we were soon at a sprint to be the first to push our grandparents’ door buzzer. To say my brothers and I were competitive is an understatement! The only thing better than racing to the door was realizing the strength of static electricity in the hall carpet which gave me and my patent leather shoes a clear advantage over the boys’ brown oxfords as I gleefully zinged, snapped and popped them! OUCH!
Dressed in our best Christmas attire, it was always a formal dinner at my grandparent Kirk's home. I don’t ever remember my father not wearing a tie and jacket while seated at their dining table. Our visit always held a “proper” feel when we were at their apartment and the boys and I tried our darnedest to display good manners. And sometimes we little suburban hooligans who loved to climb trees, play in the dirt and drink from hoses were successful! But our Grandpa Kirk was a big kidder and always seem to coax us on with his silly antics. He made us say quirky things like, “Home Grown Tomatoes” with our mouths weirdly formed in a circle or recite silly limericks. When we became bored, he would take us downstairs to the lobby to watch the telephone operator, wearing a headset, plug those long cords into the switchboard of tenants’ phone lines. When we tired of hearing her say, “Kenmore Apartments. Whom are you calling? Please hold”, we went to the mail area where he taught us his mailbox code and how to open the combination lock of his box. But the best part relieving our boredom was riding the elevator up and down the different floors. We didn’t have clever things such as these in our wooded suburban life and this was almost as fun as Kennywood! And while we thought we were the ones having fun, it was he who was getting the most enjoyment introducing us to all of his neighbors who were riding along with us. Never missing an opportunity, he taught us all how to firmly shake hands and say, “how do you do!” and “very nice to meet you, I’m sure”. Great lessons for life!
Whether it was Easter, Christmas or birthdays, my Grandmother Kirk prepared the exact same dinner for us. Hors d'oeuvres were large black olives, celery stuffed with blue cheese with a sprinkling of paprika and shrimp cocktail. Dinner was breaded veal, scalloped potatoes, and slightly burnt and peppery lima beans which we all hated. But the BEST of the BEST for us was Grandma Kirk’s tapioca pudding for dessert and knowing how much we loved it, she always made extra for us to take home. Having to split the leftovers between the four of us and always wishing for more, we begged our mom to make it for us from time to time. But try as she might it never tasted nor looked the same as Grandma Kirk’s. To this day I still crave it and have tried hard to replicate it but sadly her recipe secret was taken with her to the sweet by and by. Which reminds me, I really need to jot down my recipe for Mimi's famous Mac-n-Cheese!
Oh, how I love to reminisce and the holidays always have a way of rekindling the good and happy feelings of growing up a Kirk in the ‘Burgh. In a day and age where any and everything is disposable, my childhood family memories are tucked safely away in my heart and I hope to preserve them with each story I write for my family. I try hard to give an accurate account without hurting anyone's feelings nor having our life seem too perfect. Our family was not without its faults nor did I live a perfect storybook life as many may take away from the picture I paint with my words. In fact, like many families growing up around us in the neighborhood, over the course of a lifetime we experienced similar times of unhappiness, sorrowful moments and family trials which the holidays are more than willing to replay in our memories. But I am free to scribe my story and how I choose to view my life. Purposely, I try hard to always think and write whatever is true, noble, right, pure, lovely, and admirable of my late and loving parents and brothers while entwining real family life along with our childhood antics. Here is where I find God’s peace in an imperfect family, life and world. And to me, it's a wonderful life!
~With just days remaining of 2019, I end the year with this final blog post and surprise even myself that I made it through half a year of blogging! I'm really happy I created my blog, but truth be told, many times I wasn't brave enough to push the publish button (as we all know that I'm always my harshest critic). Still, I'm glad I muddled on through with most of them and hope they bless not only friends, but obviously my wonderful Kirk Family. Thank you so much to all who encouraged and followed along with me -- it really means a lot! I wish you all a Happy New Year and New Decade-- here's to 2020 and all the amazing, new possibilities ahead of us! ~ XO
