Christmas Greetings and A Story about Santa Claus by Margaret Ullrich

Silent Night,  

Holy Night...

The big night is finally here!!

I hope you and your family and friends are enjoying a very Merry Christmas, 

full of love, peace, health and happiness.

Last year I posted a short story about my first Christmas in College Point, 

a small town in New York, when I was 5 years old.

If you have young children, they might enjoy it.

If you'd like to see what life was like in ancient times (1955), you might enjoy it.

In the story I mentioned many Maltese, Italian and German Christmas recipes.  

I've linked the recipes to their names.

Just click for the recipe, if you'd like to try something new this week.

Or maybe next year.

Do You Want to Know a Secret (part 5 - by Margaret Ullrich)

After the Second World War, Aunt Demi followed her brothers Des, Spiro and Tony to America. She had sent letters to Pop and their sisters, Carmela and Helen, telling them to come, too. It was Aunt Demi’s fault that we were now one big happy family. Aunt Demi had opinions on everything. I decided to remind Nadia of one of Demi’s opinions.

“Your Dad didn’t check with Aunt Demi when he got married here. Aunt Demi still calls your Mom a Wop.” I was sorry as soon as I said it. Aunt Betty was my favorite Aunt. It was a low blow. Nadia muttered, “Ah, she don’t mean it. My Mom says family should stick together.”

“My Ma says we don’t have to live on top of each other.”


Sticking together didn’t mean the same thing to our mothers. Aunt Betty had lived the American dream. She had her privacy in a cozy four room home for her own little family. I had been born on Pop’s parents’ farm in Malta on the same day our single Aunt Helen and Aunt Carmela, along with her husband and daughter, had left for America. My parents were also supposed to leave with them, but Ma wasn’t interested in giving birth on the high seas. Then, when I was three months old, Pop, Ma and I followed them to America.

Our first American home was a two bedroom apartment we shared with Pop’s brother, Uncle Tony, Aunt Kate and their two daughters. Pop worked in Des’ deli with his brothers. For two years I shared my cousin Linda’s crib. Aunt Kate wasn’t thrilled with sharing her home with in-laws she had never met. Ma wasn’t happy being there, either. A year after we arrived, Uncle Charlie, Ma’s younger brother, joined us. A year later, Aunt Kate gave birth to cousin Stevie. It was getting a little crowded. The crowding, along with receiving a quarter of the deli’s weekly net income and unsold cold cuts, inspired Pop to move to College Point.

Pop bought a duplex with a storefront. He thought he could run a business at night and work at a factory in the daytime. Pop, Ma and Uncle Charlie went to work at Lily Tulip, a paper cup manufacturer. I was left in the care of our German tenant, Mrs. Kekelia. After we left for College Point, Aunt Rita was furious when she saw Aunt Kate wearing a fur coat. Uncle Spiro accused Uncle Tony of taking more than his fair share of the profits. At the time, Uncle Tony was the only uncle who knew how to drive a car. He started a small taxi business and moved his family upstate. He and his family were only mentioned in whispers.

Nadia didn’t say anything further about our living arrangements. My curls and temper were cooling. Wanting to make peace, I lay my head on the ironing board, like a dog assuming an inferior position, and asked, “Can you iron some more?”
Nadia smiled. “Sure. Ya wanna look right when ya meet George. Ya know, ya really need stuff.” She ironed in silence a few minutes, then said, “I’d justa soon not leave Corona. I’d justa soon stay with what I know. Ya know? Everybody in Corona’s Italian.”
“Everybody except half our relatives . . . and you. We don’t belong here, either.” Nadia kept ironing, but she was quiet. The silence got to me. “Can we stop? My neck’s sore again.”

Do You Want to Know a Secret (part 4 - by Margaret Ullrich)

Nadia’s teachers had no such illusions nor any such children. In Corona the motto was “Sicily Rules”. Corona had been settled by Italians. My parents had enough trouble learning enough English to make their way in America. They didn’t want to have to learn Italian, too. They decided Corona was too much trouble and moved further east. The only North American cultural icon Nadia and I shared was Ed Sullivan. Nadia removed the shamrock pin and placed it on her dresser. “So, ya had a party. Did Zia Netta hafta make somethin’?”

I didn’t want to talk about school. The St. Patrick party had followed the same routine as always. The Irish girls had worn short green jumpers and taken turns impressing the rest of us with their folk dances. They would stand ramrod stiff, with their arms straight down, and jump and kick. I had seen it for ten years. The thrill was gone. I was sorry I had brought the pin. “No. We bought tickets.”
Nadia liked learning exotic recipes. She hoped the Sisters had been giving us cooking lessons. “Whadya have?”
“Corned beef and soda bread.”
“Whaa? Coca Cola?”
“No. Baking soda.” My friend, Maureen Shuart, had explained the mystery of soda bread when we were in kindergarten. Compared to Nadia, I had been exposed to a very cosmopolitan diet.
“How was it?”
I shrugged. “Okay. This time it had raisins.” Nadia was impressed at my knowledge of foreign cuisine. “So, talk ta me. What’s it like there? I gotta tell ya, they got some St. Patrick’s parade in Manhattan. So, what’re they like?”
I didn’t know what to say. When it was time for St. Patrick’s there were shamrocks and little green men in all the stores and ads. There was a huge parade down Fifth Avenue in Manhattan. We even got a school holiday. I only saw pictures of St. Joseph surrounded by starving Sicilians in Corona. My teachers and classmates were different from what Nadia had, all right. Finally, I said, “They’re . . . they’re . . . Americans.”

Nadia took offence. “Whadaya mean? My Mom’s parents was born here. My Mom was born here. I was born here.”
“Yeah, but you’re . . . you know . . . uh, some people are more American than others.”
Nadia was hotter than the iron. “Wheredaya get off? Tellin’ me how ta be American. Of all the nerve! Ya just fell off a boat!”
Well, I was used to being told that, so I just put on my stupid immigrant smile and said, “That’s why I have to learn to act like them.”

I should have stopped with the sappy smile. Admitting I was learning how to behave like a non-Sicilian American had opened another can of worms. Pop’s moving us out of Corona had really upset the relatives we had in Corona. Nadia quoted her Dad. “Here ya’d fit in. Ya know, yer not Irish.”
Okay. I knew what my Pop had said. “And, you know, I’m not Sicilian.”
“Still, yer more like us’n them. Ya know, Zia Demi’s always sayin’ that Zio Peter shoulda stayed in Corona.”
“So what?”
“She’s our Dads’ oldest sister. What she says is law.”

Do You Want to Know a Secret (part 3 - by Margaret Ullrich)

Nadia stopped ironing. I raised my head and stiffly gave it a shake. Nadia was proud of her work. “Oh, lookit ya!”
I was disappointed. This was our second ironing session and I was still stuck with a mass of black curls. “Look at what? It’s still curly. It won’t swing. It won’t even lay flat. All I want is straight hair like Diana Ross.”
Diana Ross, like all other Motown negro girl singers, had a certain look. They were perfectly groomed and had hair that was as smooth and solid as a helmet. No kidding. Their hair could repel bullets. Nadia reminded me she was working with a handicap. “Negroes use stuff.”

I knew that. My friend, Ivy Ann MacIntosh, had offered to pick up a box of the stuff she had used. It was amazing. On Friday she had gone home with kinky hair. Then on Monday her hair was stick straight. That stuff she used was wonderful. And expensive. When I asked Ma for money to buy stuff to straighten my hair, she shot me The Look and said I was crazy.

Trying to postpone another ironing session, I went to my tote bag, rummaged around, found a shamrock pin and handed it to Nadia. “We had a St. Patrick’s party at school. I got an extra pin. It’s a shamrock.”

Nadia had received stranger things. She had been brought up to be grateful for anything, at least while the giver was still with her. She turned the plastic green leaf over a few times to show she was thrilled to receive it. Then Nadia pinned the shamrock to her blouse, glanced at the mirror and shrugged. “Yeah. I seen them in the paper. Thanks.” After a few minutes, she went to her tote bag. “Uh... We had festa di San Giuseppe at my school. Hey! I got somethin’ for you.” She tossed out some books and candy wrappers, found a fava bean, rubbed it on her skirt and handed it to me. “Here.”
I had also been raised to be grateful, but I was more curious than Nadia. “What does St. Joseph have to do with fava beans?”

Nadia rolled her eyes. “Don’tcha remember? San Giuseppe saved Sicily. So, we make an altar an’ give food ta the poor. Mom made minestrone.” Seeing the confused look on my face, Nadia remembered that I lived in College Point, a town further east on the IRT track, beyond Flushing. College Point had been settled by Germans. It was a town where people just weren’t as interested in Sicily’s history. “Wha-aat? Don’tcha do that at yer school?”
“No... But, thanks.”

As far as our schools were concerned we lived in two different worlds. We were both being taught by the good Sisters of St. Dominic. But the Sisters in College Point were Irish and used to being among fair-haired German and Irish students. That’s the way it had been in College Point for generations. Some Sisters had dreamed of going to far away missions and converting exotic heathens. After the wave of immigration following the second World War they got their wish. St. Fidelis was packed with quite an assortment of children. The Sisters threw all their energy into Americanizing us immigrants.