The year was 1964. I was 7 years old. Christmastime was filled with wonderment.
My two older sisters and I, along with my cousins, never asked for anything. We had a hard-working family that provided a roof over our heads and at times our shoes had cardboard in the soles. Mom sewed our clothes and made everything from scratch. My oldest sister was terminal and each Christmas I knew was a gift no money could buy.
My mother’s parents were 100 percent Norwegian — hard-working people who never said a bad word to me in anger, not once. I would sit by their old wood stove and drink coffee at 4 years of age. Grandma’s rule was a cookie for each hand. I was also taught how to play cribbage by my grandfather. He taught me how to count the cards and do it fast.
We would gather on Christmas Eve. The house was filled, with Mom’s four brothers and their wives along with several cousins. The food that filled the table was something else! All the Norwegian cookies, crumb cake, homemade lefsa (flatbread) and of course lutefisk (lye fish) boiling on the stove. Thank goodness, Grandma always had a ham baking.
After dinner, all of my cousins and I would be running around looking out the window hoping for snow and for Santa to come up the steps of the front porch. As far as I can remember Santa was the only person I had ever seen use the front porch and come through the door. The wood-burner chimney was too hot for Santa.
