August 17, 1946 in Brooklyn, NY Josephine Nardone married Franklyn Clum. Wedding dresses were in short supply after World War II, so my mother rented her dress and bought a new veil, stockings and shoes. My dad bought a new suit, tie, shirt, shoes and socks. They celebrated with friends and family at a big, but affordable Italian wedding. No sandwiches were tossed, so I can’t call it a Football Wedding.
Their first Christmas as newlyweds, my parents went all out. My mother loved The Radio City Christmas Show. She adored the Rockettes. Really, she wanted to be on that kick-line. They went to the box office and bought tickets.
A few days before Christmas, they dressed up — my mother in her coat with the fox collar and leather gloves — took the subway from Brooklyn into Manhattan, had dinner at Jack Dempsey’s Broadway Restaurant on Eighth Avenue at 50th Street and went to the show.
There was no question about where they would spend Christmas Day — at my mother’s parent’s house. They were expected early. My mother would take her place in front of the stove stirring at least one big pot of pasta or sauce.
So Christmas Eve, they opened their gifts. Mom gave dad a new watch. Dad gave mom a satin, floor-length nightgown — very Ginger Rogers. She tried it on. Came out of the bedroom and did a Rockette kick. Splat. She landed on her butt on the floor. She’d forgotten there was no slit in the nightgown.
She ouched and ooched her way through the rest of Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, standing more than sitting — which meant she could put in extra time at my grandparents’ four-burner stove. When she did have to sit, she lowered herself very slowly into the chair she’d padded with a sofa cushion.
X‑Rays eventually showed she chipped her tailbone. She left the doctor’s office with a donut pillow and a “take two aspirin as needed” prescription. The pain lasted for weeks. I never asked my mother how she handled her injury at work. She was a secretary for an insurance company. Did she carry the donut pillow in to her boss’ office every time he called her to take dictation?
My mother told this story every Christmas. And every year she could get there, she was at the Radio City Christmas Show. One year, she took my brother and me in for a matinee. We waited online in the freezing cold, risking frostbite, and ran across the street to the diner for hourly hot chocolates and to use the bathroom. In 2002, when Melissa, her granddaughter, was nine-years-old, the entire family went to Radio City.
“Look at how they kick,” my mother whispered in Melissa’s ear as the candy-cane costumed Rockettes took the stage. “Isn’t that a beautiful nativity scene,” she kissed Melissa on the cheek. “Oh, look, look,” she grabbed Melissa’s hand and pointed to the stage, “here comes Santa Claus.”
My mother, as a child, never found stacks of Christmas presents under the tree. She never asked her kids or husband for anything from Santa Claus. We bought her gifts anyway, but this, this Christmas 2002 was the greatest gift of all.
