Last week’s column was much too short to include all of my holiday memories, so I have decided to do an encore. Once again, pleasant recollections of holidays past are tempered by melancholy when I think about the folks who shared them with me and are no longer with us.
A couple of Christmas memories/traditions left over from last week deserve to be recorded. One year, when I was thirteen or fourteen, I saved up a dollar and went to Stone’s Five and Ten to find a Christmas gift for my mother. After much deliberation, I settled on a beautiful silk head scarf, which pleased her no end. This was the beginning of another tradition, one that became more difficult each year as the purchasing power of a single dollar began to decay. Each year’s scarf seemed to be a little chintzier than the previous one. Nonetheless I continued it long after I became an adult, until I finally gave in and replaced the “one dollar head scarf” tradition with a “head scarf’ one. I’m sure we both felt bad seeing that change.
Years later Nan and I took our kids to visit our friends Bill and Janet Sabina and their three boys. The highlight of that visit was playing with the Sabina boys’ collection of windup toys. A few days later, while Christmas shopping at Grace’s on Bower Hill Road, I noticed a neat three-piece band of windup figures — an elephant playing a bass drum, a monkey playing cymbals, and a dancing bear shaking gourds – which Santa promptly purchased. They were a big hit with our kids that year, spawning a tradition that added three windup toys each year. Among the memorable ones are a pussycat that rolls over, a monkey that does somersaults, a merry-go-round, and Ferdinand the Bull (a real antique donated by Aunt Betty). The collection is slowly being dispersed among the three children. Sure enough, Santa included in my stocking this year a windup “Donner”. He is able to roll forward; so far I haven’t been able to convince him to “mount to the sky”.
A particularly memorable New Year’s Eve was one toward the end of the War — probably 1944. That year my father, Ed Weise, Bob Harris, Paul Rankin, and I hiked up Lesnett Road to its crest and found a side-hill clearing from which we could see all of Bridgeville spread out to the northwest like a Christmas village. We built a fire, cooked Vienna sausages and baked beans, and had a lovely holiday supper which ended just as the New Year came in. It was a magical night with a sky full of stars and the whole world at our feet. How I would love to relive that night!
Other than that, I don’t remember much special about New Year’s Eve in those days, although I do have a vague recollection of our celebrating the tradition/superstition of eating fish on that occasion to maximize the possibility of good luck in the New Year. I think our participation in this custom was confined to canned sardines or tuna; fish was seldom served as an entree in our home. I do recall staying up till midnight and then going outside and beating on a pot with a serving spoon in celebration one year.
I have vivid memories of listening to college football bowl games on New Year’s Day. The 1947 season was very kind to Penn State, earning them an invitation to Dallas to the Cotton Bowl, provided they leave their two Negro team-mates Wally Triplett and Dennis Hoggard behind. This, the rest of the team would not accept. After much negotiation, the Southerners eventually relented, and history was made. Dallas hotels were more stubborn; as a result the whole team stayed at a naval facility miles away and was bussed to the game. I have distinct memories of listening to the game on our radio — it was a thrilling 13 to 13 tie, ensuring the Lions of a tie for third place in national rankings.
Thirty years later our growing family had established its own New Year’s Eve traditions. Late in the evening we would move to the basement and turn on the television. I always wanted to watch Guy Lombardo and the Royal Canadians usher in the New Year with “Auld Lang Syne”; the children preferred Dick Clark’s Rockin’ New Year. Most years I had to be satisfied with Lombardo on instant replay. For refreshment, we would “Rock the Cheeseball”, an expression John purloined from the Clash and their classic rendition of “Rock the Casbah”. Our repast was crackers and a large cheese ball covered with crushed nuts; shrimp cocktail; and pretzels. The grown-ups washed this down with very cheap champagne — I didn’t realize how good champagne should taste until we added a connoisseur (Beth’s husband Mike) to our family.
An equally significant event dominated the week between Christmas and New Year’s. Nan and I were married in a frigid, snowy Meadville on December 28, 1963; we always tried to do something special to commemorate our anniversary. Perhaps our favorite celebration was dinner at the Colony Restaurant. Located at the corner of Greentree Road and Cochran, it was one of Pittsburgh’s three finest restaurants (LeMont on Mt. Washington and Park Schenley in Oakland were the other two). LeMont had the superior view, but for a perfect evening out, I would take the Colony any day. Remarkable service, a welcoming environment, and a superb menu combined for a three-star rating in my book. And several nights a week the Vince Lascheid Trio was there with its very tasteful jazz style.
It is indeed curious that some of our family traditions have survived and prospered, while others have disappeared. I cherish the memory of all of them, as well as those which have been added to our repertoire in the ensuing years. May our memories of 2025 be as positive!