On Christmas eve, our family went to church. After mass, uncles, aunts and cousins came to our house to open gifts and enjoy Polish and German food.

All of us exchanged gifts.

Sometimes you got one.

Sometimes you didn’t.

Each year someone in my family did something zany.

“MaryJo,” my mother said, “the holiday wreath was stolen. I called the police. It’s a shame people steal on Christmas.”

The next Thanksgiving my aunt Kathy called.

“MaryJo, did anyone tell you what happened to your mother’s wreath last year?”

I heard loud giggles.

“You can’t tell her a thing,” she threatened.

I hesitated. I can’t hide things from my parents.

“Last year Uncle Don stole the wreath. Don’t worry. He’s going to return it.”

That Christmas while my family was at church, Don returned the wreath and took the new one my mother spent hours making.

When we arrived home my mother said, “Now where did that come from?

When we sat down to open gifts, Uncle Don said, “Joanie I see you have your wreath back.”

“Don,” my mother screamed, “you are bad.”

Eventually, my mother was able to laugh.

“Don, you’re crazy” she said. “I phoned the police.” Before the end of the evening she told Don, “Before you leave, give me my new wreath so I don’t have to call the cops on you.”