Every year basically since forever, I’ve told myself my family would “do a REAL New Orleans Christmas.” I’d picture us bundled up in matching pajamas (even though it’s 78 degrees), driving down St. Charles to see the elegant houses wrapped in lights, singing carols in Jackson Square, going to a Réveillon dinner and the Christmas Eve bonfires and the St. Louis Cathedral holiday concerts.
And every year, without fail, I’d fail. Yes, we usually did Celebration in the Oaks, and we even got it together enough to go caroling one year (though not in Jackson Square), but by the time Christmas Eve rolled around, I was frantically wrapping presents, stuffing stockings, baking cookies, and usually in a fight with at least one member of my family. I was in no mood to take a trip down River Road, let alone start eating a five-course meal at 2 a.m.; I just wanted to collapse and wake up sometime before New Year’s Eve.
But this year feels different. First of all, my kids are definitely old enough by now that I no longer need to worry so much about making all of the magic happen. Yes, we still do stockings – and we even still leave out cookies on the special Santa plate – but it’s tongue-in-cheek now, more about tradition than earnest wide-eyed belief and joy and wonder. Also, Rowan is now home from college on winter break and telling me all about how superior Christmas is in New York City – the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree, the Radio City Music Hall Christmas Spectacular, the shop window displays, ice-skating in Central Park, actual cold weather with the actual possibility of a true white Christmas – and I suddenly feel this urge to show her that we can do a damn fine Christmas here in New Orleans, too – if only I got my act together.
So this year – and maybe (probably!) I really mean it this time – we are going to do all the things. We’re going to ride the train through Celebration in the Oaks and drink hot cocoa even if we’re sweating. We’re going caroling. We’re going to catch the streetcar down St. Charles (with the windows down, letting the smell of sweet olive waft in) and we’re going to eat beignets and po’ boys and pralines and Roman candy and gumbo.
When the kids were little, I thought family traditions were things you had to start early and repeat until they stuck. Now I know you can start them anytime, even at the very moment you realize how fleeting your time together has become. Because that’s really what this Christmas is about – not checking traditions off a list but trying to capture our time together before it slips completely away.
Next year – and if not next year, then one year soon enough – Rowan may not even come home for Christmas at all. Life will pull her elsewhere. She will make new friends, create new traditions, and before too much longer, she will start her own new family.
But this year, in this city that never really gets cold, I want her to feel the warmth that raised her and be aware of the rich traditions that surround her.
Because if she’s going to go out into the world and tell people where she’s from, I want her to say proudly: “I’m from New Orleans. And you should see how we do Christmas down there!”
