OP-ED: Christmas with Mrs. Claus
Back when shopping was an event, my old mentor John Gunter ran the legendary Penn Traffic Department Store in Johnstown. John’s motto was simple: Go big or go home. And when it came to Christmas, he went mega-big.
That store was a winter wonderland with wreaths the size of a 1968 Chrysler New Yorker, miles of garland, and enough lights to make Chevy Chase’s Clark Griswold cry with envy. Years later, when I was working at a local hospital, I found out that Penn Traffic’s giant wreaths had been sitting in storage at a local car dealership.
We tracked them down, borrowed a bucket truck, and next thing you know, our hospital had started a new tradition. It was glowing like Santa’s Workshop. Patients, visitors and my fellow workers loved it. It was the perfect tribute to John’s old motto: “If you can see it from outer space, you’ve done it right.”
Truth is, I should’ve seen my attachment to “go big or go home” coming. My Italian grandfather, who could make anything from Adirondack chairs to homemade wine strong enough to clean your upholstery, offered to start a family Christmas wreath business. My brother and I were the sales team. We made good money, right up until Grandad accidentally gave himself a raging case of poison ivy from burning leftover brush in a pile of poison vines. Our wreath empire collapsed, but we had enough memories, calamine lotion, and steroids to last a lifetime.
Back then, 99% of Christmas trees were real. In our case, Scotch pine, white pine or whatever tree dad could find with needles long enough to make decorating a contact sport was his thing. They’d sag under the weight of big glass ornaments, those heavy colored lights and aluminum icicles that clung to your clothing every time you came in contact with one. But they smelled great, and no one complained as we strung lights and built the manger scene and electric train set under those trees.
Then about 20 years ago, I developed what my wife calls “selective Christmas allergies.” She insists it’s not the trees themselves but the process. I’m done with the hunting, cutting, and hauling. I retired from active decorating duty until the pandemic when I moved back home full time. That’s when I discovered that the woman I live with was continuing to run a Christmas empire of her own.
We have full-sized trees, one miniature accent tree, a gaggle of wreaths, lighted railings, candle-lit windowsills and enough garland to make a winter coat for Sasquatch. Even the dog has a Christmas jacket.
One of my former bosses once told me that my wife is Christmas. I thought he was exaggerating, but he was right. Between the shopping, decorating, baking, and general holiday enthusiasm, I’m convinced she is absolutely Christmas.
Meanwhile, I’ve reached the “tiny house and ceramic tree” phase of life. Give me a remote, a cup of cocoa and one plug-in decoration, and I’m good. The kids have their own trees, and the grandkids prefer digital gifts anyway. These days, Santa’s sleigh has been replaced by six neat envelopes with each one labeled with enough digital Christmas cash to cover whatever they actually wanted.
Still, every year, my wife decorates like the grandkids are still little munchkins running around. And without fail, on Dec. 26, she’ll look around at the decorations, breathe out a very deep sigh, and proclaim, “I hate Christmas.”
She says this every year. And every year, it’s a lie.
So, the lights go up, the cookies get baked, and the spirit of “go big or go home” lives on in our living room, our kitchen, on our front door and in every window of the house.
As for me? I’ve learned my role is to stay out of the way, because in our house, Mrs. Claus doesn’t scale back. She just reloads.
Nick Jacobs lives in Windber.