Happy Holidays: The Accent department shares its favorite holiday memories

Monday, Dec. 22, 2003 | 9:06 a.m.

Editor's note: Members of the Sun Accent department come from varied backgrounds. We have reporters from all over the country from New York to California; from the North (Minnesota) to the South (Texas). Some have lived in Las Vegas for generations; others moved here just in the past year. In many ways we reflect the lively mix of residents in Southern Nevada, and what we share with each other and with you are distinctive memories of holidays past. Here are a few of ours:

A small miracle

Coincidence? Perhaps. But to me it was a small miracle coming at a time when I needed it most.

In the spring of 1983 I lost my partner of many years. Thus, Christmas of 1983 found me trying to adjust and prepare for the first Christmas without my beloved Jim.

My loneliness increased as the holiday approached and I remembered all the good times we had shopping for the family: stopping for lunch at a favorite spot and reaching home with arms loaded with gifts.

Jim loved Christmas - the tree, the decorations, midnight Mass and the goodwill of the season.

I couldn't overcome my melancholy. Then, just a few days before Christmas, my miracle happened.

I arose as usual, put the coffee on and went out to get the Sun, which was a morning paper in those days.

As I came toward the front door, I noticed a small pile of leaves and what looked like a piece of paper blown almost directly in my path. I looked down. There was a signature on the paper. With a catch in my throat, I recognized Jim's handwriting.

I picked up the piece of stiff postcard paper and read: "A very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. Jim Deskin."

It's difficult to explain my feelings at that moment. I felt safe, secure and loved. It was such an emotional thing. I knew Jim would be with me for Christmas.

Coincidence? Of course.

As I tried to rationalize and explain to myself how my Christmas message just happened, I turned the card over. On the back in faded letters was printed, "Please Lock the Gate. Do Not Let the Dog Out."

Then I remembered.

Before Jim died, the task of addressing cards was a shared endeavor. Occasionally a card would be soiled. In this case it was a coffee spill, and we used the back of that card for the sign on the gate.

It had to have been three years or more from the time Jim wrote the card to the time it appeared on my front porch. The handwritten note had been replaced with a store-bought sign reading, "Dog on Duty."

So, there wasn't any miracle after all -- or was there?

The question still baffles me. Where had that scrap of paper been all those years? How did a precocious wind pick that particular piece of paper from its hiding place and deposit it on my doorstep at a time when I was in such need?

I like to think Jim sent me a Christmas greeting.

And, as it brought me a reminder of those years of love, I hope the story of my "little miracle" will bring joy into the hearts of others like myself who are facing the holiday season without their lifelong friends and companions.

Ruthe Deskin, Back and Forth columnist

Grate memory

Unlike Christmas, the date of Hanukkah changes each year. But one thing that never changed in my household was who was going to make the potato latkes or anything else that required cooking. My cooking career began at age 8, when my mother was late coming home from work.

With three younger brothers who were always hungry, I improvised and made hamburgers from the ground beef I found in the refrigerator. My brothers stopped complaining, my mother was thrilled when she finally arrived and I learned that I loved to cook.

I'd watched my mother make potato latkes many times. There was nothing fancy about potato latkes; they were simple and basic. Yet each of my aunt's versions were different than my mother's. They didn't put a pinch of baking powder in theirs. My mom did, saying it made them crisper. There were many discussions about whose latkes were the best. Some of those "discussions" were so heated the sisters didn't talk to each other until the next holiday.

When I took over the kitchen there were no more discussions. Who would discuss such a serious subject with a kid?

There were no food processors in those days. The fine rasp of a four-sided grater was the kitchen tool that finely grated the potatoes. Because of my voracious brothers, I hated making quantities of anything. Trays of cookies would disappear almost before they were removed from the pan.

If I turned my back for a minute a whole platter of latkes would disappear. One Hanukkah I banned them from the kitchen, but they hung around the doorway, taunting me as only siblings can.

Grating away, I failed to notice that I was down to the last nub of potato, and grated my knuckle into the mix. I ran to the sink to try to stop the bleeding. My three little brothers jumped to my rescue, wrapping my finger in a dish towel. To stop the bleeding they "borrowed" my father's styptic pencil. It worked. I didn't eat any latkes that night. I gave them to my brothers. The dear little beasties didn't mind eating knuckle scrapings in their latkes.

-- Muriel Stevens, food and shopping editor

Feliz navidad

My family is sprinkled with musicians of varying aptitudes. Mom plays a little piano, Grandpa strums a pretty decent guitar and was known to squeeze the accordion until it (or, he) simply wore out. All the kids took music lessons while growing up, but don't ask me today where to find middle C.

One cousin fronts a band called Marcus Eaton and the Lobby (the best band in Boise). Marcus' father is Steve Eaton, who has been a professional musician and songwriter since he was age 16. When I was a kid, Steve dazzled us during holiday gatherings by playing guitar, harmonica and a portable electric piano. It was a veritable yuletide jam session with Steve Eaton.

My uncle David would also pull out his guitar, sidle up to Steve and start playing. I always felt Steve consented to these impromptu duets out of a sense of obligation, that asking him to play was akin to asking a dentist if he'd like to do some recreational drilling on Christmas Eve because, you know, it's sort of a hobby ...

David worked particularly hard to learn "Feliz Navidad" on guitar. After a few Christmases he had developed an, um, intriguing rocked-up interpretation of Jose Feliciano's holiday classic. It seemed David imagined he was playing the song at the Monterey Pop Festival and forgot he was, in fact, an administrator at Idaho State University.

After spending many Christmas Eves listening to this defiled rendition of "Feliz Navidad," my brother, Bill, had heard enough. He yanked the guitar from uncle David and performed his own supercharged impression of David's "Feliz Navidad." Bill doesn't play guitar but it didn't matter -- he compensated with a wailing voice and "Jailhouse Rock"-like gyrations. After finishing he pushed the guitar back to David and said, "Thanks. I needed that."

We got a big laugh out of that, and still do. "Feliz Navidad" has since taken on a new light. Whenever I hear the song, whether on an oldies station or walking through the mall during the holidays, I can't help but giggle.

Undeterred, David still plays "Feliz Navidad" -- his infamous version -- each Christmas Eve. We always eagerly await the moment when he unsnaps the guitar case, because we know it's time to halt whatever's going on, crowd together and sing.

Feliz Navidad.

-- John Katsilometes, Accent editor

Christmas unwrapped

It's impossible to think back on Christmas as a child without remembering the theme from "Mission: Impossible."

Most of my childhood took place in the '70s, and a steady stream of corny, flashy TV shows are what I remember most, along with corduroy pants and freezing my butt off in the wintry climes of northernmost Montana.

The plots of those shows are gone, but the theme songs remain. I couldn't tell you the full name of my best friend as a kid, but I can sing the full theme song to "Baretta" on cue (funny, but few have asked).

The best, by far, was Lalo Schiffrin's seminal theme song to "Mission: Impossible," a piece of music that evokes memories on many levels.

It was one of the few shows my parents and I watched together. In any generation, that's quite a feat. It's also every kids' dream to be a super spy.

So what's the Christmas connection, you may ask?

Simple: It's the song that was playing in my head as I skulked out of bed late at night, moving ever so slowly toward the Christmas tree to carefully remove wrapping paper, revealing the hidden treasures underneath.

I have to say to my great pride, or shame, that I became quite adept at the art of "peeking." I became so good that I got cocky.

That's when it happened.

A piece of half-ripped wrapping paper had carelessly gone unchecked. Said piece was discovered during a routine inspection by a parental unit.

Questions were asked. Answers were forced. A general unease hovered over the household until it was discovered exactly how deep the treachery went.

My ego healed, as did the seat of my pants, and a full pardon was issued. And I learned a valuable lesson: Everyone, super spies included, get caught eventually.

Just remember: When caught, blame your sister.

-- Ken Miller, Accent copy editor

Santa unmasked

I was 10, I think, when I first learned the truth behind Christmas presents.

It was early Christmas Day -- when all the children are supposed to be sleeping.

Not me, though. I had been roused from my slumber by an unseen voice.

I froze in my bed.

Slowly I opened an eye to a crack to stealthily gaze around my room.

It was safe, with no one in sight, so I sat up.

Listening intently, I could make out the voice -- now voices -- as male and female, which were emanating from far down the hall.

As curiosity got the better of me, I pushed myself out of bed and onto the floor. I was deathly afraid of being caught. I was also fearful that I would find someone other than St. Nick, as I was still an avid believer.

When I reached the hallway, I saw that the door was closed with a light piercing through the crack at the bottom.

The voices grew louder. Emboldened by my need to know, I crawled on all fours to the hall door. I held my breath, not wishing to be betrayed by sounds, and put my head to the ground to look through the doorway crack.

I could see nothing but a forest of light-brown carpet.

Nestling my ear gently to the door, I now recognized the voices.

It was my mom and dad arguing as they attempted to assemble a toy; specifically, they debated how to connect the legs to a giant action figure and whether its toy missile hands were working properly.

I sat there for only a moment before I snaked back into my room. I then crawled back into bed, where I shed a tear or two out of guilt.

In hindsight, it was also because deep down I knew that Christmas would just never be the same.

And it never has.

-- Kirk Baird, Pop culture writer

Here comes the son

The winter of 1972 was bitter.

A Christmas Eve ice storm shattered trees and turned streets and highways into death traps for many who ventured outside.

The skies were steel gray; the earth looked like a slab of stone.

My pregnant wife, Kay, our 2-year-old son, Jason, and I were nestled inside our warm, cottage-size home in The Village, Okla., a suburb of Oklahoma City, anticipating the arrival of Santa.

The Christmas stork came instead.

It was 3 a.m. when my wife announced she was about to deliver a surprise gift - the unborn child wasn't due for 30 days.

Getting out of the driveway was unnerving. As I backed up, I heard the ice crackle and felt the rear end of the car sliding.

There was an eerie quietness as I drove slowly through the neighborhood and ont' o the main avenue, fighting to control the car on the slick streets.

The trip to the hospital was 5 miles, the longest 5 miles I had ever driven.

An almost solid sheet of ice covered the broad street. My heart pounded and it was difficult to breathe.

Finally, we arrived and one incredible journey was over -- with another about to begin.

As I awaited the delivery of my second son, Paul Christian, I thought about what he would be missing in the years ahead -- he would be deprived of a true birthday celebration, because the glow of his day would be lost in the glare of Christmas.

His birthday gifts and Christmas gifts would always be intermingled.

But I also thought about what he would gain -- the pride of sharing one of the most important days of the year with a man whose ideals have been a guiding force for 2,000 years.

I know it must have been him who guided my car that treacherous winter night. I was in no condition to drive.

-- Jerry Fink, Sun entertainment writer

Taking a back seat

My favorite holiday memories involve food, pinball machines and bookmarks. When I was a kid living in New York City, my family would drive to Miami Beach each Christmas.

The first half of the trip was spent salivating over Parker's Barbecue in Wilson, N.C. Every year we'd make the same detour off I-95 onto Highway 301 and pull into the parking lot adjacent to the ratty old barbecue shack.

I'd always get a pulled pork sandwich and hush puppies -- gourmet treats indeed. I'd give my mother the cole slaw.

In the days before McDonald's, celebrity chefs selling frozen pineapple and goat cheese pizza, there was something called American regional cuisine. My favorite region was the South, typified by that real Parker's chow.

Anyway, after we got to the future South Beach (and the requisite meal at Wolfie's at 26th and Collins), I'd set up shop poolside.

Most people don't know this, but I was the first metrosexual. It all started during elementary school, when I'd buy yarn and make a cardboard loom, and sew these marvelous, brightly colored bookmarks.

Every Christmas, I'd make a display of bookmarks on a lounge chair by the motel pool and sell them for anywhere from 25 cents up to a dollar -- pretty big bucks in those days.

I'd blow the proceeds -- a dime at a time -- at a pinball and trampoline place that has long since been paved over.

Nah. Those aren't really my favorite holiday memories.

Looking back, there was nothing better than being confined in the car for hours (days, actually) with my mom, dad and pesky little brother. I didn't appreciate it then, of course.

Now, I would not trade those memories for anything.

This year, my son, Teddy, might find himself driving along with me on the way to Disneyland. He'll probably be counting the seconds until he can get out of the back seat, just like I used to do.

And so it goes.

-- Timothy McDarrah, Sun gossip columnist

The right Stuffy

'Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house, not a creature was stirring ... except for a panicked Patterson family looking for a lost dog.

OK, so it was a stuffed animal, not a real dog. And the story takes place in a hotel, not an actual house. But this one remains a classic holiday tale nonetheless.

I was just 6 years old when my parents and I visited New York City for the holidays.

On Christmas Eve the three of us went out for a big night on the town. We ate at the Russian Tea Room and saw violinist Itzhak Perlman at Carnegie Hall. Pretty heady stuff for a 6-year-old, and I admit I remember little in the way of cultural details.

But I'll never forget what happened when we arrived back at our hotel.

I jumped into bed, expecting to find my beloved traveling companion, a well-worn stuffed brown dog, which -- in a moment of grand inspiration -- I had nicknamed "Stuffy."

But Stuffy wasn't in the bed. And after a frantic search, we discovered he wasn't anywhere else in our room, either.

Panicked, my father placed a call to the hotel's night manager to tell him of our loss. The man suggested Stuffy must have gone downstairs with the maid, amid a bundle of sheets and towels, and invited the three of us down to the laundry room to hunt for ourselves.

What began as a festive evening for our family turned into something out of "I Love Lucy," as the three of us fished through piles upon piles of linens, hoping for a glimpse of our missing pooch.

Try as we might, we didn't find Stuffy that night. But the next morning, when all hope seemed lost, he arrived at our door, in the arms of a hotel employee who had found him in a service elevator.

"Stuffy!," we shrieked as we descended on the woman, scaring her half to death. Little did she know, she'd just brought me the best holiday gift of the season.

-- Spencer Patterson, Sun music writer

Love of lefse

Growing up in my family, lefse was synonymous with Christmas.

The Norwegian potato flat bread my aunt Barb served at Christmastime beat out, in my mind, her deliciously impressive crown roast.

Rolled like a tortilla, it filled my hands. Biting into it, my teeth would sink into the rich potato layers smothered with butter and sugar.

During the holidays, lefse (pronounced "LEFF-suh") mattered as much to me as the Swedish meatballs that saved me from having to eat lutefisk at the church dinner. Being half Swedish, this was OK.

Eventually I left Minnesota. I'd visit occasionally, but never at Christmastime. Never at lefsetime.

One year my aunt surprised me by sending lefse with her usual Christmas goodies. I rejoiced silently, alone in my Scandinavian heritage. Alone in the kitchen, I unapologetically devoured the lefse.

A year ago my father and his wife visited during Thanksgiving and brought lefse they bought from a Scandinavian store in Minneapolis.

Weeks later they sent a lefse grill for Christmas.

I'd heard lefse was difficult to make, that there is an art to it. Though I followed directions precisely, the dough stuck to the grill and burned.

I set what looked most like lefse on a plate, threw away the rest of the batter, unplugged the grill and sat down to watch football.

My girlfriend hadn't noticed. Later she nibbled on the broken piece in the kitchen and asked, "Where's the rest?"

"Next year," I said.

In August, while in Norway, we had a chance to buy lefse made fresh over a fire. I threw my 5 kroners in the basket, grabbed the hot lefse, smothered it in butter and ran out the door, ripping it apart.

The moment, as glorious as it was, however, seemed lost in the tour of the Viking ship museum and the upcoming train trip to Stockholm.

But the memory unwraps itself from time to time. Like Christmas at my aunt Barb's, it's something I'll have forever.

-- Kristen Peterson, Accent feature writer

Elf-conscious

The teenager looked bewildered.

He was going to jail on Christmas Eve.

Sent, by an elf.

I was a cub reporter for a Florida newspaper in 1985 when I was first assigned to spend Dec. 24 with Santa Claus and Clearwater Police Officer Friendly Fred as they delivered toys and food to 50 needy families.

The story involved trotting into these people's homes, on the heels of Santa and Officer Friendly, and lurking near the front door in business attire sucking quotes and holiday cheer from the few parents who would talk. It was ho-ho-horrible.

The next year, I rented an elf costume and carried the notebook inside a bag of candy canes. Parents knew I was a reporter, but liked talking to someone wearing curly shoes.

By 1987 I owned an elf suit. I went to retrieve it from my storage unit Dec. 23 and discovered someone had broken in and taken a few items. It was late, so I waited until after the next day's toy deliveries to call police.

I was waiting for the officer to arrive when a "thump" from the storage unit below signaled the thief's return. From my apartment window, I saw a young man trotting off with my sewing machine under his arm.

I bolted out the door and down the stairs -- still in the elf suit -- and waved at the police officer who was just getting out of his patrol car.

Neighbors who looked out their sliding-glass doors seconds later saw a teenager sprint past packing a sewing machine, followed by an elf, followed by a cop.

A second officer nabbed the kid at end of the complex and walked him back to where I stood sweating, trembling and jingling. The teenager just stared.

"Is this the guy you saw?" the officer asked.

"Yup." I said, as if plucking his name from the naughty list.

I still don an elf costume each Dec. 24, and it still elicits stares. But none rival that of the Florida child sent to jail on Christmas Eve 1987.

By an elf.

-- Susan Snyder, Valley Views columnist

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