Christmas morning with my mom and a familiar face as Santa.

Each year, as the holiday season approaches, my eyes are drawn to three windows on Jamaica Avenue at 95th Street. It’s a place where, as a young boy, I lived on the second floor of an apartment above a vacuum cleaner repair shop. It’s funny how certain spots stay with you long after you’ve left them. Those windows, bathed in the soft glow of Christmas lights, are as much a part of my memories as anything else from that time.
My father, every December, would paint the inside of those windows with festive scenes. With a small string of lights shining from within, they looked wonderful from the sidewalk below. After he was done painting, we’d all head outside, stand on the street, and admire his work. One window would feature Santa, another Frosty or Rudolph, and the third—my bedroom window—would proudly display Charlie Brown or Snoopy.
Now, whenever I find myself back in the area during the holidays, I glance up at those same windows. Over the years, I’ve seen an occasional light flicker within, but never the same vibrancy as before. Some years, there’s been nothing at all—just a window with its blinds pulled shut. But when I look up, something inside me stirs. Behind that glass, somewhere in the past, I can still see our Christmas celebration taking place.
Mom would be in the kitchen, preparing Christmas dinner. The delicious smell of roasting meat, baking treats, and simmering side dishes would fill the apartment. There was no way to escape it, and honestly, I didn’t want to. My mom was a great cook, and the aroma was a part of the magic of the season. Meanwhile, Dad would be assembling our makeshift cardboard fireplace, hanging stockings on thumbtacks. The stockings had to remain empty, or the whole thing would topple over. My own little stocking—filled with small treasures—would be placed at the base of the fireplace.
Dinner would be served at the dining room table, which Mom would open up to make room for all of us. It was just the three of us then, and I remember how exciting it felt to eat at the dining room table, rather than the kitchen, with Mom and Dad, who were both so young. And while she cooked and set the table, the Christmas music would play—usually easy listening from WPAT. Whenever Johnny Mathis or Perry Como would sing a Christmas classic, Mom would stop what she was doing and come in to listen.

A wooden ornament, purchased from lewis’ of Woodhaven and hand-painted by my father 60 years ago, still adorning our tree in 2024.

The Christmas tree, though small and a little worse for wear, was something special. It had a few missing branches, and the ones that remained looked a bit sad, but once Dad strung the lights and hung the ornaments, it felt just as grand as the Rockefeller Center tree to me. My favorite decorations were ones bought at Lewis’ of Woodhaven—little hand-painted ornaments featuring Santa, Mrs. Claus, and a variety of characters. They had two sides, and as a young boy, I would flip them around so their backsides were visible. My dad would pretend to be upset, but we all knew it was in fun.
Later that night, we’d gather to watch the Yule Log on WPIX, followed by the midnight mass from St. Patrick’s Cathedral. I’d usually fall asleep during the mass, and my dad would carry me to bed, preparing for the big day ahead. There’s no day like Christmas morning for a kid. Sure, the presents were great, but now, looking back, it’s not the presents I remember. It’s the presence.
The presence of my mom and dad. The presence of family and friends, whose names appeared on the Christmas cards taped around our doorways. When I look at those three windows, I feel the presence of those cherished memories. It’s as if they are still there, in the past, and if I could walk up the stairs to that second-floor apartment again, I know it would all be just as I remember.
If you could walk into your past again, if only for a few moments, would you? Is that what Heaven is like?
From my family—my wife, Josephine, and our cat, Cheerful—we wish you a special holiday season. It’s a beautiful time of year when people of all different faiths celebrate their traditions. We all have our stories, our memories that bring us joy and sadness, and that’s something we all share.
Merry Christmas from us, and here’s to a happy and healthy New Year. May God bless us all, everyone.

Christmas many years ago, with my father playing with a train set beneath our tree.