By: Marijune Wissmann

In the little Northern Michigan town where I was raised, Christmas Day was a church day. At nine in the morning, we trudged through the snowdrifts to a small wood frame Lutheran church for one last choir practice and to rehearse the program for the afternoon.

Mr. Maki, our janitor, had been in the basement since six that morning firing up the ancient wood furnace while we shivered upstairs. The choir stood on the heat vents in the floor trying to warm their ‘toes and when they sang, icy breaths turned into a cold fog. Mrs. Rasmussen, the organist vigorously pumped the old organ, until finally, a faint chord wheezed out.

Pastor arrived in good spirits. He had spent hours preparing this very important sermon. It was his opportunity to persuade the backsliders to return, to the fold. He was tall, blonde and handsome, clad in his vestments, which his wife had spent hours pressing that morning.

Lutherans are very punctual and at 10:45 everyone had arrived. We hurried through the liturgy and Pastor began his sermon. Mom and Dad were late because they had to wait for Grandma to finish her smoke. She hid in the basement, behind the furnace, for a last puff on her secret cigarette. Everyone in the congregation knew inflatable park for sale where she was, but we went along with her silly charade.

The church was beginning to warm up; the heat from the furnace was doubled by the cooking stove in the basement, where the church ladies were cooking the Christmas dinner. Pastor was doing a time job detailing the significance of this holiest of days and we tried to listen with rapt attention.

But drifting upon from the vents were the most heavenly of aromas. The “oven angels” in the basement were preparing roasted turkey, Christmas goose, baked hams, marinated venison, potato sausage, lutefisk, picked herring, smoked Lake Superior trout, lingon berry sauce and sweet desserts.

Pastor’s sermon could not possibly rival such redolent competition. He had actually moved as far away from the vents as he could. The heat from below made him dab his brow with his handkerchief as he announced it was time for communion. As we knelt, hungry stomachs began to growl, we began to giggle as we opened our mouths for the sacred wafer. Finished the Pastor announced, “The Ladies Aid invites you all to partake of the Christmas dinner.”

Now it was everyone for himself. Teen-age boys bounded over the pews, racing for the backdoor while older folks managed to find the energy to quickstep down the stairs. The basement was filled with tables covered with food. Everything was made from scratch, nothing dozen, canned or made from a box. Huge pitchers of creamy milk were placed at every table, no one had heard of cholesterol. The congregation ate two and three helpings, belts were moved a notch, not much conversation but the pleasure of enjoying good food.

The church ladies had decided to hold a bake sale so people could have “take homes”, wonderful saffron buns, rich cream pies, chewy brownies, cardamom seed rolls, gingerbread, frosted cakes and heavenly divinity fudge, appropriate for the occasion. The baked goods were sold in twenty minutes.

It was time to back upstairs for the choir concert and the children’s’ Christmas program. My Dad and several of the men offered to do “clean up”. They spent an enjoyable afternoon, doing the dishes, munching on leftovers and drinking coffee, laced with schnapps.

As we climbed slowly up the slippery steps, Mom was searching for Grandma who was sneaking another cigarette behind the furnace. Many older parishioners were assisted up the stairs. We were all stuffed, our eyes were glazed, we were in a caloric coma.

The choir sang the beautiful Christmas carols and Helga played her piano accordion. She was a big girl and handled the heavy instrument with ease. It was rumored that she played at a tavern on Saturday nights; her carols did have a decided polka beat.

The little children formed a poetry choir and recited “The Night Before Christmas” in a singsong rhythm. As they recited, verse after verse, they swayed from side to side. Their droning and swaying had a hypnotic effect on the audience, almost like a lullaby. Soon strange sounds came from the audience. Mrs. Peterson nodded her head and whistled, like a teakettle. Mr. Salo gave out an unmistakable snore. Pastor looked up sharply, the congregation was falling asleep. He gave a short, benediction and the congregation roused itself and slowly left the church.

Outside, Mr. and Mrs. Olson walked quickly to their Packard. Mr. Olson looked grand in his black chesterfield, gray, homburg hat, a white silk scarf and black zippered galoshes. Surprisingly, Mrs. Olson did not wear her new muskrat fur coat. She had worn it in a snow shower a week ago and after it dried, a rank, wild, musky odor filled the closet. It had hung on her clothesline for days and the scent was heavier than ever.

Dogs in the neighborhood came by to sniff this strange animal. Sam, the tailor had made the coat from pelts bought from an itinerant trapper. Lydia did not want to discuss this latest addition to her wardrobe with anyone.

Parked next to the Olson’s Packard was an old pick-up truck. Several young men, not wearing galoshes, did a slippery dance trying to push-start this old vehicle. They finally drove down the hill, on their way to the skating rink for some broom hockey before the sun went down.

We helped the Pastor and his wife load the left over food into his car, which they delivered to the county home. Grandma was sitting in the car with her Lucky Strike and Dad, his cheeks rosy, whistled as we drove into the wintry sunset.