When my grandparents came from Slovakia to the United States they settled in the east end of Houston so close to downtown that they could see the buildings from the front porch of their home. A short walk took them to Navigation Street where they often caught a bus to ride into the center of the city. Sometimes they even walked the many blocks from North Adams Street to their destinations in town. 

My grandfather worked in a meat packing plant that no longer exists. It was located along the railroad tracks for easy loading and unloading of animals and products. He wore a suit to work and then changed into a dungarees to do his job of cleaning the floor where the slaughtering took place. Year after year he faithfully arrived to do the dirty work of which he was very proud. He loved the United States and the freedoms that it afforded him and his children even though they were often jeered for being dirty immigrants. Being a well read man who understood all too well the largesse of opportunity here, he counseled his children to ignore the taunts and learn to be good citizens. Indeed that is what they became. 

My grandfather died before I was born. I only understood who he was from hearing his story of dedication in caring for his family. He had purchased land and built a house without any debts. He faithfully executed his responsibilities by never once missing a day of work even as the aches and pains in his legs became more and more severe. He had a fine collection of books dedicated to mathematics, business and agriculture. His dream was to retire to a farm on the outskirts of southwest Houston on land that he had purchased. Sadly he had a stroke before he had retired and his farm was not to be. 

We visited my grandmother every Friday night in the tiny house where ten people had lived. As a child I wondered how they had managed to survive in such a small space. Even the tiny houses of today seem to be larger than the one where four boys and four girls shared two tiny bedrooms. I was grown before I ever realized how remarkable my grandfather and grandmother had been. 

Each Christmas Eve the entire extended family gathered on North Adams Street to celebrate the season. It was the best night of the year in my mind. We munched on oranges and nuts that filled enamel bowls set around the living room. Of course my grandmother busied herself serving coffee to everyone including the smallest children. On the dining room table there would always be a fresh loaf of dark rye bread form the Weingarten’s bakery along with the biggest Whitman’s Sampler I had ever seen. I still remember one of my cousins ignoring the map on the lid of the box that identified what each bon bon was. Instead he would stick his finger inside each candy until he found the one that he wanted. 

Ours was a raucous group with so many people talking at once that it was difficult to hear any conversation. The shyer people in the family congregated to the corners of the room and simply watched the more outgoing souls who seemed to be yelling at the top of their lungs. The winners in that category were my Uncle Paul and my Aunt Polly. The rest of us clung to our chairs lest moving would result in losing a place to sit. 

The big event was the passing of the envelopes of money that my Uncles Paul and Andy always presented. Someone in the group would be lucky enough to walk away with over a hundred dollars. The rest of us would be content with the six dollars that came from the low end of the prizes. Some families seemed to have the midas touch when it came to winning the jackpot but it was never the fate of my branch of the family tree.

The other delight was watching my grandmother open her Christmas gifts from each of us. This was a kind of contest in itself to see which present seemed to please her the most. The original eight siblings were quite competitive in this regard and to my mother’s credit she often won that designation. Then my grandmother would quietly store everything away in her attic to be used at a later time or even never. 

We cousins often found our way outside to the front porch where we concocted different kinds of games. As we grew older and found our potential spouses the game became watching the boyfriends and girlfriends run the gauntlet of our zany group. We always knew that if they could handle Christmas Eve with us they were good for life. Many a potential bride or groom chickened out but my husband Mike glowed with delight and fit in almost automatically. 

A few weeks ago we decided to go the a restaurant in the near east end of Houston. Of course we had to pass by North Adams Street where the little house still stands as the only home that continues to exist in what was once a quaint little neighborhood. It was comforting to see the place even though my grandmother and all of her children are now gone. The memories of the wonderful times there came flooding back as I realized what a stabilizing force all of those loving relatives had always been. 

Now my brothers and I recreate the Christmas Eve experience in the home of one my niece. Just as in the old days it is a loud and joyous affair that is growing and growing with new members all of the time. It is still perhaps the happiest day of the year for me when I gather with the people that I most love. I hope the joy and love within our family never ends.