Waiting for La Befana
Christmas and New Year’s have come and gone. The presents have been unwrapped, the fruitcake eaten (at least some of it) and the annual New Year’s resolutions to go to the gym more and eat less have begun. The poinsettias have lost a couple of leaves, the garland’s a bit brittle and the vacuum bag is full of needles from the slightly dry tree that stands in the living room. On another rainy day, I sit along with the dogs, by the fire, enjoying the last few moments of the holiday season.
“Shouldn’t we take the decorations down?” the kids wonder.
“Not ‘til after the Epiphany,” I tell them.
That’s the way I grew up. Traditions die hard, especially ones around my favorite holiday. Along with the gingerbread and the cookies and the reading of the Night Before Christmas, there are “rules” about when the tree goes up and when it comes down. The Christmas season doesn’t end ‘til the wise men visit the baby Jesus and by golly, the tree’s not coming down until then either.
I used to wish I could live in Rome. On the eve of the Feast of the Epiphany, the children leave out their socks in the hopes that La Befana, a magical old woman in search of the Christ child would fill their stockings with candy. After filling the stockings, she sweeps the floor and heads out again, still searching for the baby. Being a kid with a sweet tooth or two, that sounded pretty cool to me. After all, Santa just gave you presents, La Befana gave you candy.
I mentioned this tradition to my kids a couple of years back. They’ve inherited their mother’s sweet teeth and they were pretty keen on the idea. “Can she come here?” they asked me with all sincerity.
“No,” I responded. “She only visits children in Italy.”
“But we’re Italian,” they shot back. “What difference does it matter where we live?”
They had a point. I mean, why should an Italian kid be penalized just because he doesn’t happen to live in the motherland? So I got to thinking. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea after all. Hang a couple of socks and see what happens.
“You know Mom,” my youngest quipped, “It’s not really fair. My brother’s socks are a lot bigger than mine.”
I knew where he was going with this one and he was right. His brother’s size 15 socks would hold a lot more candy.
“Don’t worry about it,” I reassured him. “I’m sure she’s wise enough to figure it out. After all, she’s been doing this for a long time.”
Some things never change. I still want to live in Italy some day and the Christmas tree will stay up until next weekend. But I’m open to new things too, and this evening we’ll put out the socks in the hopes that La Befana will come by and fill them with candy.
Besides, having someone sweep my floor sounds like a great idea to me.