1989, South Salem, New York

By Lisa Fairman

Every year for 30 years straight, my “Aunt” Eleanor and “Uncle” Chuck Cilo held a party on December 23, aptly named “Christmas Eve Eve.”

In order to be invited to this unique and imaginary holiday, you had to be a close and trusted friend of the hosts. Chuck and my dad worked together for many years as copywriters at an ad agency in New York, and when my brother Mark and I were born, we were given honorary invitations.

It was always a big deal to my dad, who would practice his best jokes and stories during the two-hour ride from New Jersey to Connecticut. Chuck had always been one of his heroes: he could hit a baseball out of the park, quote Robert Frost with accuracy, and was writing his third novel.

Dad was always telling stories about the two of them around the dinner table: “You should have seen us blow everyone away during the presentation!” or “We wrote an amazing commercial today. They want to put it on the air!” They made a great team.

My Dad, a half Catholic/half Jew (or “Jewlic,” as he would say), worked a room by making everyone laugh with his razor-sharp wit. Chuck had a calmer, kingly presence and a rich voice that commanded your attention but rewarded you with enthralling stories, most of questionable veracity. He and Eleanor lived far enough away such that it made frequent visits impossible, but this made the idea of Christmas Eve Eve even more exciting to us throughout the year.

On the way up, Mark and I would sit in the back of our 1976 Lincoln “Big Blue” and take wild guesses at what we thought the “door prize” would be.

The Cilos were notorious for finding the strange oddities for their grab bag giveaway: a vintage spatula, a Portuguese phrase book of dirty words, seven strawberry-shaped coasters. Numbers were written on tiny scraps of paper and passed around in a big basket. If, on the back of your ticket were a star, you had won the door prize, which was considerably fancier than the other gifts. One year,

Mark won a beautiful wooden sleigh filled with Godiva chocolates.

Underneath the chatter of anticipation, we all knew what my dad was looking forward to the most.

Every year, he and Chuck would scour Sharper Image catalogs and antique shops around the tristate area for the most unusual gift they could find. After 20 years of friendship, they had exhausted every book, video, and gag gift imaginable, and had moved into a friendly competition of one-upsmanship.

One time, Dad gave Chuck a Harley Davidson motorcycle radio that revved like a chopper when you squeezed the handle. Another year, Chuck gave Dad an autographed Mickey Mantle baseball card. Each year, the imaginary stakes grew, and it filled my Dad with childlike glee.

I remember one year, when I was 12, Dad found what he believed to be an unbeatable gift: a replica of a custom-made 1920s phone that looked like it belonged in The Great Gatsby. It resembled an airplane cockpit console, and it had a sleek look to it, like it belonged in Charles Lindbergh’s study.

Dad was enthralled by it. It had cost him quite a bit, and being out of work for the past year, he had struggled with the decision of buying it. Eventually, he gave in, and when it arrived at our home, Dad’s eyes lit up, and he turned it over carefully, admiring every brass knob and half-moon dial. It was a thing of beauty. Surely, this gift would fill his most beloved friend with the same awe.

That year, as we pulled into the driveway of the Cilos’ massive home in the woods, the twin Dobermans, Arthur and Guinevere, riotously alerted the hosts to the arrival of each guest. One slight motion from Chuck’s broad hand, or a raise of his wizardlike eyebrows quieted them immediately.

As a little girl, I remember being intimidated by his Paul Bunyan-like presence. Chuck was so warm and inviting, though, that any fear was quickly dispelled with a hug, a lift into the air, and a promise to watch How the Grinch Stole Christmas. He used to call me “Leezargh” as a silly twist on my name, and even in my moody preteen years, it made me laugh.

Eleanor busily prepared a homemade soup, stoked the roaring fire, and signaled that it was dinnertime by banging on the giant timpani they kept in the living room, a prop from an old commercial shoot.

Her stature was in sharp contrast to Chuck’s, as she stood a mere 5-foot-3, but the years of teaching and being raised on a farm had made her a quiet warrior. Her voice was soft, and her sense of humor was as dry as her wine.

Eleanor was the kind of woman who would look you in the eye and declare soberly, “That is very funny,” instead of just laughing. She was as fascinating and intelligent as her husband, and after 30 years of marriage, they were still madly in love.

The 15-foot Christmas tree towered over us in “The Great Room” of their home, which was like a touchable museum filled with wood rescued from old boats, antiques from the colonial period, and every book Elmore Leonard ever wrote.

Throughout the night, everyone knew the big gift exchange between Dad and Uncle Chuck was coming, and groups of old friends whispered to each other, trying to guess what was in the small boxes in the corner. They tried to get my mom drunk to find out, but she never told.

After a few cocktails, Chuck sat down at the organ and hammered out a few raw but singable versions of Christmas carols, while Eleanor passed out lyrics. He exaggerated his movements, as if he were the Phantom of the Opera, hunched over and hideous, while the pipes wheezed out an eerie version of “Jingle Bells,” making me laugh and shiver all at once.

Even though we were only there once a year, it always felt like home. Just when everyone started to get drowsy, Dad casually walked up to Chuck, handed him his present, and walked away, as if momentous occasions happened like this every day.

Chuck made a big to-do out of it, like a circus ring master hamming it up for the crowd: “What? A present for me? How thoughtful!”

He slowly peeled back the paper and stared at the picture of the phone on the box. We all held our breath. Chuck was mysteriously quiet. He had a funny smile on his face as he looked up at my dad but said nothing. He held up the box for everyone to see, then walked over to a corner, retrieved his present and handed it to my dad.

Confused, my dad started to open his package. He peeled back the top layer of paper, and his mouth fell open. He held up his box so we could see that Chuck had gotten him the very same gift - the impossible-to-find replica of the rare 1920s Charles Lindbergh-like phone - on the very same day.

We started to laugh and look at each other in amazement, but something hit my dad at that moment. It could have been the fact that he loved Chuck like a brother. It could have been that he had been out of work for a while and was feeling the pressure. Or it could have been the emotion that naturally comes during the holidays.

Whatever the reason, he took one look at Chuck and burst into tears. He opened his arms and held him tight.

There was a brief moment of awkward tension. No one understood what was happening, and my mom tried to cover it up with jokes. But there, in the center of the room, stood the old friends in a long embrace, connected in the sharing of a single gift; knowing each other so well that words had become unnecessary.

I remember hoping that one day, I would be that close to someone, and I could cry openly at the joy of being understood.

Dad and Chuck have since passed, and Eleanor doesn’t hold the party anymore. It’s too hard on her physically and emotionally, and people don’t get excited about it the way they used to. The organ sits silent in the corner, and the dogs have long stopped barking.

“We need to make new traditions,” she says, but no one ever volunteers.

So we sit back and tell stories on that day. We remember the jokes, the food, and the kids who now have kids. We all know that everyone who had the honor of attending that party will sit back on December 23 and recall the welcoming smell of homemade soup, the booming of a timpani drum, and the sight of two grown men hugging like children on a made-up holiday.

Lisa Fairman is a writer, improviser and voiceover artist in Chicago. She loves Peter Pan, PJ Harvey, and dancing with her dashing boyfriend, Christopher.

Posted by Common Ties on Monday, December 17th, 2007 | Email This Post

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