Every Christmas morning, my brother Scott and I would make it a point to get up early. And by early, we're talking 5:30 or 6 in the morning...much earlier than the usual time we'd get up for school.
Whoever got up first would wake the other up. Then together, we'd quietly tip-toe past our parents’ room before silently hopping down the steps to the living room.
Then we'd sit in awe of the presents under the tree.
There were many.
Big ones. Small ones. Whatever shape or size they were the presents always seemed to tempt us.
"Open us. Don't wait for Mom and Dad. Open us," they'd seemingly taunt.
But we didn't.
For whatever reason, there was an unwritten rule for those presents. We always waited until our parents either finally made their way down the stairs...or until we'd run up and wake them up ourselves.
Stockings?
That's a different story. Scott and I would rip into those right away.
After our parents eventually rolled out of bed, they'd make Christmas morning coffee for themselves...and in the later years just my dad.
Then it was time to open the gifts.
For me, my loot was usually divided among two groups; Lego’s (King's Castle at the time) and baseball cards (tons and tons of baseball cards).
There were some great Christmas gifts; train sets, Lego’s (already mentioned that, didn't I) and GI Joe's.
At times the old, pudgy, white-haird guy (my dad says he has platinum hair and not grey or white) brought duds like some sort of broom ball set that really never left the garage.
But more often than not the gifts were grand. Many are still around either in my basement or at my parents’ house.
One of the biggest Christmas traditions in the Berry house actually came the day before Scott and I tore through the presents.
Christmas Eve dinner was a tradition onto itself.
Every year we'd have massive and delicious prime to go along with a seasonal salad and wild rice soup. The grand feast was also accompanied by my favorite veggie -- peas.
My parents would slave over the multiple-course meal for hours.
While Mom would help in the kitchen she also made it a chore to make sure the plates were set out to perfection.
Yes. Christmas is the holiday of inches for the Berry's.
The tablecloth has to be ironed just right. The candlesticks in the correct spot.
But that's not all.
A measuring stick would find its way out in Mom's right hand. Everything had to be the same distant apart.
No. No joke.
The plates would have to be 4-5 inches apart of each other. The forks, spoons, knives and glassware were laid out with on-the-dot measurements as well.
It kind of became a running joke in the family. It still is.
However, it's not a matter of measuring anymore. Too many tiny hands. Between Scott and I there are eight little ones. That's 16 often uncontrollable hands and 80 miniature fingers always at the ready to ruin a good measurement.
