Before there was a Martha Stewart—there was Joanne Joyce, my mother.

There were eight children in our family—four sons and four daughters. My grandfather lived with us for about eight years, too. So my mother managed a household that included eleven people, including children whose ages spanned 16 years.

I’m relating this so you can understand what a feat our holidays were. Mom made breakfast, lunch, and dinner every single day for us. There were no school lunches and certainly no breakfast at the neighborhood Catholic School we all attended. I’ve never added up the number of meals she prepared but I’m sure they were in the thousands. She did the laundry, and cleaning, and provided guidance and love. She was a Cub Scout Den Mother and an active member of our school’s PTA. It wasn’t beneath Dad to change diapers, cook meals, help with laundry, or clean, but he worked rotating shifts at the steel plant. He was loving and affectionate, and always came directly home from work. Even though we were young children, we helped Mom as much as we could. My sister, brother and I peeled lots of potatoes, washed mountains of dishes, helped with household chores, and even ironed. All at a very young age. But we were just kids in grade school, so the burden was on Mom’s shoulders.

At times Mom was angry, upset, or just depressed from the amount of never-ending work she faced every day and her frustrations with the role assigned to her as a woman of those times. She was forced by society to worship at the altar of domesticity according to the gospel of “McCall’s” and “Ladies’ Home Journal.”  There were no little getaways for Mom and Dad; no “Girl’s Night Out;” and no “Me Time.” I often wonder how she survived and didn’t lose touch with reality as many other Moms in similar circumstances in our parish did. Some of these women started drinking, and some stopped coping and were admitted to a local Hospital for the mentally ill. When that happened, my parents would extend themselves to the husbands who were left trying to cope and hold their families together.

So given all that, it astounds me to realize that my Mom baked many dozens of Christmas cookies and made numerous fruit cakes each year. In addition, she often sewed special holiday clothing for the youngest children in the family. Most Christmases, we had a real tree and the house was decorated with live evergreens. Mom took the leftover tree branches and created beautiful wreaths for our doors. She assembled generous platters of her amazing Christmas baking for our teachers. Oh, and did I mention that Mom also baked and decorated Christmas cut-out cookies with us? Our house was decorated lavishly for the Holidays—again, the vast majority of this work was accomplished by my mother.

And then there were the Holiday dinners—tasty, home-cooked meals that were served on the “good” china with a lovely tablecloth. We even drank our apple cider out of Mom’s exquisite crystal glassware.

Seasonal centerpieces, created by Mom, would adorn the table. There was a family tradition ( or maybe a joke) that the first thing Dad took off any Holiday table was the centerpiece. Often, trying to put this elaborate meal on the table would frazzle Mom’s nerves and, as we got older, we knew when to step in and give her a much-needed break.

These dinners didn’t just happen at Christmas—of course, there was Thanksgiving in addition to other holidays—Lincoln’s birthday, Washington’s birthday, Valentine’s Day, St. Patrick’s Day, and all of the birthdays. But every special day included distinctive foods and imaginative cakes. My Mom even learned to make and decorate elaborate cakes and baked several of our wedding cakes! So  Mom made our Holidays amazing. She set a high bar, which I tried to reach for much of my married life—only to realize that she was truly unique. I excused my efforts because I worked full-time—but Mom’s job managing a big household was an exhausting, no-days-off job, too. Holidays flood me with memories of my mother, even though she has been gone for several decades. When I remember those days, my first reaction is gratitude to Mom who made those celebrations happen. Secondly, I am awed by the amount of effort that went into them. 

Several months after my mother died, we were gathered at my parent’s home where Dad resided with my sister and her family. One of my brothers decided to search the freezer where he unearthed a treasure trove of cookies Mom had baked! It was like finding a relic from our childhoods—we opened the box and—Yes! The cookies were still delicious. Tears mingled with the taste of Mom’s final batch of cookies as I realized that the holidays my mother created were now but a memory.