La Nit de Nadal in a Vineyard

I would think I was making this up, if I were reading it. Still, I swear every word is true. I spent Christmas Even in a Catalan Vineyard in Spain. Aunt Roza´s father opens up his house in the vineyard for an extended family party every Christmas Eve. We drove down a country road, like Bernie Road, but it was a one lane road with reeds and grasses towering 5 feet above the car. The road is a true Catalan country road, dips and mounds and the driver tries to weave among them. We passed through a large cement tunnel – perhaps a culvert and there it was – a vineyard like those I have seem in magazines. Rows of strawberries are still bearing fruit on the terraces above the house. There is a waist-high fence between the house and the vineyard that has wonderful columns and water is still in the swimming pool.
The vineyard owner, the grandpa, is always spoken of with loving adjectives – especially by his daughter-in-law who lives with him. I should not say especially by his daughter-in-law, because everyone talks this way about him. No wonder.

The house was prepared when we got there. He had the large buffet tables already leaning against the wall to be put up in the large tiled front room floor as soon as the first part of the evenng was over. The creche was displayed, this time with larger figures, 12 inches high or 24 inches high if you include the height of the wise men on the camels. And no one enjoyed the party more, sitting quietly and watching the children have all of that fun. Then, this morning, after his party was over, he was at our door, bringing the wrought iron stands onto which large boards are place to make long tables for yet another day of feasting.

Bonnie started out the evening of the 24th with a kind description of him. What she said is true. In this holiday there are two blessed people: the madonna and grandpa. This is a big family, mirroring our own, and if there is a hard working uncle, or an amazing aunt, someone who is right there when job is to be done, or someone who already has the food prepared and is pulling more and more goods out of cupboards and fridges, then Bonnie leans over to me and says something like, ¨there you see it, Dave or Glen or Moiya or Wyona or Janet in action again¨. ¨Greg¨ arrived late -- that is, his Catalan counterpart. He was the consumate diplomate, as soon as he got there. His name is Joaquim and he is Rosa´s brother.

So in some way the day felt as though our own loved ones were present.

Ostensibly La Nit de Nadal is about beating presents out of the wooden log, the Casa Tio. Seven large sticks were in the corner and when the time for the fun started, David joined his cousins, beating the log. He had to be told to place his stick down on the floor when the beating was over – rather than toss the stick high in the air, landing like a javelin, too close for comfort to the other grandmother.

The children run to the other room to sing sweet songs to Jesus, imploring him to help that log poop out presents for them. This took five rounds of singing, for when the adults would yell, oh, the room has the smell of a terrible fart, in they would come running – first to find pencils with glitter, fine pens with four colors and paper for each. That was followed with helicopters where you pulled the string to make the propellor spin or jeeps with trailers carrying speed boats, or a five-in-one set of games, to be unwrapped. Next came bags of Kinder eggs, gaily tied with a ribbon from which was hanging another present, Then came chocolates and turrones for everyone in the room. And the last beating brought out candy poop and coal, a strange custom to me, but not to them.

The evening extended into time eating at the buffet, singing, dancing and visiting with extended family members. The focus of the night was always on the children – it was they who beat the log, or sang or danced and then went home with armloads of gifts.

A lovely Christmas Eve.

Arta