Pink Wine

To know my family is to come to a Christmas party, and no one ever did it the way my Grandma Roe did. The house would be decorated as if Santa and his elves set up shop there, with an abundance of nutcrackers of various origins, bells, dolls, wreaths, and garlands. Stockings with all grandchildren accounted for lined the banisters leading to the basement, where the bragging rights foosball tournament would take place late into the night. The smell of that year’s Italian dish would greet us at the door, along with hugs from relatives who had arrived earlier and, of course, Grandpa and Grandma, wearing an outfit with her color of choice, pink. 

After the initial hello’s, we would begin to divulge into the holiday small talk while cracking jokes at the expense of other nearby relatives. Meanwhile, my grandmother, mother, and aunts would prepare for the annual feast, heat up homemade sides, and prepare the table. Growing up in the 2000s, our role as grandchildren was left to the imagination, unoccupied by a screen. Hide and seek was the favorite as the house offered an abundance of nooks and crannies to hide in, something we immediately noticed when our Grandparents were preparing to move into the house. I would typically find myself under a multitude of blankets in the basement linen closet or in the cabinet below the foosball table, the latter becoming a popular choice for all of us.

The call of “dinner” by my Grandma, mother, or aunt beckoning us out of the basement was always met with some resistance, as it would typically take three calls for us to break from the game we were playing. Aside from fantastic food, faith was also on the menu, with my Grandfather typically leading grace by giving thanks to the tight-knit bonds between us. Being Catholic was an essential part of both of my grandparent’s identities and had a massive impact on me in particular. That impact was one of grace and humility in letting God enter your life at any moment, even when you were most proud.

One thing I’ll never forget is the time she surprised me at my confirmation. A massive snowstorm had swept through the Midwest, and almost everyone on the west side of the state was snowbound. This also included my uncle, who was to be my sponsor for the ceremony, but he was determined to make the journey up to us for it. The clock traveled at a double time rate, with the ceremony time fast approaching, but by some miracle, he was able to get there with just under an hour to spare. When he arrived, he asked if I’d help get one of his bags, and I obliged. While on my way out to the car, I noticed a peculiar grey object in the front seat, and upon opening the door, I was greeted with a surprise from Grandma, which was then followed up with a call for help as she had gotten stuck crouching under the passenger seat.

The events following dinner would shift as all the cousins got older. The only main staple being the opening of our stockings before anything else. The stockings would be filled with a variety of small trinkets, gag gifts, and candy, although those gags were typically reserved for all adult men. The Christmas boxers were the best thing to come out of this as they looked like two elf hats stitched together, with a multitude of bells hanging off the side. Gifts from grandparents and relatives would then follow, which, growing up, always felt like Christmas morning. Following this would be one of the more elaborate things she ever did: the visitation of Santa with additional gifts. As a kid, they seemed to appear out of nowhere, popping up in spots where we had just been hanging out twenty minutes prior. This gesture of grandeur instilled my faith in the big man to a degree that led to a fight with a fellow sixth grader over his existence.

This elaborateness wained throughout the years, but that sense of camaraderie was never lost, instead being replaced with games such as Catchphrase and Dirty Christmas. The former of which would become infamous after I guessed the phrase “Paper Back Book,” having only received the six-word clue “It’s not a Kindle, its a…” from my cousin. Dirty Christmas also had its moments throughout the years, particularly due to a small beige plastic Jesus. The lore of this item grew largely over the years due to the creative ways in which it was hidden by the person who had received it the year before. Some were more elaborate than others, such as when it was placed inside of a snow globe. 

The last Christmas we had at her house followed a similar pattern as the years prior, with some minor tweaks, the biggest of which being that my aunts were the primary people cooking the meal. This was not a massive change as a few years earlier; we had discovered months-old food in the fridge and, in turn, decided that from then on, bringing a dish to pass would be a better option if we wanted to stay out of the bathroom. In typical fashion, prayer preluded dinner ending, traditionally, with us grandkids and Grandma singing the end of Harry Belafonte’s “Amen,” replacing the “Haleiugh” with the phrase “sing it over.”

That tradition would find its way into the hospital room after the priest read her Last Rites, catching him off guard and leading to a small moment of levity. Those moments after have become a blur as the years have passed, clouded by waterfalls of tears. One thing I do remember, however, was the eruption of love, with everyone in the room sharing a sentiment. Everyone slowly trailed out of the room, heads hung low in remembrance. My sister, cousin, and I trailed behind everyone, arms wrapped around one another in support and silence. A pink haze began to overtake the sky as dusk approached, becoming ever so brighter as the sun continually dipped lower into the horizon, assuring us that she had made her way into heaven.