It’s not about the Presents, it’s about the Presence...and the Lasagna!

by Nicole Johnston

December is Remembrance Month at The Worthy Educator!

I fully admit it: I am one of those people who start listening to holiday music on November 1. The minute Halloween is over (some years even before that holiday hits, don’t judge), I am ready for twinkle lights, cinnamon scents, Hallmark movies, and every festive playlist I can get my hands on. This year, as I jumped into my early holiday soundtrack, I started thinking about the music that shaped my childhood Christmases. One might say the soundtrack of my own holiday memories.

Every family has its own rhythm on Christmas morning, a little choreography that unfolds the same way year after year. In mine, it always began with the Oak Ridge Boys Christmas album playing in the background while my parents, siblings, and I gathered around the tree. Without fail, my dad would pull out his camcorder, determined to capture every laugh, every rip of wrapping paper, and every moment he knew we would want to remember later.

The house always smelled like cinnamon rolls, eggs, and bacon. It is what I still consider the official fragrance of Christmas morning. Before we even finished eating, my grandparents, who lived just down the street, would pop in for a quick visit. They never stayed long; they had a houseful of people coming later. But their short stop felt like the true signal that the day had begun.

Then came the inevitable battlefield: our one shower. Six people. One bathroom. And a ticking clock before we had to leave for my grandparents’ house. The negotiations, the shouting, the banging on the door. It was all part of the holiday soundtrack.

By early afternoon, we would head over to my grandparents’, where all my cousins were already running wild. My grandfather had a habit of raising the volume on the TV every time the noise level increased, because according to him, all of us kids were “too loud”. My grandmother, meanwhile, ran her kitchen like a heavily guarded fortress. No one was allowed inside, though we all tried. But the smell of her lasagna filled the house, making the wait worth it.

After dinner, the kids scattered to play while the adults gathered around the dining room table for their annual Michigan Rummy game. I remember watching them from a distance, thinking how much I couldn’t wait to be old enough to join them. The television kept climbing in volume (my grandfather’s signature move), the cousins kept getting louder, and time slowed down in that warm, chaotic house.

The faces in those memories have changed. Not everyone is still here, and plenty of new family members have joined the mix. But the traditions, the noise, the food, the warmth, the music. They remain.

And the funny thing is, when I look back at all those Christmases, I don’t remember the gifts (except my first cassette tape, which was Bon Jovi, a defining moment in my musical identity). Everything else has faded. What’s stayed with me are the people, the food, the sounds, and the small, perfect rituals that made those holidays feel like home.

In the end, it’s not the presents, but the presence. What makes a holiday isn’t what sits under the tree, but the memories wrapped in music, family, and the smell of something good coming from the kitchen.

Nicole Johnston is an experienced history educator and instructional leader with over a decade of experience guiding middle and high school students in the stories that shape our world. As Chair of History at Oak Knoll School she oversees curriculum development and instructional strategies. She also consults for the Center for Curriculum Redesign and ConnectEd, helping schools design rigorous, engaging, and meaningful learning experiences. You can email Nicole here.