The 12 Days of Christmas, Day 10: Mom and pop

“My idea of Christmas, whether old-fashioned or modern, is very simple: loving others. Come to think of it, why do we have to wait for Christmas to do that?” 

- Bob Hope

AUBURN, Maine — My father and mother were generous people. It explains why a dedicated teacher and stay-at-home mom were never wealthy.

They were far from perfect, but they believed in the greater good — especially during the holidays.

There is a lot to be said about both of them, but nobody can ever question their integrity and loyalty, and if they do, expect a fat lip from me. One disparaging comment about mom and pop and you will be looking at me from the ground!

My mother had hard time with the Christmas. She missed her mother, and like everybody else who has lost a loved one, the yuletide was rough on her heart. 

Dad complained about running around to get things done, and then there was the battle of the Christmas tree stand. Dad never came out on top, but I was introduced to a lot of sparkling adjectives as a young boy.

I am the oldest so I was called upon to make the holiday bearable for my parents who are no strangers to holiday stress. Panic ruled during the Blasi household when it was time to deck the halls. But there were two yuletide tasks that I performed, and I came to appreciate both assignments as I grew older.

Delivery boy

My father spent a bundle on buying booze for relatives and friends for Christmas, and like a pair of bootleggers, we delivered the wine around the Greater Boston area. I came to understand how rum runners felt in the South, when they raced around in their supped-up cars delivering moonshine to thirsty folks across the countryside.

Our short drives gave me an opportunity to spend quality time with a man who hated driving during the holidays. But Big Al and I braved the bumper-to-bumper traffic on Broadway and made our appointed rounds. 

Some of the arguments erupted over who would undertake the arduous chore of gift wrapping. 

I was the bag man who knocked at the door and handed the bottles over to good neighbors like musician and teacher Robert Marra and revered Revere High football coach Silvio Cella. Both men served their country during World War II. Marra was a medic, diving in foxholes to attend to the wounded. Cella was a Marine and acted like one on the gridiron. I played for him as a center. I admired both men for their courage and dedication to their country and community.

Other bottles of wine went to B.J. and Eddy Murano. B.J. flew fighter planes, including the P-51, in World War II and the Korean conflict and lived to tell about his experiences, which always fascinated me at the dinner table.

It seemed everybody got a bottle in Revere. Of course, we were also on the receiving of many bottles of booze. I thought about opening a tavern around the holidays. Some of those bottles went back with me to Maine.

I tried to make them last.

When I learned to drive, I delivered the bottles for my father when I reached 21. That was problem because I was offered a drink at each home. I turned down each offer, fearing I might not be able operate a motor vehicle.

My elderly father can no longer drive and the recipients of my father's generosity can no longer raise a toast to my dad.

It is just another holiday tradition that has become lost in the endless hallways of time.

Dinner for two

I became a good chef over the years, and when I raced down I-95 for Christmas, I started doing some of the cooking. My mother liked that and she enjoyed having me in her kitchen.

The kitchen was her fortress and her radio was the earpiece to the world. She would sit and talk for hours at the kitchen table while a 24-hour news stations provided background noise. When I began cooking during the holidays, she would put coffee on and regale me with stories about her childhood in Waterford, Pennsylvania.

Those recollections never got old, and I never humored her even though I knew her tales by heart. Cooking was just another way to reach her, and I think she began to enjoy the holidays at her age — with me doing the cooking, of course.

We talked about everything as I peeled shrimp and prepared a ham that would later be shipped to my sister's house up the street on Christmas Eve.

But her seat at the kitchen table remains empty. It has been three years since I cooked for my mother or delivered a bottle of wine for my father who is ill.

And yet, Christmas remains the most wonderful time of year for my family, but every holiday serves as another reminder of just how much those people meant to me.

Can't thank them enough

Mom and son getting ready for Halloween.

"To grow old is to lose everything," 

- the opening line to a poem called "Affirmation," which was written 

by poet Donald Hall

AUBURN, Mass. — Money is tight, the world is a damn mess, our leaders don't know what day it is, and there is a pile of snow on my front lawn that is really pissing me off, and yet, I do have a lot to be thankful for as I pass the peas and gnaw on a turkey leg this Thanksgiving.

And while Mother Nature's hit-and-run tactics are befuddling and the cold is closing in, I am lucky there will be a hot meal on the table and my healthy son and wife will be seated next me as we enjoy my sister's fine cooking and the company of her wonderful children.

I am older and I have lost a handful people along the way, and the holidays have a way of triggering those strong and sad memories of family members and friends who will not be present at our feast this Thanksgiving.

And it really hurts, especially since Terri and I buried our mothers last year. That pain never goes away, but when I see my wife and son laughing and enjoying good food, it makes me realize why I am still here, and I don't plan on going anywhere.

For years, my dad and I would spend Thanksgiving mornings watching Revere and Winthrop knock heads on the gridiron while my mom was multi-tasking over a hot stove long before anyone knew what the hell multi-tasking was. She was cooking turkey, potatoes, carrots and stuffing while father and son were freezing their butts off at Paul Revere Stadium.

I am older now and now I am doing the cooking. My dad and I no longer attend Thanksgiving Day football games because he is older. My mother is gone.

I miss those moments and those people who meant so much to me.

But I know I am helpless when the Grim Reaper snatches another friend or relative from this life.

For years, there were nearly 15 relatives living next to my house. It was like one giant block party on McClure Street during the holidays. Each Thanksgiving or Christmas Eve, I would move from house to house, enjoying my grandmother's or aunts' culinary delights and making sure I shared a glass of wine at each stop.

Like me, the street has changed and all I have are fond memories. Those homes are no longer occupied by my grandmother, Aunt Minnie, B.J. and Eddie Murano, and the Grossos. 

Before Anthony came along, my wife and I excitedly packed up the car and headed from Maine to Massachusetts to see my relatives during the holidays. The aunts would hand Terri small gifts while I sampled the wine and food and listened to my uncle, who was a top-notch pilot during World War II and Korea, talk about his combat experiences.

But I am older now and they are a part of my past. I understand change is inevitable, but there is pain that comes with change.

But one thing that will never change is my love and appreciation for my wife and son, and immediate family.

And they are the reasons why I give thanks on this day.