Hey, Norman! How ‘Bout Us? by Karin Kascher

First published: December 1995 Tiny Lights Publications
paintings by Norman Rockwell
photographs by Karin Kascher

They’re back!  The holidays. One of Norman Rockwell’s merrily contented families enjoying a delectable feast pops into my mind when the approaching festivities are mentioned.  I can see someone’s Uncle Bob, sober as a judge, carving the succulent, evenly browned beast with white paper tassels atop the plump and juicy drumsticks. His calm and blissful expression is emulated by all the eager guests seated around the perfectly set table.  And who should appear through the swinging kitchen door but sweet Aunt Dorothy, white-haired and rosy-cheeked, wearing her simple, dark blue dress, dotted with tiny pink roses and a neatly starched apron.  She is proudly presenting her freshly baked pies to the sounds of oohs and ahhs, and respectful squeals of delight! 

Come to think of it, when did dear Aunt Dorothy find the time to single-handedly stuff and roast the turkey, make the scrumptious twenty-three side dishes, clean and decorate the house, polish the silver, 

wash the dog, shovel the snow and arrange the table’s cornucopia centerpiece? 

 Why, she probably set out Uncle Bob’s clothes, matched his socks to shoes, tied his tie, brushed the lint from his jacket, trimmed his nose hairs, and kissed him gently on the cheek before their forty-two relatives arrived!  Suddenly my eyes do a quick flutter and roll upwards, as I plunge both of my fists firmly into my eye sockets.  Flashes of light and sparks of reality burst into my consciousness.  Hello. Light years beyond Norman Rockwell’s idyllic portraits of the holidays lies my experience, a fitful mixture of panic, humiliation and joyful expectation.

Memories of Christmas at my house were the kind you’d think I made up.  The carefully coiffed, silver-haired matron was, in fact, my mother, an immensely glamorous woman, born and raised in Transylvania, Romania.  At age 15, Helena escaped the Russian Red Army and fled to Austria during World War II, before making her way to Ellis Island with my father on New Year’s Eve, 1949. Despite her harrowing refugee experiences and the eventual relocation to a rather casual lifestyle in California, she retained her elegance and never allowed a 'bad hair day' to tarnish her public persona.  Helena would pull her jet-black hair so tightly into an Audrey Hepburn chignon that she was unable to fully smile without hairpins flinging in all directions.  My mother’s lips were magnanimously tinted the most vibrant shade of Helena Rubenstein® Jungle Red and there was always a crimson smear across one of her front teeth.  Her yellow-green eyes were haphazardly lined with Maybelline® black-black charcoal pencil with boingy wings at each corner. The solid black arches crayoned over each savagely plucked eyebrow gave people the impression that she had X-ray vision and could read their minds.

Helena never left the house-even to get the mail- without being properly dressed.  She had a great fondness for exotic animal prints -especially leopard and zebra skin- and held a strong opinion that 'floral patterns' were for peasants and far beneath her illusory royal stature.  Her charming accent was an amalgamation of Bela Lugosi and Zsa Zsa Gabor. "Daaahrlink! Eeet! You ahrr skeeeen and bohnz!”  Yes, indeed, if I’d wanted to have enormous bosoms like hers, I’d better scoop another dollop of sour cream on top of that sweaty plate of stuffed cabbage.

My father had assimilated more successfully to the customs of the new homeland, learning how to barbecue hamburgers, smoke Pall Mall® cigarettes and drink beer from an aluminum can.

My mother, however, strongly resisted the pressures to become a “teepeekal Amereeekan Vuhman”.  Naturally what I wanted most was for our family to be quite typical and to blend in as much as possible.

The pillbox hat era of Christmas in California during the 60’s meant pink and blue aluminum trees prominently displayed in most of the front windows in our suburban neighborhood.  Seemingly identical painted plastic cutouts of Santa Claus and reindeer and Frosty the Snowman adorned our neighbors’ rooftops and front lawns.  Artificial icicles and bulbous colored lights hung from eves and gutters. The effort to recreate a wintry alpine scene always fell short somehow in the near 70 degree, dry-as-a bone weather.

Alas, our house, stood apart from the rest.  Our window had white shoe polish murals of the Austrian Alps and our “Tannenbaum” did not appear until a few days before Christmas Eve, as was our Olde World tradition. Finding a tree whose pine needles were not entirely desiccated was not without its challenges,  however, my father was elated to find the last few trees on the tree lot, reduced in price for quick clearance! What a deal!

Despite the many holiday traditions that I had believed were part of my unique Eastern European Heritage, I gradually discovered that my mother had liberally improvised upon them to suit her own peculiar needs. For instance, it was not unusual for me to return home from school any time of the year and find Helena burning black candles to protect her from her many perceived enemies and evil spirits.  The sight of a black spider or black crow at dusk precluded any hope of luck for the ensuing day.  If the sun shone while it was raining, well, that meant that the devil was fighting with his wife.  I never knew what that meant but, without protest I would wear my garlic sashay and try to avoid the “evil eye”.  You get the picture Norman?     
The inevitable display of zany holiday antics depended largely upon which of our relatives were speaking to us in any given year.  We were not of the “hold-your-tongue-and don’t-hurt-anyone’s-feelings" crowd.  Our celebrations included, loud, obnoxious, opinionated, verbally abusive banter.  Frenzied political discussions, were accented with fists pounding the table, false-teeth flying across the room and the surreptitious pinching of broad behinds.

The men gorged themselves with mounds of garlic-laden sausages, sinus-clearing sauerkraut, headcheese drenched in vinegar and raw onions, along with pickled pigs-feet drowning in sour cream.  As the women served and cleared the table, the men told salty jokes that made no sense and drank throughout the feast, never becoming drunk it seemed, and would consume copious amounts of a homemade Transylvanian concoction called, Ţuică ( 80 proof Romanian Moonshine).  It was made from fermented plums, smelled like cheap gasoline, instantly melted ice on contact and produced visible rising vapors from their glasses.  Naturally they would have preferred that the main course be wild boar or venison, but in order to be good American citizens, Norman, they ate the lowly, hornless turkey.

The highlight of the holiday, in my recollection, was Christmas Eve.  After church service and a soulful rendition of “Stille Nacht” on my violin and a prayer to 'Kristkringle', my sister and I would patiently wait to open our packages.  But not before my mother would descend the staircase- a spectacle to behold- in a sleek and sinewy lizard-skin ensemble.  With joyful glee, Helena would hang Fourth-of-July sparklers on the various limbs of our once evergreen tree.  Then she proceeded to light them, one by one, standing back to view the radiant display. Some years the tree only burned at the top, and other years we lost the back half.  One never knew what to expect, but I still hold my breath when I think about it.

                                My mother, celebrating her very own" burning down the tree" tradition.  

Addendum: In a testament to her eternal influence, Helena passed away on Christmas Eve, 2008