The Magic of Christmas Eve: Stockings, Stories & Sugarplums

Ah, Christmas Eve. The most magical night of the year—unless you’re a parent, in which case it’s a frantic race against time to assemble bikes, wrap last-minute gifts, and explain for the hundredth time why Santa doesn’t need a house key.

For kids, though? Pure magic. That heart-racing, cookie-fueled anticipation. The giddy, sugar-dizzy struggle to stay awake, just in case they caught a glimpse of the big guy in red. The night before Christmas is the very definition of nostalgia—wrapped up in twinkling lights, pine-scented air, and the distant sound of somebody dropping an ornament.

A Very Merry Christmas Eve

Christmas Eve traditions have been delighting (and exhausting) families for centuries. Sure, the idea of a jolly gift-giver goes way back (we see you, Saint Nicholas), but the Santa Claus we know today—the plump, red-suited, reindeer-driving fellow—really took shape in the 1800s.

And that’s largely thanks to one poem:

“'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house,
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse…”

Clement Clarke Moore’s 1823 poem, A Visit from St. Nicholas, did more than rhyme—it rewired Christmas Eve. It cemented Santa’s chimney entrance, his team of tiny reindeer, and the universal understanding that yes, he really does see you when you’re sleeping (mildly creepy, but we roll with it).

But it wasn’t just the poem. In the decades that followed, Christmas Eve evolved into a major cultural event. By the mid-1800s, illustrator Thomas Nast had drawn the modern Santa we recognize today, first appearing in Harper’s Weekly. His illustrations gave Santa a home at the North Pole, a list of naughty and nice, and eventually even that iconic red suit.

Thomas Nast’s Santa: rosy cheeks, armful of toys, and a vibe that says “I’ve had three mugs of hot cocoa and I’m just getting started.”

Meanwhile, German and Dutch immigrants were bringing their own traditions to the American mix: wooden nutcrackers, advent calendars, and of course, the Christmas tree. Stockings hung by the fire were originally shoes set out for Saint Nicholas in European households, filled with fruit, nuts, and small toys.

Christmas, Victorian-style: delicate ornaments, actual candles (what could go wrong?), and kids trying their best to sit still in wool trousers.

By the time the 1950s rolled around, the whole production had hit full swing: tinsel-covered trees, Bing Crosby crooning from the radio, department store Santas, and glowing aluminum trees for the modern home.

Christmas Eve had transformed into a night of cookies and cocoa, church services and midnight carols, and above all, a celebration steeped in nostalgia, warmth, and togetherness—and, if you were lucky, maybe even a white Christmas.

The Tree: The Heart of the Home

No Christmas Eve would be complete without the tree—decked out in lights, ornaments, and at least one strand of tinsel that the cat will try to eat. Thanks to those early German and Dutch immigrants, the tradition caught on quickly—and by the 1950s, trees were glowing in every living room, some even rotating (because why not?).

Mid-century magic: Woolworth’s promised everything from ornaments to tinsel—and a Santa who never forgot the batteries.

For many families, picking out the tree was a tradition in itself—especially in rural areas where Christmas tree farms dotted the countryside. Rows of Blue Spruce and Pine stretched across frosted fields, waiting to be chosen, chopped, and hauled home on the roof of the family car. Some folks went to local lots. Others, like Penny and Rose, tended their own patch of trees down on the farm.

Penny planted new seedlings each fall and trimmed the branches every summer to make sure they were just the right shape to hold lights and tinsel. Come December, the family would return with saws, shovels, and a Thermos of Rose’s hot chocolate. They sold the trees for a dollar apiece—though their cousin Dale would often resell them for triple that in Allegheny County. It never bothered Penny. He was happy to help someone else find the perfect Christmas tree.

“We sold them for a dollar. Penny never minded—he just wanted someone to have a tree for Christmas.”

The one they took back to their house in Glassport was always from the farm. Even in the coldest years, they’d roll the windows down just to breathe in that sharp, wintry evergreen scent all the way home.

And once inside, the whole family would gather around, cut the twine, and watch the branches fall open like the ribbon at the grand opening of something magical.

The Spirit of Christmas, Bottled Up

There’s a reason Christmas Eve feels so different from any other night—it’s the smell, the anticipation, the warmth of family gathered together. And that’s exactly what we wanted to capture with ’Twas the Night, one of our seasonal fragrances.

Close your eyes, take a deep breath, and you’re right back there: the scent of cookies baking (or sugar plums, if you want to be fancy), the crisp aroma of spruce from the tree, hints of cranberry and cinnamon drifting through the air. The magic of stockings by the fireplace, candlelight flickering, and the hush of snowfall outside—it all lingers in the air like a memory.

And for us, those memories live in a very real place—down in Penny and Rose’s basement, where the magic always seemed to show up right on time. Growing up, we spent our Christmases packed in there, surrounded by cousins, aunts, and uncles, all talking over one another in true holiday spirit.

The basement itself? Dingy. (It was Glassport, after all—a true Pittsburgh steel town, complete with exposed pipes, cinderblock walls, and yes, the infamous Pittsburgh Potty in the corner. If you don’t know what that is, just wait—we’ll get to it.) But did that dampen our Christmas joy? Not a chance. There was laughter, there were stories, and there was always the unmistakable feeling of something special in the air—something we’ve been trying to bottle ever since.

All of us holding presents, none of us smiling—probably because we knew what lurked just beyond the frame: the Pittsburgh Potty. Not one cousin would go near it for fear of becoming, you know, the victim in their own basement horror story.

So many of our favorite memories were made in that little Glassport basement—surrounded by family, wrapped in blankets, the tree twinkling in the corner. It wasn’t perfect, but it was home.

And for us, Christmas Eve will always smell like home-cooked treats and fresh-cut spruce, sound like laughter, and feel like something you carry with you—long after the night is gone.

If Christmas Eve brings back memories of sugar cookies, pine trees, and cousins packed into a noisy basement, we hope this story made you feel right at home. We'd love to hear what Christmas Eve looked like in your house, too—feel free to share your favorite memory in the comments.

And speaking of that basement…

The Pittsburgh Potty (Yes, It’s a Real Thing)

If you grew up in or around Pittsburgh, you might’ve encountered one of these lone basement toilets—no walls, no sink, just sitting there like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Welcome to the world of the Pittsburgh Potty.

These fixtures were a staple of steel town homes built in the early 1900s. Legend has it they were installed for steelworkers coming home filthy from the mills. The idea? Head through the cellar door, clean up downstairs (sometimes with a nearby utility sink or shower), and avoid dragging soot and grease through the rest of the house. Practical? Absolutely. Dignified? Let’s just say... it depends on your perspective.

At Penny & Rose’s, their Pittsburgh Potty was tucked right under the stairwell, lit only by a single dangling bulb that flickered like it knew something you didn’t. It looked less like a bathroom and more like the opening scene of a low-budget horror movie. And yet, it was part of the charm—just one more quirky detail in a house full of stories.

Proof that the Pittsburgh Potty was real—and somehow even more ominous when photographed in daylight.

Over the years, some of these toilets were boxed in or tiled over, while others stood proudly in their original, wide-open glory. You never really questioned them… you just accepted their place in the family history—like a strange but beloved uncle who always brought the best cookies to the party.

Got a Pittsburgh Potty story of your own? Maybe one still sitting proudly in your basement? We’d love to hear it—drop your tale in the comments and let’s celebrate this wonderfully weird piece of Steel City history together.