When I was a child, we never saw the Christmas tree until Christmas Eve. Early the morning of December 24th, the workers on our farm disappeared into the forest and cut the tree. They drug it into the library–a room that we used only on special occasions.

Our tree was beautiful–fresh, green, and loaded with sparkling balls, real candles, and chocolate pinecones wrapped in silver paper. One year, when I was just a little boy, I snuck into the library and tried to rip off a pinecone. There was a great commotion as I pulled over the tree.

On Christmas Eve, we had a special supper. Pasta was a big favorite. Then around eight o’clock, after prayers, Mother disappeared, and we knew it was time for the big moment. The youngest child was first to enter the library. And there was the tree lit with dozens of burning candles. Each child’s presents were laid out on an old slate table. Usually we received clothes. If we received toys, we had to share.

Christmas Eve was also a special time for our workers and maids. We set up chairs in the library so they could join the family. My brothers, sisters, and I were called on, one at a time, to stand up and recite Christmas poems that we had memorized. Anna, our maid, had a beautiful voice, so she lead us in singing a song or two.

The next event of the evening was to open presents. Mother gave the workers and maids shirts and sweaters. But their real treat was a big bag of her homemade cookies. After presents were opened we put on our new clothes and went to midnight Mass.

The Christmas tree stayed in the library three or four weeks after Christmas. This allowed us to add new candles and light it for visiting relatives. It was not unusual to light the tree two or three times after the Christmas celebration. Eventually, it dried out and became too dangerous for lit candles, so we took it down.