the sunday before
- Melinda
- Nov 13
- 8 min read
When I was a much younger version of myself, I always felt especially privileged around this time of year. Not because my family had a whole lot of extra money to spend on extravagant presents (we didn’t). Nor because we were celebrating in some grandiose way (we weren’t). And it definitely wasn’t because we would soon be gifted the latest and trendiest fashions (we wouldn’t). My sense of self was grossly inflated simply because I was lucky enough to be celebrating Christmas early. Days early—sometimes even a full week early—whenever the Sunday before the 25th arrived on the December calendar, that would be the official kick-off to my Christmas. And I, likely in a smug and irritating kind of way, would make sure to let all of my little friends know as I cheerfully sauntered out the school doors that Friday afternoon.
I’m not really sure when the tradition began, but the memories of those Sundays travel back as far as my memories do. In a heroic effort to gather her steadily growing family around her each December, my grandmother claimed “The Sunday Before” as our day to celebrate. Thankfully, the tradition carried on through the inevitable ups and downs of families; through the births, deaths, hardships, and divorces. It carried on until the kids had kids of their own, and those kids gathered just as gleefully on the blue-green shag carpet as we once had. And while it was fun to watch my girls also thoroughly enjoying the tradition, my most cherished memories of The Sunday Before come from those celebrations held during my childhood.
The day always started out the same, with me and my three siblings happily crammed into the back seat of the family station wagon. The murmuring of my parents’ voices, mingled with Christmas carols on the radio, would drift back to us from the front seat. We were all dressed in our best with hair that was curled, styled, or slicked, and the anticipation hung so thick it nearly choked us. And thus commenced the longest—and most painful—hour-long car ride of our young lives.
Inevitably, my family was always one of the first to arrive, an exquisite torture unique to Christmas. My siblings and I would twitch, pace, bicker, and/or giggle to pass the time. If we were feeling especially brave, we’d sneak into the dining room where a long bench sat crammed with gift bags as far as our eager eyes could see. With no time to spare, we’d search out the precious bag labeled with our name, often finding it just before being spotted by our grandmother who then quickly shooed us from the room. Instantly and fiercely laying claim, we would have fought to the death for that bag, bursting with gaily wrapped mysteries. I’m not quite sure how our little bodies were able to stand the mounting suspense, but I can honestly say this: I don’t think there’s been hardly anything since those days that can match the sheer, unbounded joy I felt in those moments—a joy both painful and blissful at the same time.
Our mounting anticipation was only slightly mollified by the abundant snacks set out in various choice spots; we especially delighted in eating cheese curls until we were sick (a snack normally forbidden in our healthy home), and the “junk drawer” was always a viable option as well (jammed with snacks most definitely forbidden in our healthy home). The delights of Christmas were too numerous to count, and to this day I remember those cheese curls and junk-drawer candies just as fondly as I do everything else.
One by one, cars would pull up into the driveway. And one by one, aunts, uncles, and cousins would make their way through the kitchen door. Their arms would be delightfully laden with festively wrapped gifts, which only increased our suspense a million times over. The initial awkwardness of greeting cousins not seen in a year was always swiftly overcome by shared memories, tingling excitement… and copious amounts of cheese curls.
Eventually, the whole family would be gathered, and the kids knew the highly anticipated opening of the presents had finally arrived. We would settle into our chosen spots on the shag rug next to those whom we most wanted to “ooh” and “ahh” with, and then await selection. Every year, one or two of us was chosen to help Gramma B pass out the bags, handing each one off reverently to its intended recipient.
In order to keep the children from literally combusting, we received our bags for the first round while the adults watched on, and in that moment, their one and only job as parents was to appropriately appreciate each gift as we held it up to be admired. Paper would fly, eyes would widen, and voices would shout in unbounded glee the moment the last bag had been handed out and the green light had been given.
My gramma always made a valiant—yet wildly ineffectual—attempt to keep the noise at a reasonable decibel. Shh, shh. Keep it down, everyone, she would try repeatedly, but it was so much bigger than her. She didn’t stand a chance at containing the waves of excitement and exclamations of joy that coursed through the room. Defeated, she instead busied herself with collecting the mountains of wrapping paper that were discarded in record time.
As we grew older and wiser, we started to notice a pattern. When my grandmother would spot a sale during her Christmas shopping sprees, she'd snag as many as she could—plus one more for good measure (because if a surprise guest appeared on The Sunday Before, they got a bag, too). This meant that if we didn't keep our eyes studiously averted from our neighbor's bag, the element of surprise would be ruined. We learned to largely avoid this devastation by unwrapping same-sized packages at the same time and, for the most part, it worked. But in spite of the repeats, you never got the sense that your bag was "generic" because it always, always, had a personal touch. A gift uniquely yours, carefully selected with your favorite color in mind.
But gifts were only the beginning; a delightfully long day stretched before us. Delicious smells would begin to waft in from the kitchen where my grampa was voluntarily sequestered. Choosing the relative quiet of the kitchen with a ball-game on for company, he would be preparing us a feast. I especially remember the delightfully soft dinner rolls, a wide variety of sandwich meats (long before my vegan days), and his warm, homemade cinnamon applesauce. It would all be laid out on the long dining room table and we’d make our way around, grabbing whatever looked most tempting. Inevitably, there would be a second (and maybe even a third) helping. And dessert, without fail, would include Aunt Mary's Rice Krispie bars—at least two of those, too. The din always quieted considerably at that point as we refueled for the afternoon ahead.
The day would unfold in much the same way every year. Adults would quietly catch up while the kids gathered in groups, playing with new toys and gifts. All of us sprawled happily on that soft and fluffy polyester blue-green shag rug. Inevitably, some of the adults would gravitate upstairs where an intense game of Trivial Pursuit would take place, safely distanced from the distraction of little ones. And as the hours ticked past, we would add another layer of cherished memories to the pile already accrued through the passing years.
The setting sun would herald the end of the day, and families would leave with reluctant children in tow. Arms laden with food, we would all make our way out the door with much less energy than we’d strolled in with. And driving home, admiring the Christmas lights, there would be this subtle sadness. This quiet knowing that it would be another endless year until it all happened again.
My beloved Gramma B died in 2019. The last official Sunday Before was held in 2016, and since I wasn’t feeling well, I didn’t attend. Those Sundays had changed quite a bit in the later years; the family was spread too far, and it was harder for my grandmother to organize such a grand event. Slowly, the tradition died a quiet death. Mourned, but perhaps inevitable. After all, is there anything in life that isn’t subject to change?
But forever, in the hearts of my family, The Sunday Before Christmas will always remind us of my effervescent grandmother and her contagious chuckle. It will always whisper of her fondness for family gatherings. And it will always remind us of her generous and loving spirit.
I see my grampa, preparing our meal to the murmur of a game; I see my gramma with that familiar twinkle in her eye. I smell applesauce cooking. I hear conversations and laughter and the running of many small feet. There’s the distant comfort of voices drifting down the stairs as uncles argue the rules of Trivial Pursuit. The taste of cheese curls and dinner rolls. The warmth of fires winking from the fireplace. The twinkle of lights on a fragrant, freshly-cut Christmas tree—always in the same corner, always excessively dripping with silver tinsel.
My grandparents are both gone, and the house has been sold; there is no hope of recreating those days again. But I'm not sure I believe that they're actually over, and I can easily imagine that in some distant and glorious land my gramma is right now preparing for the upcoming festivities. It’s a new (old) bunch gathered around her now; faces that she rejoices at seeing again. Like my grampa. My cousin. My uncles and aunts. I can see her arranging everything just so. I can taste the heavenly version of applesauce that my grandfather is whipping up. I imagine the laughter will be just as loud, the joy just as palpable, and the gifts just as abundant. I do have to wonder though... will there be blue-shag involved? Cheese curls? Rice Krispie bars? And what about tinsel?
And even though we won't be celebrating together this year, I haven't forgotten that voice. I haven't forgotten that smell. I most certainly haven't forgotten the feel of her warm hand, always squeezing mine. Merry Christmas, Melinny, she says with that familiar chuckle, right before her eyes turn gravely serious. And be careful leaving the driveway, they come so fast around that corner. And oh yeah, I haven't forgotten the loving worry, either ♥
Merry Christmas, my friends.
Much love,
Melinda
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