Once upon a time, there were so many Italian relatives in my family that every table, chair and corner was occupied in my Nonna’s large kitchen.

Every Christmas Eve, my grandparents’ house was bustling with laughter and sweet homemade wine poured from my grandfather’s own hand. I grew up in the late 1950s, enjoying my father’s seven siblings and families that congregated on Talman Street every holiday.

Many of you will relate to this phenomenon: of people and places we loved in the past, yet somehow disappeared through the passage of time. As we aged, the memory of them never faded but grew stronger. We have found a way to keep them alive by telling their stories.

I remember my grandmother’s cast iron pot brimming with an abundance of sauce and meat as eager fingers dipped inside to sample the heavenly gravy. Miraculously, the pot survived, and continues to serve the same purpose, only in my home.

I believe the universe has a way of helping us focus on the good memories. It is the secret ingredient used to help future generations carry on the traditions of their ancestors.

The story of Christmas Eve is one of the most beautiful memories of my Italian childhood. The days when grandparents Nunzio and Rosina Falcone hosted dinner on a cold winter night. The table was spread with baccala and pasta, fried smelts battered in egg and flour, and meatballs placed in a huge bowl of sauce ready to be poured on top of fresh pasta cut and dried from Nonna’s machine.

The dinner theme revolved around seven fish: clams, mussels, halibut, shrimp, anchovy, calamari and scallops. There was always a whole fish, head and tail included, to signify abundance.

People often ask me why do Italian-Americans celebrate Christmas Eve in such a grand fashion? It goes back to our history when politics, poverty and family blended with tradition.

Before 1861, the geographic area that is now Italy consisted of a group of regions, each with its own government. Before and after the unification, the southern regions were some of the poorest in the country, and fish was an abundant resource. The area became so poverty-stricken that millions of people immigrated to America, bringing their food traditions with them.

The tradition of eating fish on Christmas Eve comes from the Roman Catholic religion of not eating dairy or meat on the eve of some holidays, including Christmas. The number seven is a symbol repeated throughout the Bible, and in Catholicism, there are seven sacraments and deadly sins.

All of these concepts developed into the Feast of the Seven Fishes. For my family, Christmas Eve was more than a social gathering. It was a night of hope. The burdens we carried all year long, suddenly seemed light, for tomorrow Christ the Savior would be born.

It was not only the food and company that made the night special. My grandparents lived in a large Victorian home that was once regarded as one of the most beautiful homes in Norwich.

Upon our arrival, my father parked the car on the street, and we listened to the sound of rushing water rising from the steep cliff below. Stepping from the car, my mother would be the first to make an observation.

“The Shetucket River is beautiful and haunting, indeed. But never forget — no matter who you are, the river makes no promises, and has a current that could carry you deep below the surface.”

I remember shivering in the freezing air with snow lightly swirling and dusting the ground. From the road, the house above was a postcard image of light and warmth with a candle glowing in every window.

We hurried up the sidewalk aroused by the tantalizing aroma of Italian food, and once inside, were greeted by the familiar faces of beloved relatives.

My mother used to say that Nonna had a kitchen that was every woman’s dream. The long white farmhouse sink held a dozen or more clean pots and pans waiting to be used. Two tall Victorian windows reached the ceiling and a pot of basil grew on each windowsill.

During the day there was an abundance of light, and at night, the moon glowed in every corner. From the kitchen we could see into the living room, where a white aluminum Christmas tree stood with a rotating wheel that spread a spectrum of colors across the ceiling.

There were no presents underneath the tree for the grandchildren. My grandmother did not believe in spoiling children with foolish gifts. Instead, each one of us received an envelope enclosed with a $5 bill. We did not always appreciate this gift, but as we grew older, we realized the truth.

My grandparents had known poverty and hardship in their lives. They were teaching their grandchildren the value of money. By the time we reached high school, the envelopes stopped completely. But we never forgot the lesson: We should not expect gifts in life. Family is the greatest gift to ever receive.

It was a night of quiet fun playing with my cousins while being mindful of the adults. We would secretly play hide and seek upstairs in spacious rooms, or in the spooky, musky basement imagining the worst monsters were waiting to grab us. We loved being scared and scaring each other, but we held our screams not to alert the adults.

We were painfully aware that we could receive a spanking for our foolishness. We were children living in an adult world and did not question authority.

The boys spoke of Christmas morning, hoping to receive a BB gun or a pocketknife underneath the tree. I wanted boots and a new winter jacket. My sister wanted a brush and comb and makeup case.

As the night wore on, the men turned to drinking whiskey and playing cards. The women cleaned the dishes, and unbeknownst to the men, generously poured Sambuca into their coffee.

As eyes slowly closed, and yawns echoed around the room, my grandfather signaled the end of the night by turning off the Christmas lights. Hugs and kisses were exchanged, and my grandmother gave each family meatballs and bread to take home.

Another Christmas Eve had come to pass. And even though it has been decades since I last saw my grandparents, the memory remains in my heart where it will live forever.

May all your holidays be bright and beautiful!

Happy Holidays! Merry Christmas!

Concetta Falcone-Codding is the author of The Lonely Nest. To contact: concettafalconecodding1@gmail.com.