Christmas Bounty

Guest blog by Patricia Crisafulli

In my family, there was nothing that said Christmas quite like squid. The son of a Sicilian immigrant, my father, Pat Crisafulli, had grown up with Italian traditions, including a meatless Christmas Eve meal of fish.

Yet, there were other early influences in my father’s life, ones that spoke of need and want. Born in 1918, he went through the Depression as a young man, and knew hunger and hardship first hand. While my mother regaled my sisters and I with stories of simple Christmases on her childhood farm in rural New York State, my father kept silent. Only later, when I was an adult, did he share the truth of having had little or nothing.

These early experiences, however, did not harden his heart. Actually, it was quite the opposite. He shared his blessings easily with others, but always preferred to act behind the scenes. At Christmas he truly showed his generous spirit, especially at his parties.

After my mother’s death, my father carried on the tradition of a Christmas open house. With changes in circumstances, including the fact that I lived out of state, the date of the festivities was moved from Christmas Eve to a few weekends before. The menu, however, never changed. At the center of the feast was my Dad’s specialty: mounds of octopus poached in lemon water and calamari sautéed in fresh garlic, and then all of it chopped and tossed into a seafood salad, which tasted better if you closed your eyes and ignored the tentacles.

Best of all, however, were the people who gathered around Dad’s table. He invited everyone he knew--literally. There might be fifty or sixty people in the house at any given time. A knock on the back door might bring in a long-time friend, an aunt and uncle, the parish priest, or the man who did odd jobs for him. Conversations spanned business to deer hunting, grandchildren to the best bait for catching fish. Laughter was the common denominator.

Looking back, I appreciate that my father practiced what Paul preached in his letter to the Romans: “Share with God’s people who are in need. Practice hospitality.” (Rom 12: 13)

Having known so much want in his young life, Dad knew the ineffable joy of sharing what he had because of what it meant to others. He was in no better form than he was the host.

In December 2005, we had the last holiday party. At age eighty-seven, Dad could not do much preparation, but he supervised a bit. A snowstorm that night kept the crowd smaller than usual, but people still came, filling the dining room and kitchen, and spilling out into the living room. I can still see Dad sitting at one end of the buffet table, the host and guest of honor at his own party.

Two months later, Dad died suddenly; a shock, yes, but a blessing as well in that he never lost himself or his sense of dignity. His funeral brought a mix of joy and sadness, laughter and tears. And when the last hymn was played by the organist, we processed into the church hall where the women of the parish had set up everything for us. There was a party for my father, a celebration of a life well-lived and a man who knew scarcity but celebrated with abundance.

Patricia Crisafulli is a published author of several nonfiction books,including the New York Times Bestseller, The House of Dimon: How JPMorgan’s Jamie Dimon Rose to the Top of the Financial World. She is also the founder of a monthly e-literary magazine, www.FaithHopeandFiction.com.

posted by Margaret McSweeney @ 3:11 PM