(Originally posted December 2006) –  Of the 40 Christmas Eve’s I’ve celebrated in my life, 39 of them have been at Nan’s house. Nan is my grandma on dad’s side of the family. She lives in Northeastern Ohio, so we typically get a cold, white Christmas. Having been away from Ohio now for well over a decade, I like the cold and snow because I know I won’t have to shovel a driveway or sidewalk when I get home.

My kids have spent all but one of their Christmas Eve’s at Nan’s house too. I like that their childhood Christmas memories will mirror my own to some extent. As Nan gets older, and family members have moved away, everyone still gets back to Nan’s house just about every year.  My brothers will be there, and we’ll act retarded and crude like we did as teenagers. Lucy will be there too, and we’ll make jokes about the Christmas Goose and the Yule Log that no one else will understand.  Mom, Dad, Aunt Becky, Aunt Judy, Uncle Steve, Ed and Zoe will all be there. Uncle Joe, Aunt Thelma, Joey and Judy Anne will be in Hawaii, but they’re usually there as well. It’s what Christmas has always been to us – family.

We always go to Nan’s for supper on Christmas Eve. As children, it was pure torture because the only thing we wanted to do was rip into the monstrous pile of presents underneath Nan’s Christmas Tree. We exchanged the family gifts (not the Santa gifts) on Christmas Eve.  The kids would inhale dinner and proceed to bounce off the walls and ceiling until the adults were done eating. Sometimes, Uncle Joe would proceed to read the Christmas Story from the Bible after dinner (a trick he learned from a specialist trained in the art of military torture during Viet Nam). Once, my head exploded while listening to the part about the Angel who had tidings of great joy.

We always tried to keep things organized. One child would go first while the others watched, then the next, then the next. This allowed everyone to see what all of the children got from the relatives. It usually lasted until we got to the first child. Within five minutes, Nan’s family room was literally covered in shredded wrapping paper, bows and ribbons.  Electronic toys beeped from every couch, chair and stool. Lego pieces were everywhere, Evel Knievel motorcycles jumped ramps made out of smashed gift boxes, new clothes were modeled and the babies (there were almost always babies at Nan’s house – hear that Lucy?) crawled around amidst the chaos.

When it was all over, we weren’t sad or disappointed. We knew this was only the first round. What Santa was about to deposit would make the stack of presents at Nan’s house look like the prizes you find at the bottom of a Cracker Jack box.  Don’t get me wrong, we loved Christmas Eve at Nan’s house, but we knew it was just the beginning of the very best day of the year.

Usually by about 10 p.m., dad would start loading the presents into the car. We had to get home so we “didn’t walk in and scare Santa away.” Uncle Joe always told us that he heard on the radio that the airport had picked up a strange signal on radar that looked like “a little blip with eight other blips in front of it – and one of the blips had something glowing red on the front of it.”  For years, we bought the whole story without question.

Now, when we go to Nan’s, I can see the same look of anticipation on the faces of the current generation of children. They eat quickly and bounce off the walls until it’s time to open presents. Nan still presides over it the way she always has (and I’m sure Pa is there with her). It still turns into a shred-fest of wrapping paper within seconds of the first present being opened.

It hasn’t changed and that’s why we all love it.

And, when I walk outside with the final load of presents before we leave Nan’s house on Christmas Eve, I still look up expecting to see that strange ”blip” and the glowing red light the radar guys picked up at the airport.