When I was young, I went all out for the holiday season. The house was decorated in festive Christmas garb; the tree was filled with shimmering ornaments, colored lights wrapped around the window frames, candles were lit on the table. A centerpiece of pine boughs and red ribbons adorned the table. On Christmas Eve, the whole family dressed in finery. I wore long skirts and ruffled blouses.
Dick and I also tried to invite people who might otherwise spend the holiday alone to share our Christmas Eve dinner.
One year, my son invited a middle-aged bachelor guy. He brought a hostess present and looked quite happy to be with us. He must have eyed the highly decorated table with anticipation. It looked like a darn good feast was coming. Everyone sat down, placed napkins in their laps, and waited for the meal.
I caught a glimpse of my guest’s face. It was filled with anticipation. He was probably thinking of roast turkey or prime rib. We passed around fresh cornbread and the fruit salad. Finally, I brought out the main course – plain old, simple chili. Our guest hid his surprise with a polite thank you as I filled his bowl and explained this was a family tradition in memory of my mother.
As we slurped down our chili, I told him my mother’s story. She was born in a Mennonite enclave in Siberia. Her father was a leader in the local church, and as the 1920s progressed, it became dangerous to profess religious beliefs and more dangerous to preach them. Two of his sons disappeared into Stalin’s Gulag. One returned, badly shaken, and in ill health. The other was never heard from again. People warned my grandfather that his life was in danger and that he needed to leave the Soviet Union.
Heeding the warnings, he packed up his family and fled to Rotterdam. At this point, he planned to take his family to the United States and its numerous Mennonite settlements. However, U.S. Immigration didn’t quite see things that way.
Aunt Agatha had an eye disease, trachoma, and U. S. Immigration had health laws forbidding anyone with this infectious disease to enter the country. My grandfather changed plans and took his family to Mexico, where other Mennonite settlements had developed, and the family lived there for five years until finally, they were able to move to the United States.
My mother’s Christmas Eve chili dinner tradition began in Mexico, and she brought it with her. I imagine my guest wished that my mother had started a prime-rib tradition. He finished his chili, but he didn’t ask for seconds.
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