The Christmas Eve Party

It’s early morning on Christmas Eve, and I’m sitting here with coffee in hand, watching the sun rise slowly over the hills. The day ahead is full. I’ll be making my rounds…visiting Dad, dropping off a cobbler to my brother, spending time with Mom at the nursing home, picking up a last-minute item from the store, and stopping in on a few friends to spread a little cheer. This kind of Christmas Eve hustle isn’t new to me. It’s tradition. It’s stitched into the fabric of my life like tinsel on a tree.

When I was a kid, I tagged along with my dad as he made his own rounds. He ran his own business, and most of his friends did too. Small-town folks, the kind who kept their shops open on Christmas Eve because every sale mattered. We’d stop by Popsicle Sweat’s used car lot, Billy Wayne’s auto parts store, Grey Preston’s desk at the local bank, Estel Venable’s gas station, and make the rounds at the fire department, rescue squad, and police station. Each stop was a handshake, a laugh, and a moment of connection. Those visits were more than errands. They were the heartbeat of the season.

After the morning’s travels, the real magic began. The Christmas Eve party. We’d gather with family and friends for an evening that felt like something out of a Norman Rockwell painting, if Rockwell had painted scenes with Jumping Jack fireworks and kids hollering over G.I. Joe tanks.

Growing up, my family was big. My mom was one of eight, my dad one of fourteen. That meant cousins. Lots of cousins. We ranged in age from seven to seventeen, and on Christmas Eve, we were all together under one roof. First stop was Mom’s side. Dinner was simple but perfect—ham, vegetables, mac and cheese, and enough desserts to make your head spin. The grown-ups held court in the kitchen while us kids took over the living room, tearing through presents and waiting for someone to play Santa.

That someone was usually Uncle Ernest. He had a booming voice and a presence that could hush a room. He’d stride in, bark at us to back away from the tree, and then proceed to hand out every adult gift first, making us deliver them like little elves. Only after the last fruitcake and flannel shirt had been distributed would he turn to us kids. We drew names each year, so you got one gift from a cousin and a little something from the grandparents—usually a shirt, sometimes socks, always wrapped with care.

Before we left for the next party, Uncle Jack would step onto the porch and light up Jumping Jacks. Those unpredictable little fireworks would skitter across the concrete, sending us into fits of laughter and chaos. It was pure joy, the kind that lives forever in memory.

Then it was off to Dad’s side. Their party was a feast of finger foods—sausage balls, cocktail wieners, ham biscuits, cakes, pies, and homemade candies. More presents, more cousins, more laughter. I remember getting the G.I. Joe S.L.A.M. Tank one year, and a Three Stooges VHS tape another. Those gifts weren’t just toys. They were treasures.

Years passed. I got married. My wife and I started going to her family’s Christmas Eve party. I watched my kids run around with their cousins, just like I had. And somewhere along the way, I became Uncle Ernest. I’d walk into the living room, tell the kids to quiet down, and start handing out gifts to the adults first. Life had come full circle.

But time has a way of changing things. Her family lost some of its elders. The younger ones moved away. The party shrank. Last year, her aunt passed the torch, and we hosted a small gathering. This year, we’re hosting the full-fledged family Christmas Eve party. And I’m glad. My daughters are nearly grown, and I want this tradition to take root. I want them to come back each year, with their own families, and keep the spirit alive.

Tonight, the house will be full. There are a few last-minute details to tend to, but the heart of it is ready. I hope the little ones at the party will remember it the way I remember mine. I hope they’ll look back one day and smile. That’s all any of us can ask for.