Event in December 1991.
Written January 19921.
Christmas begins for me in July here at Judson. For seven years, I’ve gone to Debbie
Malakar’s office and reserved the Rendezvous Room for the last Saturday evening
before Christmas. In the first year, I provided dinner by the establishment for all,
only to be told afterward that they didn’t like my cooking and that it was the worst
meal they ever ate. They never were so rude about the Christmas dinners I really
cooked for them at home in Fairview Park. Something else had to be done.
Next year I suggested they bring in their favorite dishes of food cooked as we liked it at home. I would provide the table settings, salad, and drinks. They would provide the rest. Dietary agreed, and this plan satisfied everyone until this year. My cooks went on strike! They said, “Mama, the food is so much better at Judson than it used to be. Why can’t we choose from the menu of the evening and be done with it?”
What should I say? It is Christmas! I can’t be Scroogy. With my faulty math, I quickly calculated that I might buy a Cadillac with what it would take to feed 24 hungry mouths here. I don’t have a driver’s license, so I said, “Why, of course. That’s what we’ll do.” We had a fine dinner with Pat Rogers’ and Bob Ellsbury’s help.
After dinner, the party began. My three mature children with their families, my eight grandchildren, and their families, a nephew and his family of four, a lone niece, a school teacher, plus my five great-grandchildren, all under six, composed the party. Everyone came — my present from heaven.
The toddlers were so glad to see each other. They romped about tossing their balloons, chasing each other around and under the tables, creating quite a show. The next age group juggled popcorn balls. Their skill amazed me. Then they divided into teams and had a spirited volleyball game, tossing a balloon over a crepe paper festoon between two lights. This went on until they got pretty noisy.
Uncle Chas. intervened by hanging a Piñata on a rope from the air conditioner in the ceiling. It was a grotesque 24-inch long bird covered with garishly colored crepe paper feathers. Its fat stomach promised a good reward for breaking it. A stout stick was produced for a turn of three strikes. The small folks took turn after turn, whacking at it to no avail. Then the older boys took over without success until the biggest, strongest man gave it a mighty strike and knocked its head off.
Hard-wrapped candy sprayed out all over the room. I thought, “Environmental Services would have my head.” It was saved by many little hands scrambling to pick up the pieces and put them in their little plastic bags. They were so comically possessive of each piece that they wouldn’t share one candy. This almost escalated into a small riot — a signal that the hour was late — time for coats and mittens.
How thankful I was that I didn’t have to put them on those dear little “wiggle-woggles.” How good God was not to have given babies to older people. As tired as we get, it would be impossible to cope with dressing them. Besides — even in our more lucid moments, we might put them down and forget where we put them.
Realizing we still had three more family Christmas parties to go, we said
Merry Christmas to all,
MWD
And to all, a good night.
Away in their Buicks
And Hondas they flew
We’ll see you again
In a day or two.
Mary W. Dial
Transcribed June 1992.
Posted Jun 14, 1992 at 04:08.
Revised Jan 23, 2023 at 19:51. EDT.
Retrieved Jun 1, 2026 at 22:25.
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