The marching order to appear at the home of Dorothy Croswell arrived well before Christmas. She was a family friend who for 20 years lived next door and was a regular at our dinner table, often the 13th guest.
Within a few days, she would leave Baltimore for a stay in Florida, so her quarters had no tree or decorations. The food served was dainty and the portions measured, but that was part of her quirky charm. It was a Christmas visit as she defined it, and I would not change a part of the routine.
She composed poems for each guest on index cards. Each contained rhyming clues to a treasure hunt she created, with gifts scattered throughout the house. A rule required each guest to stand at attention and read the little ditty aloud. It sounded corny — and it was — but it worked. Where else would you find your Christmas gift tucked into an embroidery basket?
At some point in the evening, Dorothy opened her slant-top desk and pulled out a small spiral notebook, reading aloud a record of the Christmas gifts she had given our family dating back to the 1940s. She could not be stopped.
Later, when she lived in the Allston Apartments at Charles Street and 32nd Street, the building’s central furnace had one setting: very hot. When one clue suggested a gift was hidden behind a curtain over a radiator, my father spoke up and said, “Watch out. Those curtains may burst into flame.”
Laughter always helped.
Frances Kavanagh, a World War II Red Cross nurse, and her husband, Jack, lived in a classic Mount Vernon three-story house in the 900 block of Calvert Street. She opened her home late on Christmas Eve, after Mass at nearby St. Ignatius Church. The guest of honor was the then-pastor, Father John Henry, a Jesuit who spent much of his career in Chile.
Frances was an exceptional host, spending days preparing a feast in her basement kitchen. In the earliest hours of Christmas Day, she disappeared downstairs. Soon, platters and tureens appeared, sent up on a fully functioning dumbwaiter.
This was real, high-voltage Christmas magic. It was 12:30 a.m., the house glowing beneath Victorian chandeliers with fancy glass globes, in a setting where you half-expected Ulysses S. Grant to come calling. I sat in one of the parlors, looking out toward Calvert Street, and thought there could be no more atmospheric scene.
The eggnog was excellent, too.
Christmas Day had its own rituals. My mother believed you always did for others. Christmas meant turning it up.
Around 10 a.m., we piled into the car and headed to 5712 Roland Ave., the Catholic monastery that housed the cloistered nuns who taught us in school. Over the years, she had befriended the Visitation Sisters, arriving with gifts that were simple, practical and respectful of the vow of poverty: plain white writing paper, a ball of twine or classroom supplies.
The bell at the front door summoned a tiny nun, Sister Stanislaus, who opened a small cutout window. When the Kelly family was announced, she released a bolt that opened the visiting parlor.
Nuns flooded in, delighted by the Christmas company. The monastery and attached school used Autocall electric bells, the kind found in department stores and hospitals, chiming to summon the entire house. Eventually, the tower bell rang, calling the sisters to midday prayer and signaling our very slow exit.
By noon, we were home again, soon summoned next door to visit the Hooppers, who were perhaps older than my grandparents. The guest list was limited to the Kelly children — my brother, my four sisters and me. No adults.
The house was timeless. We were ushered to a second-floor sitting room where a magnificent tree stood, every limb covered in antique ornaments.
Each year, the same question was asked: Could we guess the number of ornaments?
“Thirty-odd dozen,” Mr. Hoopper declared in his best Merchant and Miners Transportation Co. accountant’s voice.
One year, a precious ornament was missing — a miniature woman’s head that looked older than anyone in the room and traditionally occupied a place of honor near the tip of a major branch.
“It went the way of all worldly things,” Mrs. Hoopper said calmly, describing the fate of a shattered bauble.
These visits required perfect behavior. Aware of our childhood torture, our elders eventually tapped on the shared wall, signaling that dinner was on the table. We excused ourselves and awaited another year and its thirty-odd dozen days.
Have a news tip? Contact Jacques Kelly at jkelly@baltsun.com.
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