It’s funny how an unfortunate incident can become one of someone’s best memories.
When I was about five, I lived with my parents and two siblings a couple of blocks from Lake Michigan in St. Joseph, Michigan.
That Christmas was about the only one that we weren’t traveling back East to celebrate the holiday. My Dad was a chemist who worked on one- or two-year contracts before moving on to the next opportunity. In an unusual turn, we were going to be moving the week between Christmas and New Year’s Day..
My brother Michael, 12, sister Dee, 11, and I all went to sleep on Christmas Eve anticipating what would be a rare Christmas in our own home.
We were so excited ... until we woke up Christmas morning.
A storm had blown in over the lake. High winds and snow had blown in the picture window in the living room. The heating system had used up all the oil trying to combat the cold air rushing in the non-existent window.
We wound up opening gifts in our winter coats and gloves as snow blew in on us. As soon as a gift was opened, it was placed in a moving box to await the moving company several days later.
We left right after opening gifts, eating at one of the few places open on the road to our new home. My siblings and I remember that Christmas more than just about any other.
Most of my family was born and raised in Boston, including my parents and siblings.
Just before I was born, my parents moved the family to Chicago. For the many of the following years, we moved to a new home almost annually. But no matter where we were living, the five of us - and our dog, Fritz - would pile into the maroon Galaxy 500 for the drive back to Boston to spend Christmas with my parents’ families.
My siblings were reluctant to give up a portion of the back seat to me, late-comer that I was. Seatbelts weren’t much of a thing back then, so I found unique places within the car to ride. When I was little, I would lie in the back window. As I grew bigger, Fritz and I would each curl up in one of the backseat floor wells, my head resting on the dog to sleep.
Although I adored all four of my grandparents, I have particularly fond memories of arriving at my maternal grandparents’ house late on Christmas Eve.
Christmas Day in their home was chaotic with 12 adults (my grandparents, parents, aunts and uncles) and more than 20 cousins.
My maternal grandmother would cover all the furniture with plastic to prevent her grandchildren from spilling on it.
But Christmas Eve was different; it was special - just for me.
My maternal grandfather, Pop Tucker, drove an 18-wheel oil tanker truck. On Christmas Eve, he would park it a few blocks away on a main thoroughfare.
When I arrived, he would wrap me up and carry me down the road and put me up in the cab of his truck. We’d drive about five miles to Mike’s Donuts, where he and all his trucker friends regularly gathered.
He’d sit me on one of those round-top stools and I would spin around on it while he ordered cups of cocoa with lots of whipped cream and handmade donuts for the two of us to share.
As his friends came and went, he would introduce me.
“This is Stinky; she’s the foreigner,” he’d tell them.
While some would be offended by such a nickname, I remember it with a smile. At some point, I had apparently poured my grandmother’s perfume all over myself, thus earning the moniker. It may even be why she started covering her furniture in plastic.
Not having grown up along with the rest of the larger family, I often felt a little out of place on those holidays. There were relationships, traditions and memories I didn’t share.
But Pop Tucker made me feel special.
I was the only grandchild given a nickname and he made a special effort to create a tradition with me that I will never forget.
Years later, my mother and l lived in the same city as my grandparents had. Pop came to live with us, and every Sunday morning, I would get up early so the two of us could go to church and then to Mike’s Donuts together.
He’d still introduce me as “Stinky,” and it always felt like Christmas when he did.
