In my family, Christmas didn’t begin on Christmas morning—it arrived with intention the night before.
That tradition wasn’t born in Texas. It crossed an ocean.
Long before it settled into the warm glow of an Atascosa
County living room, it lived in the hearts of German ancestors—Anna and Peter
Schorsch, the Henry Sievers family, and the Michael Englert family—who carried
Heiligabend with them like something sacred. Not loud or showy, but steady and
deliberate. A flame passed carefully from one generation to the next until it
found a home within the wood-scented walls of Clara and Herbert Meyer’s house.
Clara and Herbert raised seven children, and on Christmas Eve, all of their
families would gather together under one roof.
By late afternoon on December 24th, the outside world seemed
to soften. But inside Oma and Opa’s house, something else took hold—a familiar
energy, a sense that the evening was unfolding just as it should. As each
family arrived, Uncle Burton and Aunt Doris would begin the round of hugs and
kisses, making sure everyone was properly welcomed. Aunt Doris, never missing a
chance for fun, would play “I’ve got your belly button” with the kids, drawing
out laughter before anyone had even made it all the way into the house.
It always began in the kitchen.
That was the true heart of the house, where the air turned
warm and fragrant, thick with vinegar, sugar, and the unmistakable scent of
Oma’s cooking. In keeping with old German-Texan tradition, the meal was
simple—intentionally so. A pause before the abundance of Christmas Day. Each
family brought a dish to share, adding their own touch to the table. We
gathered around plates of tangy German potato salad, rich with bacon, and
savory sausage that tasted like history itself. Before we ate, Uncle Burton would
say the blessing over the meal, a familiar and grounding moment that brought
everyone together. And then came the sugar cookies—Oma’s pride. Perfectly
crisp, lightly sweet, and decorated with the kind of patience that turned
baking into something more like love you could hold in your hand.
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| Oma's Sugar Cookie Recipe |
After dinner came another tradition—dominoes. There wasn’t a family gathering without it. The clack of tiles on the table and the steady rhythm of the game filled the room. Everyone who played was serious about it—loud and intent on winning—and you didn’t dare interrupt once a game was underway. Meanwhile, Uncle Victor was doing the exact opposite—constantly pestering the kids and stirring up just enough chaos to keep things lively. The kids would shout, “Try to catch me!” as they ran by, just within reach, while he made a show of trying to catch them. And somewhere in the middle of it all was Uncle Leroy—his laugh unique and unmistakable. You always knew the moment he arrived, because his laughter reached the room before he did. And Uncle Henry, my dad, had a story for every conversation—whether a tall tale or true, he always managed to capture your attention.
Then, just as the evening settled into its rhythm, the
modern world made its entrance.
The rotary phone would ring.
“Aunt Kathryn!” someone would call, and the room came alive
again. A long-distance call wasn’t an everyday thing—it was something planned,
something valued. The cord stretched impossibly far, winding around chair legs
and across laps, tying us together in a very literal way. One by one, we took
our turns, voices a little too loud, as if sheer volume might help carry our
words all the way to California. And somehow, it worked. In that moment, she
wasn’t far away—she was right there with us.
When the receiver finally clicked back into place, the
evening shifted into something more focused, more purposeful. The noise didn't
disappear—it never really did—but it gathered itself, pulled toward the center
of the room by a familiar signal.
Aunt Doris didn’t wait for silence—she created just enough
of it. With a firm “Alright now, it’s time,” and a look that meant business,
she gathered the children around her on the floor. There might have been one
last whisper or a stifled giggle, but it didn’t last long. Somehow, we all
ended up settled at her feet.
With her Bible rested in her hands as she began to read.
Her voice, steady and familiar, carried the Christmas story
through the room. In that moment, it felt as though time stretched—back to
those earlier generations who once sat in candlelit rooms, hearing the same
words in a much rougher Texas than we knew. The glow of Christmas lights
shimmered in the dark windows, and for a few moments, past and present seemed
to meet—just as they had, year after year, by design.
Then we sang.
The brass German carousel was brought out, polished and
familiar. One by one, the candles were lit. Slowly, almost magically, the
rising heat set the blades in motion. Golden angels began to turn in a gentle
circle, their tiny bells chiming softly in celebration of Christ’s birth—a
delicate sound that felt less like decoration and more like tradition in
motion. As it turned, Annabelle led us all in Christmas carols—“We Wish You a
Merry Christmas,” “Jingle Bells,” and “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer”—our
voices filling the room, a little uneven, a little loud, but full of joy. We
didn’t all know the words, and more than one of us sang a little off‑key, but
that only made it feel more real and more ours. Between verses, someone would
shout, “Again!” and we’d laugh and start over, leaning into the simple pleasure
of singing together. Oma sang “O Tannenbaum” in German, her voice steady and
clear, carrying the old carol with a quiet pride that made us all listen a
little more closely.
And just when that wonder settled in—
THUMP.
Boots on the porch.
“Ho, Ho, Ho!”
The room burst back to life.
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| Oma & Opa Pleasanton, Texas circa 1970 |
In true German tradition, Christmas came that very night. The door swung open, and in came Santa Claus—though we all had our suspicions which uncle was behind the beard. It didn’t matter. In that moment, he was real. The red suit, the booming voice, and the velvet sack slung over his shoulder brought a rush of excitement with him. From that sack came gifts and laughter—but for many years, there was something else, too. Tucked inside were crisp $2 bills for each grandchild, a short-lived tradition Opa had started, simple and thoughtful, just like so much else he did. Ol’ St. Nick filled the room with joy and was gone almost as quickly as he arrived, leaving behind a floor blanketed in wrapping paper and the lingering echo of laughter in every corner.
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| Pleasanton, Texas circa 1979 |
By the end of the night, the air still smelled faintly of
sugar cookies, and something deeper lingered beneath it all.
This wasn’t just celebration.
It was intention, carried forward.
Every December 24th, whether we thought about it or not,
that old flame still burned. Not just in the food, or the phone call, or the
spinning carousel—but in the way Oma and Opa made space for it, year after
year, making sure we didn’t just remember where we came from…
…but felt it.
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