Sometime during the evening, the gentle Christmas Eve snowfall turned into a full-fledged blizzard. Kendall lifted the kitchen curtains and watched the riot of blowing snow obscure the Christmas lights on the pine trees. No way could the Belnaps drive home in this.
She finished drying the last of the dishes and stepped back into the big family room just in time to hear her mother say, “You’ll have to stay here tonight. It’ll blow over by tomorrow. No,” she held up her hand to ward off Sister Belnap’s protest. “It’s no trouble for us. There’s plenty of room. I couldn’t live with myself if I let you drive down the canyon in this weather.”
For the hundredth time that evening, Kendall’s eyes strayed to Patrick Belnap. He was looking at her. She quickly turned her attention to a fascinating glass ball on the Christmas tree. She couldn’t help watching him from the corner of her eye. They’d known each other for practically their entire lives. Two years ago, he’d left for a mission a short, acne-covered teenager, and now he was back a tall, handsome man with a spirit of confidence and goodness about him that made Kendall want to shy away from him like a vampire away from a cross. He had been one of her best friends, but now he looked like a stake president in the making, and she didn’t know what a sinner like herself could say to him.
She moved around to the back of the tree, away from her parents, away from the constant reproach of her sisters and brothers-in-law with their perfect temple marriages, away from Patrick’s beautiful brown eyes.
Or so she thought. But Patrick came and stood beside her behind the tree. “Hey, Kendall.”
“Looks like you’re stuck with us,” she said and inched toward the wall.
“I don’t mind.” He smiled. “Why have you been avoiding me all night?”
“I haven’t,” she said.
“Then why are you hiding back here? I know you better than that.”
Kendall fiddled with a bit of tinsel. You don’t know me at all. “I’ve changed, I guess.”
“Not that much.”
Yes, that much. She moved an ornament to a different branch. Her heart felt too heavy to hold in her chest.
“I’ve really looked forward to seeing you again.”
Oh, please don’t say that. She turned around and tried to look neutral. “I’m sorry, Patrick. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. I think it’s great to see you again. You look great.” She stopped. “I just feel . . . awkward.”
“Because of what happened with your fiancé?”
“Shane.” Shame crashed like a flood through her chest. She stepped back and accidentally brushed an ornament off the tree with her shoulder. It smashed on the wood floor into half a dozen pieces. “Oh, no.” Kendall knelt on the floor and picked up the broken pieces with shaking hands. It was a figurine of a little Christmas caroler in a red hat and mittens. Her grandmother had given it to her years ago. Tears brimmed in her eyes. “It’s ruined.”
Patrick knelt beside her and helped to gather the bits of glass. Someone in the family room turned on the TV.
“They’re starting It’s A Wonderful Life,” Kendall said. “It’s tradition.”
Patrick slipped his hand beneath hers. “I’ll take care of this,” he said. “You can go sit down.”
His touch felt warm and safe, comforting somehow. She wished she could leave her hand in his forever, but she let the shards fall into his hands and stood up. “Actually, I think I’ll just go to bed.” She fled up the stairs before Patrick or anyone else could say another word.
* * *
Kendall tiptoed through the nieces and nephews asleep on the bedroom floor. She had agreed to sleep with them and keep them from waking up the house too early. Not a minute before seven, she had promised. She lay down on the bed and listened to the children breathing and tried to forget about the feel of Patrick’s hand on hers.
Last Christmas Eve, Shane had proposed to her here at the cabin. No wonder she was so off-kilter tonight. The chaos and upheaval of the past year had left permanent scars on her soul. Scars I inflicted on myself, she thought. Scars that meant no matter how long she repented— and oh, it had been so long already—she would never be worthy of someone like Patrick. No. He deserved someone pure, someone strong. Someone who had never made the stupid mistakes that she had made.
She wrapped her arms around her pillow and sent up a silent prayer out of the pain in her heart. Dear God, she prayed, why was I so stupid? Why, why, why? She would have given anything to go back in time and erase the whole past year from existence.
The blizzard outside grew in fury until it drowned out the sounds of the sleeping children, drowned out her pleadings to God, drowned out everything and left her alone in the dark with the snow stinging against her cheeks. The wind tore at her coat and she pulled it tighter around herself. How did I get out here, she wondered? Was she sleep-walking? She was dressed like the little caroler in a red hat and mittens, but they didn’t protect her from the wind.
She turned this way and that, trying to find the cabin, but she couldn’t see anything. The cold bit her fingers under the mittens and covered her exposed face with icy crystals. The wind burned in her lungs. “Somebody help me!”
“I’m here, Kendall.” It was Patrick, but she couldn’t see him.
“I can’t see you! Where are you?”
The wind roared in her ears, and buffeted her from every direction. It beat against her so hard she felt as if she were shattering into pieces. I’m broken, she thought. She dropped to her knees and tried to scoop up the pieces, but the wind whipped them out of her hands and into the darkness. I’ll never be whole again, she thought in despair. I’ll be stuck in this storm forever until not even one shard of me is left.
“That’s not the way it works,” Patrick said. He sounded closer but she still couldn’t see him.
“What did you say?”
“I said that’s not the way it works. You aren’t Humpty-Dumpty. You can be put back together again.”
“I was pregnant.”
“I know.”
“I lost the baby.” Even now, the pain of it all was too much to hold.
“You don’t have to hold it,” Patrick said.
Kendall covered her face with her hands. Silence settled over her. It took her a moment to realize that the storm had ceased and she was no longer wearing mittens. A pleasant warmth wrapped around her and soft, white light filtered through her fingers. She stood up. The world had turned to pure light. She looked around for Patrick, but she didn’t see him, only the brilliant whiteness of the light.
Somewhere, a baby cried. Her heart lurched. “I lost the baby,” she whispered. “I lost Shane. I lost everything.”
The baby cried again. She turned toward the sound. Something moved toward her through the light. Or maybe she moved toward it; she couldn’t tell. The indistinct object grew clearer until it resolved itself into a small wooden manger.
Shaking, she stepped forward and looked inside. There lay a beautiful, perfect little baby. The light gathered all around him. When she reached down to touch his tiny head, his eyes caught hers and pierced her soul.
She knelt beside the manger and, holding her breath, reached down and gently picked the baby up. Peace enfolded her and washed away the bitter hurt. She cradled the baby in her arms and ran a finger down his soft cheek. She did not bother to wipe away the tears sliding down her own cheeks.
Something was attached to his swaddling clothes, a little note. She smoothed it between her fingers. It said: To Kendall, With Love. He can make you whole.
She dropped her head. Her tears fell on the baby and smudged the words. I don’t deserve this. Someone put a hand on her shoulder, and she looked up. It was Patrick.
“It’s Christmas, Kendall,” he said quietly. “Just accept the gift.”
* * *
“It’s Christmas!”
Kendall blinked open her eyes, and found her niece Chantel leaning into her face. “It’s Christmas,” she said again. Kendall glanced at the clock on the nightstand. 8:02. She sat up and swept Chantel into a bear hug. “It certainly is.”
Chantel wiggled out of her grasp and ran to join the other children tumbling loudly down the stairs. Kendall drew up her knees and wrapped her arms around them. Some of the peace and love from the dream still lingered. Just accept the gift, she thought. Could it really be that simple?
She drew back the curtains. Outside, the dawn revealed a world washed in unbroken white. She guessed at least a foot of new snow had fallen. The Belnaps wouldn’t be out of here for hours.
Something at the end of the bed caught her eye -– a gift-wrapped in red with a gold bow. Where did that come from? Curious, she picked it up. The tag said: To Kendall, With Love.
Her heart began to hammer. She pulled off the wrapping paper and opened the lid of the box. Inside, nestled in some crumpled newspaper, was her caroler ornament. “Oh, my,” she whispered. She picked it up and held it by the satin ribbon. It was as whole as if it had never been broken.
Someone knocked on the door of the bedroom and Patrick poked in his head. “Hey, Kendall, everybody’s downstairs. Are you coming?”
She held the ornament out for him to see. “Do you know anything about this?”
A warm smile spread across his face as he stepped into the room. “Well. Looks like it wasn’t as broken as you thought.” He sat down beside her on the bed and took the caroler from her. He turned it over, examining it. “Good as new,” he pronounced and handed it back to her.
“It’s a miracle,” she said softly.
“It certainly is.”
Kendall was suddenly acutely aware that she was wearing frayed flannel pajamas and had bed head and morning breath. But from the way Patrick looked at her, he didn’t mind. Maybe he hadn’t even noticed. He stood up and held out his hand. “So, are you coming?
She wrapped her hand around the caroler and glanced back out the window at the unblemished whiteness of the snow. She took a deep, steadying breath. It was Christmas, and Patrick was right. It was time to accept the gift.
She took Patrick’s hand. He helped her up, but he didn’t let go. He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. “Merry Christmas,” he said.
She flushed. “Merry Christmas.” Then hand in hand, they walked down the stairs.
12/15/10
21 The Christmas Party
Everything was perfect.
I stood back and surveyed my hard work. The house was spotless, decked with sprigs of fir and mistletoe. The Christmas tree stood strategically placed in the front window, twinkling with lights, heavy with all of my best heirloom ornaments, and strung with white garland that glittered like fresh snow. Underneath lay an assortment of beautifully-wrapped presents—well, empty boxes, really, since my husband and I never did an ounce of Christmas shopping until the week of, and, moreover, never got around to wrapping them. The dining room table was set with my best china, gleaming in the light of festive candles. From the kitchen wafted the scents of succulent turkey and baking pies. Even Mother Nature had cooperated and blessed us with an inch of gorgeous, powdery snow.
I clasped my hands together in delight. I had done it this year, I was sure of it. I had put together a Christmas party even my mother would be proud of. And I had done it all by myself.
The front door slammed and Sam came clattering in, stomping his boots and dropping his workbags on the floor. He started toward me with a smile, but I stopped him short.
“Could you take your boots off first? I just mopped in here.”
“I see that,” he said as he kicked off his boots. “It looks great. You look great.” He grabbed my waist and kissed me. “Did I get the time for the party wrong? Should I be dressed already?”
“Oh, no,” I replied, waving my hand. “I just got ready early. Everything has to be perfect by the time everyone gets here, and if I know my mother, she’ll be here an hour or two before I told her to be.”
“Do you need any help? Wow, it smells great in here. You really did the turkey all by yourself?”
I smiled. “Yep. And three homemade pies. And mashed potatoes, and sweet potato casserole, and rolls, and cranberry sauce...”
“Honey,” Sam interrupted. “When did you find time for all of this? I’ve only been gone for a day.”
“I’ve had a very busy day,” I replied.
He gave me a knowing look. “You didn’t sleep at all last night, did you?”
I opened my mouth to make an excuse but knew he wouldn’t buy it. “Not a wink. But I’m not at all tired. And you can’t even see the circles under my eyes....”
Sam tucked a ringlet of hair behind my ear. “Babe, why would you do that to yourself? Plenty of people would have been more than happy to give you a hand with everything. Your mother especially.”
“My mother,” I scoffed. “Sure, she would have helped. And rubbed in my face the entire time that she wouldn’t have needed any help. No, Sam. This is my Christmas party. The first chance I’ve ever had to show my mom I know how to do it. My only chance. If I mess one thing up, or ask for an ounce of help, she’ll never trust me to host the Christmas party again.”
Sam reached for a serving tray of fudge but I slapped his hand away. “That doesn’t make any sense,” he said, scowling. “It’s a family tradition, right? So the whole family should participate in putting it together.”
“This party is my mother’s claim-to-fame. There is nothing she puts more work into, and it’s always amazing. The fact that she’s allowing me to host it is mind-boggling. If I mess it up, it’s her reputation on the line.”
“It’s Christmas,” Sam shrugged. “Who cares about reputations and whether your china is shiny enough? Isn’t the point of a Christmas party for everyone to get together and have a good time?”
“I wouldn’t expect you to understand, Sam,” I snapped.
“That’s not fair. I’m trying to understand. I want you to enjoy your party, Lucy, not spend the whole time watching your mother’s reaction.”
I crossed my arms. “If it’s all a joke to you, then don’t bother coming. Go play pool with your friends or something.”
“Who said anything about it being a joke? If it’s important to you it’s important to me. I just...”
“Forget it Sam, ok? Just go get changed. And put your bags away.”
I wandered into the dining room, straightening the already-straight table cloth and rearranging the place cards in an attempt to vent my frustration. Sam had no idea how important this party was to me. I growled to myself as I picked up a plate and studied it, satisfied that my reflection shone in its surface.
I didn’t have long to wallow in my self-pity. True to form, my mother arrived several hours early, looking lovely in a satin dress of Christmas red. My father hung on her arm, trying not to look like he’d been dragged here against his will.
Mother flitted from room to room as I showed her all my hard work. To my surprise and delight, I didn’t once hear her say, “Oh, Lucy, I would have done this....” By the time I had her and my father seated in the living room, sipping hot apple cider, my smile had brightened considerably. Apparently I was a natural at this party-hosting business.
“I have never seen such a lovely tree,” Mother declared.
“Thank you,” I beamed. “Sam cut it down himself.”
Her smile faltered for just a second. “Oh...how nice,” she said as if by “nice” she meant backwards and old-fashioned. “Sam always did dress like a lumberjack, didn’t he?”
As if on cue, Sam appeared in the doorway, decidedly un-lumberjack-looking in the carefully-pressed slacks and maroon dress shirt I had picked out for him Honestly, I don’t think I had ever seen Sam dressed so nice. I felt a burst of pride at the way my mother’s jaw hit the floor.
“You were saying?” I asked her.
She composed herself quickly. “Why Sam, I hardly recognized you!”
I took that as a compliment.
The rest of the guests arrived on time—my sister Josie and her husband Frank, my Aunt Lulu and Uncle Jake, and some of mother’s very stylish friends who pulled up in shiny sports cars. They entered the house in a whirlwind of icy air and fur-lined coats. I greeted them all with a smile and squeezed Sam’s hand every time they praised the beautiful decorations and our beautiful home.
“It’s a hit, Sam,” I whispered excitedly in his ear as all the guests gathered in the living room.
To my surprise he didn’t return my enthusiasm. “I need to go outside and get some air,” he said.
“What? It’s time for dinner.”
“Well I’m sure you don’t need my help with anything, do you?” he snapped as he opened the door and disappeared outside.
I stood stunned for a moment, not used to dramatics from my laid-back husband. I couldn’t think about it for long, though, because my mother appeared at my shoulder.
“Let’s gather the guests!” I bubbled a little too enthusiastically. “You’re going to love dinner.”
Oohs and ahhs gushed forth over the gorgeous place settings, the succulent smell of the turkey, the absolute perfection of my cranberry sauce. I stood at the head of the table and saw that everything really did look perfect, but my smile felt a little forced when I glanced at Sam’s empty seat.
“Where is Sam?” my mother whispered below the hum of conversation surrounding Uncle Jake’s latest trip to Rome .
“He just went outside to get some air.”
She raised her eyebrows. “How long does that take?”
I ignored her. “Would anyone like some more gravy?”
I was beginning to wonder myself how long it took, when the back door opened with a bang. The guests jumped. I leapt to my feet and ran to give my husband a piece of my mind. But he wasn’t alone at the back door. I found him stamping fresh snow off his boots with our grumpy old neighbor, Mr. Barlow, beside him.
“I...uh...hmmm...hello, Mr. Barlow. What brings you over?”
He blinked at me with his sharp gray eyes. “Your husband found me in the middle of a walk.”
“Oh, well we’d invite you to stay for dinner but unfortunately we don’t have any more chairs...”
“He can have mine,” Sam volunteered.
My eyes flicked angrily toward Sam. Didn’t he realize I was trying to come up with an excuse not to invite Mr. Barlow to stay?
Sam didn’t seem to notice. “I’m not very hungry anyway.”
I faked a smile. “Well, Mr. Barlow, you probably have a million things you’d rather do than eat with a bunch of whippersnappers...”
“I’ll stay,” Mr. Barlow replied, shoving his hands into his pockets.
I opened my mouth to speak but no sound came out. Sam took over. “Here, let me take your coat and Lucy will show you into the dining room.”
His coat. I wondered if it was a remnant from his days in the war, it was so stained and tattered. But the rest of his clothes weren’t much better, and he smelled like he had slept in the pasture with his cows.
He looked at me without much fondness, but then, from the day we met him, it was always Sam he seemed partial to. “Come on in, Mr. Barlow,” I said, my voice high and tight. “I’ll...um...introduce you to everyone.”
The dining room was so silent I could hear the bubbles popping in the sparkling cider. Everyone turned toward us as we entered, but I only looked at my mother. She was looking at the floor and the trail of mud Mr. Barlow left behind him.
“Everyone, this is our neighbor, Mr. Barlow.”
There were a few smiles and words of greeting. Mr. Barlow merely grunted and sat down. My mother waved a hand beneath her nose as he passed by. I returned to my seat, flushing under the heat of my mother’s glare, desperate for some clever way to turn the conversation but at a complete loss for words.
My father finally broke the silence. “Well, Mr. Barlow, I’ve heard about you. You live just up the street, don’t you? Run a dairy of sorts?”
Mr. Barlow was busy loading his plate full of turkey and mashed potatoes and didn’t answer right away. “No ‘of sorts’ about it,” he grumbled. “A dairy’s a dairy.”
“You smell like it,” my mother muttered just loud enough that only I could hear.
“Do you make pretty good money with it?” one of the men asked.
“Don’t do it fer the money.” Mr. Barlow glared at the man with those eyes that made me feel two-feet tall.
“Well what do you do it for, then?”
“Been in the family fer years.”
“I bet you’d get a good price if you sold it.”
Mr. Barlow looked at the man as if he’d just suggested selling his heart on the black market. “Is that all you think about, young man? Money?”
“I make a living off of it,” the man laughed.
Mr. Barlow apparently didn’t feel a comment like that deserved a reply, so he turned his attention to his plate; he shoveled food into his mouth at such a rapid pace he hardly had time to chew in between bites. I just stared. I couldn’t help it. The hours I had spent on the party seemed wasted as I watched gravy dribble on the table. I knew just from the corner of my eye that my mother was horrified. And I despised Mr. Barlow for it.
Josie and Frank were the first to leave, pleading the need to get home to their kids. One of mother’s friends piped up that she thought she had left the oven on at home. Another suddenly complained of a splitting headache.
As the table emptied long before it was supposed to, I glanced at my mother and read in her eyes that I needed to show Mr. Barlow to the door. I wanted to. But how?
“Would you like some pie, Mr. Barlow?” I asked. Maybe rushing him through dinner and dessert would get him out of here faster.
He shook his head. “No one can make a pie the way Abigail did.”
Indignation flared inside of me. I had slaved over those pies for hours; they were absolute perfection. “You might give mine a try,” I snapped. “Your wife is dead, after all.”
The words were out of my mouth before I could snatch them back. Aunt Lulu dropped her fork to the table with a clatter. Everyone stared at me. Mr. Barlow’s hard eyes grew sad for the first time I could ever remember.
“I, um, I meant...” There was no amending what I’d done.
Mr. Barlow scooted his chair back and left the room.
Well, I had been successful in getting rid of him. But I felt no satisfaction. Giving little thought to my remaining guests, I jumped to my feet and followed him.
He was at the back door putting on his old coat. “Mr. Barlow, please don’t go.”
He didn’t even look at me.
“Please. I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have said that about your wife.”
He looked at me then, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. “Well, it’s true. She is dead.”
“I know. You live in that big house all by yourself. And I didn’t even have the decency to invite you to our Christmas party.”
“It’s a very nice party.” I had never heard a compliment pass his lips. “I reckon you thought I wouldn’t fit in.”
Shame welled inside me. He was exactly right. But suddenly I realized that my focus on perfection had been completely misplaced. The party no longer mattered so much. In fact, I wanted to laugh at how much I had agonized over such trivial details. And cry over how badly I had forgotten what really mattered.
“You most definitely fit in,” I replied. “You’re my friend. I don’t even know half those people. I just invited them because they’re my mother’s friends.”
“Doesn’t sound like a very fun party.”
“No,” I laughed. “I’ve been so stressed out I couldn’t see straight. But suddenly...I feel like I can breathe again.”
Mr. Barlow smiled. It was a very nice, warm smile. “I would like to try some of that pie of yours.”
“So you’ll stay?”
“Yes, Lucy, I will.”
I smiled back. “Wonderful. But if I give you some pie, you have to tell me about your wife. Sam says she was quite the lady.”
His wife was the one subject that pulled Mr. Barlow out of his reticence. We returned to the dining room to find it empty, but I didn’t care. Sam came inside, having seen the guests off, sat down beside me and slipped his hand in mine. And as we laughed over Mr. Barlow’s story of the first time his wife milked a cow, I recognized the Christmas perfection I had been searching for all day long.
What I liked best: Very good sense of place; strong sensory images. I'm a sucker for these "true meaning of Christmas" stories.
Publication ready: Very close. The change of heart at the end feels a little rushed. I'd add more there, and include a scene of her mother leaving. Under consideration for the book.
I stood back and surveyed my hard work. The house was spotless, decked with sprigs of fir and mistletoe. The Christmas tree stood strategically placed in the front window, twinkling with lights, heavy with all of my best heirloom ornaments, and strung with white garland that glittered like fresh snow. Underneath lay an assortment of beautifully-wrapped presents—well, empty boxes, really, since my husband and I never did an ounce of Christmas shopping until the week of, and, moreover, never got around to wrapping them. The dining room table was set with my best china, gleaming in the light of festive candles. From the kitchen wafted the scents of succulent turkey and baking pies. Even Mother Nature had cooperated and blessed us with an inch of gorgeous, powdery snow.
I clasped my hands together in delight. I had done it this year, I was sure of it. I had put together a Christmas party even my mother would be proud of. And I had done it all by myself.
The front door slammed and Sam came clattering in, stomping his boots and dropping his workbags on the floor. He started toward me with a smile, but I stopped him short.
“Could you take your boots off first? I just mopped in here.”
“I see that,” he said as he kicked off his boots. “It looks great. You look great.” He grabbed my waist and kissed me. “Did I get the time for the party wrong? Should I be dressed already?”
“Oh, no,” I replied, waving my hand. “I just got ready early. Everything has to be perfect by the time everyone gets here, and if I know my mother, she’ll be here an hour or two before I told her to be.”
“Do you need any help? Wow, it smells great in here. You really did the turkey all by yourself?”
I smiled. “Yep. And three homemade pies. And mashed potatoes, and sweet potato casserole, and rolls, and cranberry sauce...”
“Honey,” Sam interrupted. “When did you find time for all of this? I’ve only been gone for a day.”
“I’ve had a very busy day,” I replied.
He gave me a knowing look. “You didn’t sleep at all last night, did you?”
I opened my mouth to make an excuse but knew he wouldn’t buy it. “Not a wink. But I’m not at all tired. And you can’t even see the circles under my eyes....”
Sam tucked a ringlet of hair behind my ear. “Babe, why would you do that to yourself? Plenty of people would have been more than happy to give you a hand with everything. Your mother especially.”
“My mother,” I scoffed. “Sure, she would have helped. And rubbed in my face the entire time that she wouldn’t have needed any help. No, Sam. This is my Christmas party. The first chance I’ve ever had to show my mom I know how to do it. My only chance. If I mess one thing up, or ask for an ounce of help, she’ll never trust me to host the Christmas party again.”
Sam reached for a serving tray of fudge but I slapped his hand away. “That doesn’t make any sense,” he said, scowling. “It’s a family tradition, right? So the whole family should participate in putting it together.”
“This party is my mother’s claim-to-fame. There is nothing she puts more work into, and it’s always amazing. The fact that she’s allowing me to host it is mind-boggling. If I mess it up, it’s her reputation on the line.”
“It’s Christmas,” Sam shrugged. “Who cares about reputations and whether your china is shiny enough? Isn’t the point of a Christmas party for everyone to get together and have a good time?”
“I wouldn’t expect you to understand, Sam,” I snapped.
“That’s not fair. I’m trying to understand. I want you to enjoy your party, Lucy, not spend the whole time watching your mother’s reaction.”
I crossed my arms. “If it’s all a joke to you, then don’t bother coming. Go play pool with your friends or something.”
“Who said anything about it being a joke? If it’s important to you it’s important to me. I just...”
“Forget it Sam, ok? Just go get changed. And put your bags away.”
I wandered into the dining room, straightening the already-straight table cloth and rearranging the place cards in an attempt to vent my frustration. Sam had no idea how important this party was to me. I growled to myself as I picked up a plate and studied it, satisfied that my reflection shone in its surface.
I didn’t have long to wallow in my self-pity. True to form, my mother arrived several hours early, looking lovely in a satin dress of Christmas red. My father hung on her arm, trying not to look like he’d been dragged here against his will.
Mother flitted from room to room as I showed her all my hard work. To my surprise and delight, I didn’t once hear her say, “Oh, Lucy, I would have done this....” By the time I had her and my father seated in the living room, sipping hot apple cider, my smile had brightened considerably. Apparently I was a natural at this party-hosting business.
“I have never seen such a lovely tree,” Mother declared.
“Thank you,” I beamed. “Sam cut it down himself.”
Her smile faltered for just a second. “Oh...how nice,” she said as if by “nice” she meant backwards and old-fashioned. “Sam always did dress like a lumberjack, didn’t he?”
As if on cue, Sam appeared in the doorway, decidedly un-lumberjack-looking in the carefully-pressed slacks and maroon dress shirt I had picked out for him Honestly, I don’t think I had ever seen Sam dressed so nice. I felt a burst of pride at the way my mother’s jaw hit the floor.
“You were saying?” I asked her.
She composed herself quickly. “Why Sam, I hardly recognized you!”
I took that as a compliment.
The rest of the guests arrived on time—my sister Josie and her husband Frank, my Aunt Lulu and Uncle Jake, and some of mother’s very stylish friends who pulled up in shiny sports cars. They entered the house in a whirlwind of icy air and fur-lined coats. I greeted them all with a smile and squeezed Sam’s hand every time they praised the beautiful decorations and our beautiful home.
“It’s a hit, Sam,” I whispered excitedly in his ear as all the guests gathered in the living room.
To my surprise he didn’t return my enthusiasm. “I need to go outside and get some air,” he said.
“What? It’s time for dinner.”
“Well I’m sure you don’t need my help with anything, do you?” he snapped as he opened the door and disappeared outside.
I stood stunned for a moment, not used to dramatics from my laid-back husband. I couldn’t think about it for long, though, because my mother appeared at my shoulder.
“Let’s gather the guests!” I bubbled a little too enthusiastically. “You’re going to love dinner.”
Oohs and ahhs gushed forth over the gorgeous place settings, the succulent smell of the turkey, the absolute perfection of my cranberry sauce. I stood at the head of the table and saw that everything really did look perfect, but my smile felt a little forced when I glanced at Sam’s empty seat.
“Where is Sam?” my mother whispered below the hum of conversation surrounding Uncle Jake’s latest trip to Rome .
“He just went outside to get some air.”
She raised her eyebrows. “How long does that take?”
I ignored her. “Would anyone like some more gravy?”
I was beginning to wonder myself how long it took, when the back door opened with a bang. The guests jumped. I leapt to my feet and ran to give my husband a piece of my mind. But he wasn’t alone at the back door. I found him stamping fresh snow off his boots with our grumpy old neighbor, Mr. Barlow, beside him.
“I...uh...hmmm...hello, Mr. Barlow. What brings you over?”
He blinked at me with his sharp gray eyes. “Your husband found me in the middle of a walk.”
“Oh, well we’d invite you to stay for dinner but unfortunately we don’t have any more chairs...”
“He can have mine,” Sam volunteered.
My eyes flicked angrily toward Sam. Didn’t he realize I was trying to come up with an excuse not to invite Mr. Barlow to stay?
Sam didn’t seem to notice. “I’m not very hungry anyway.”
I faked a smile. “Well, Mr. Barlow, you probably have a million things you’d rather do than eat with a bunch of whippersnappers...”
“I’ll stay,” Mr. Barlow replied, shoving his hands into his pockets.
I opened my mouth to speak but no sound came out. Sam took over. “Here, let me take your coat and Lucy will show you into the dining room.”
His coat. I wondered if it was a remnant from his days in the war, it was so stained and tattered. But the rest of his clothes weren’t much better, and he smelled like he had slept in the pasture with his cows.
He looked at me without much fondness, but then, from the day we met him, it was always Sam he seemed partial to. “Come on in, Mr. Barlow,” I said, my voice high and tight. “I’ll...um...introduce you to everyone.”
The dining room was so silent I could hear the bubbles popping in the sparkling cider. Everyone turned toward us as we entered, but I only looked at my mother. She was looking at the floor and the trail of mud Mr. Barlow left behind him.
“Everyone, this is our neighbor, Mr. Barlow.”
There were a few smiles and words of greeting. Mr. Barlow merely grunted and sat down. My mother waved a hand beneath her nose as he passed by. I returned to my seat, flushing under the heat of my mother’s glare, desperate for some clever way to turn the conversation but at a complete loss for words.
My father finally broke the silence. “Well, Mr. Barlow, I’ve heard about you. You live just up the street, don’t you? Run a dairy of sorts?”
Mr. Barlow was busy loading his plate full of turkey and mashed potatoes and didn’t answer right away. “No ‘of sorts’ about it,” he grumbled. “A dairy’s a dairy.”
“You smell like it,” my mother muttered just loud enough that only I could hear.
“Do you make pretty good money with it?” one of the men asked.
“Don’t do it fer the money.” Mr. Barlow glared at the man with those eyes that made me feel two-feet tall.
“Well what do you do it for, then?”
“Been in the family fer years.”
“I bet you’d get a good price if you sold it.”
Mr. Barlow looked at the man as if he’d just suggested selling his heart on the black market. “Is that all you think about, young man? Money?”
“I make a living off of it,” the man laughed.
Mr. Barlow apparently didn’t feel a comment like that deserved a reply, so he turned his attention to his plate; he shoveled food into his mouth at such a rapid pace he hardly had time to chew in between bites. I just stared. I couldn’t help it. The hours I had spent on the party seemed wasted as I watched gravy dribble on the table. I knew just from the corner of my eye that my mother was horrified. And I despised Mr. Barlow for it.
Josie and Frank were the first to leave, pleading the need to get home to their kids. One of mother’s friends piped up that she thought she had left the oven on at home. Another suddenly complained of a splitting headache.
As the table emptied long before it was supposed to, I glanced at my mother and read in her eyes that I needed to show Mr. Barlow to the door. I wanted to. But how?
“Would you like some pie, Mr. Barlow?” I asked. Maybe rushing him through dinner and dessert would get him out of here faster.
He shook his head. “No one can make a pie the way Abigail did.”
Indignation flared inside of me. I had slaved over those pies for hours; they were absolute perfection. “You might give mine a try,” I snapped. “Your wife is dead, after all.”
The words were out of my mouth before I could snatch them back. Aunt Lulu dropped her fork to the table with a clatter. Everyone stared at me. Mr. Barlow’s hard eyes grew sad for the first time I could ever remember.
“I, um, I meant...” There was no amending what I’d done.
Mr. Barlow scooted his chair back and left the room.
Well, I had been successful in getting rid of him. But I felt no satisfaction. Giving little thought to my remaining guests, I jumped to my feet and followed him.
He was at the back door putting on his old coat. “Mr. Barlow, please don’t go.”
He didn’t even look at me.
“Please. I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have said that about your wife.”
He looked at me then, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. “Well, it’s true. She is dead.”
“I know. You live in that big house all by yourself. And I didn’t even have the decency to invite you to our Christmas party.”
“It’s a very nice party.” I had never heard a compliment pass his lips. “I reckon you thought I wouldn’t fit in.”
Shame welled inside me. He was exactly right. But suddenly I realized that my focus on perfection had been completely misplaced. The party no longer mattered so much. In fact, I wanted to laugh at how much I had agonized over such trivial details. And cry over how badly I had forgotten what really mattered.
“You most definitely fit in,” I replied. “You’re my friend. I don’t even know half those people. I just invited them because they’re my mother’s friends.”
“Doesn’t sound like a very fun party.”
“No,” I laughed. “I’ve been so stressed out I couldn’t see straight. But suddenly...I feel like I can breathe again.”
Mr. Barlow smiled. It was a very nice, warm smile. “I would like to try some of that pie of yours.”
“So you’ll stay?”
“Yes, Lucy, I will.”
I smiled back. “Wonderful. But if I give you some pie, you have to tell me about your wife. Sam says she was quite the lady.”
His wife was the one subject that pulled Mr. Barlow out of his reticence. We returned to the dining room to find it empty, but I didn’t care. Sam came inside, having seen the guests off, sat down beside me and slipped his hand in mine. And as we laughed over Mr. Barlow’s story of the first time his wife milked a cow, I recognized the Christmas perfection I had been searching for all day long.
What I liked best: Very good sense of place; strong sensory images. I'm a sucker for these "true meaning of Christmas" stories.
Publication ready: Very close. The change of heart at the end feels a little rushed. I'd add more there, and include a scene of her mother leaving. Under consideration for the book.
12/14/10
20 Sometimes It Pays After All
In the North Pole there’s a certain order to things. Elves begin to work early in life usually by age 50. They start out in the Peanut Palace sorting and counting raisins and peanuts. Why not Peanut Raisin Palace you ask?” Well as everyone knows there is always more peanuts in the mix. One year, pounds of peanuts and racks of raisins later each elf gets a chance to move up to the next level. An evaluator is dispatched to rate each elf’s performance. If an elf is always on time, works hard, and does a good job he or she will get to move up. This happens each year of an elves working life, he moves up stays the same, or in some rare instances moves down.
Gilldorff was a good worker, really he was, but he’d been stuck in Chocolate Covered Brazilian Nuts for the last 10 years. He passed Peanut Palace, and conquered Candy Cane Cave just fine, but for some reason he couldn’t move beyond Chocolate City. Every Elf’s dream including his own was to make it all the way to the Sleigh Safety Staff. Those fortunate fairy folk got to take the reindeer out for test runs, and it was rumored that they even got to accompany The Big C on Christmas Eve every once in a while. Gilldorff would have loved that, but he had no hopes of reindeer riding especially after yesterday. After yesterday, he’d be lucky if he wasn’t sent to the Deer Droppings Disposery. That’s where elves that like to cause trouble are sent. His neighbor, Willy, was sent there for planting an exploding marshmallow Santa in the Big C’s outhouse. It really was kind of funny; the clausmyster was stuck in his winter underwear until mid July, and besides Willy was part Wood Sprite, it was in their nature to practice pranks. Gilldorff had pleaded with the Elf council to give Willy another chance, but it was no use. When someone offends the Big C it’s not taken lightly no matter how humorous the offence may be. Maybe that’s why he couldn’t get out of Chocolate. Maybe they don’t promote prank supporters. Gilldorf supposed that it didn’t matter much why he was stuck there anyway because he was quite sure he’d be leaving soon.
Yesterday was evaluation day. The tight-lipped pointy-nosed evaluator had just finished chastising Gilldorff for being late to work, again, when a conveyer belt loaded with Chocolate Covered Brazilian Nuts spun sporadically out of control. The appalled evaluator was repeatedly pelted with chocolates. One even managed to get past his gritted teeth. He had turned varied shades of blue before Gilldorff was able to expel the chocolate with a forceful application of the Heimlich. The Evaluator was ungrateful for Gilldorff's service and left in a haughty huff, steam billowing excessively out of his elf ears.
As the energized evaluator left, Gilldorff heard his co-worker Darogantatious, Dar for short, laughing, “you will never get out of hear now!” Dar was a very young elf that had progressed quickly from Peanut Palace to Chocolate City, skipping Candy Cane Cave entirely. He was always 10 minutes early to work and stayed 10 minutes later than everyone else; a model elf; the evaluators loved him. Gilldorff had tried all his working life to be early to work in fact, he always left home 30 minutes early, but for some reason everyday he ran into dastardly delays. Just last Monday for instance, he was only a block away from work with plenty of spare time, but as luck would have it, he found a bawling Abominable – abominable snowman that is, but not being made of snow, they prefer to leave that part off. Gilldorff couldn’t just leave the poor freezing fur ball to drowned in his tears so of coarse he stopped and found that the Abominable had a silver sliver in his toe. One hour later the Abominable left with a thoughtful thanks and a treated toe. Gilldorff was 20 minutes late to work when he’d planned to be early. This kind of thing seemed to happen everyday. There was the wood sprite who wished his weeping willow away, the penguin with the parted pizza, a bear without his bankcard, and the disoriented duck just to name a few. Gilldorff wanted to be early so very bad, but he just didn’t have the heart to ignore his needy neighbors.
Gilldorff went home from work that day feeling desperately down in the dumps. He slowly sauntered down the street towards home kicking a stray silver jingle bell. He stopped at his mail sock, pulled out a pile of letters, drudged through the doorway and plopped in his poof chair. He opened a reminder about his tailors appointment, and a letter from the Elf Pet Affairs Department informing him that he could not have a pet malamute and remain living in the suburb of Sugar and Sweets – elves being on the smaller end of the food chain must be careful of the animals they choose for pets. As Gilldorff was about to stand up, he noticed a small card he hadn’t seen before. It had the letter C raised and embossed in red and silver glitter. Gilldorff felt a lump in his throat because he knew who used that emblem on his stationary. The card read.
What would the Big C want with me thought Gilldorff, “Oh ya, I’m going to be sent to the reindeer doo doo den, boy that evaluator didn’t waste any time?" He went to sleep with a heavy heart. He didn’t feel much better the next morning either. When he arrived at Claus Central he was ushered into “The Office” by two large elves dressed in green and purple, they were the Big C’s right hand dudes. As he entered the room visions of shovels haunted his head. Then in an instant his hand was being shook vigorously by a round bearded man decked in red velvet. “So glad you could make it Gilly old boy, I've been watching you since you were knee high to a snow beetle, “Here it comes," thought Gilldorff, "Willy’s new bunkmate.” Santa continued, “due to your superior service and unceasing kindness to the citizens of the North Pole, I hereby promote you to the highest order of Elf worker. Gill, welcome to the EIA.” Amazement and relief swept through Gilldorff’s body. He wasn’t in trouble! He was going to be part of the EIA, whatever that was, but before he could ask, a trap porthole in the floor opened and he was sucked inside. Gilldorff found himself inside a musty dark room. He heard footsteps at the far end; a door opened and in it stood Willy the Whistler.
"But . . but . . I thought you were in . . ."
"I was but the big C gave me a second chance thanks to you, and here I am head of Elf Intelligence agency. Gill you have been chosen because of your compassion, caring and kindness to be a part of the most important team an elf can be on. Your mission will be to inform the Clausemyster of the naughties and nices of the children from the 39th parallel to the 67th. You will begin your training tomorrow and enter the field in one-week, congratulations."
Gilldorff was one elated Elf. He skipped smiling all the way home and thought to himself, “maybe it pays to be a nice elf after all.”
Gilldorff was a good worker, really he was, but he’d been stuck in Chocolate Covered Brazilian Nuts for the last 10 years. He passed Peanut Palace, and conquered Candy Cane Cave just fine, but for some reason he couldn’t move beyond Chocolate City. Every Elf’s dream including his own was to make it all the way to the Sleigh Safety Staff. Those fortunate fairy folk got to take the reindeer out for test runs, and it was rumored that they even got to accompany The Big C on Christmas Eve every once in a while. Gilldorff would have loved that, but he had no hopes of reindeer riding especially after yesterday. After yesterday, he’d be lucky if he wasn’t sent to the Deer Droppings Disposery. That’s where elves that like to cause trouble are sent. His neighbor, Willy, was sent there for planting an exploding marshmallow Santa in the Big C’s outhouse. It really was kind of funny; the clausmyster was stuck in his winter underwear until mid July, and besides Willy was part Wood Sprite, it was in their nature to practice pranks. Gilldorff had pleaded with the Elf council to give Willy another chance, but it was no use. When someone offends the Big C it’s not taken lightly no matter how humorous the offence may be. Maybe that’s why he couldn’t get out of Chocolate. Maybe they don’t promote prank supporters. Gilldorf supposed that it didn’t matter much why he was stuck there anyway because he was quite sure he’d be leaving soon.
Yesterday was evaluation day. The tight-lipped pointy-nosed evaluator had just finished chastising Gilldorff for being late to work, again, when a conveyer belt loaded with Chocolate Covered Brazilian Nuts spun sporadically out of control. The appalled evaluator was repeatedly pelted with chocolates. One even managed to get past his gritted teeth. He had turned varied shades of blue before Gilldorff was able to expel the chocolate with a forceful application of the Heimlich. The Evaluator was ungrateful for Gilldorff's service and left in a haughty huff, steam billowing excessively out of his elf ears.
As the energized evaluator left, Gilldorff heard his co-worker Darogantatious, Dar for short, laughing, “you will never get out of hear now!” Dar was a very young elf that had progressed quickly from Peanut Palace to Chocolate City, skipping Candy Cane Cave entirely. He was always 10 minutes early to work and stayed 10 minutes later than everyone else; a model elf; the evaluators loved him. Gilldorff had tried all his working life to be early to work in fact, he always left home 30 minutes early, but for some reason everyday he ran into dastardly delays. Just last Monday for instance, he was only a block away from work with plenty of spare time, but as luck would have it, he found a bawling Abominable – abominable snowman that is, but not being made of snow, they prefer to leave that part off. Gilldorff couldn’t just leave the poor freezing fur ball to drowned in his tears so of coarse he stopped and found that the Abominable had a silver sliver in his toe. One hour later the Abominable left with a thoughtful thanks and a treated toe. Gilldorff was 20 minutes late to work when he’d planned to be early. This kind of thing seemed to happen everyday. There was the wood sprite who wished his weeping willow away, the penguin with the parted pizza, a bear without his bankcard, and the disoriented duck just to name a few. Gilldorff wanted to be early so very bad, but he just didn’t have the heart to ignore his needy neighbors.
Gilldorff went home from work that day feeling desperately down in the dumps. He slowly sauntered down the street towards home kicking a stray silver jingle bell. He stopped at his mail sock, pulled out a pile of letters, drudged through the doorway and plopped in his poof chair. He opened a reminder about his tailors appointment, and a letter from the Elf Pet Affairs Department informing him that he could not have a pet malamute and remain living in the suburb of Sugar and Sweets – elves being on the smaller end of the food chain must be careful of the animals they choose for pets. As Gilldorff was about to stand up, he noticed a small card he hadn’t seen before. It had the letter C raised and embossed in red and silver glitter. Gilldorff felt a lump in his throat because he knew who used that emblem on his stationary. The card read.
Gilldorff, need to see you tomorrow. Meet me at Clause Central - noon.
Thanks
Santa
Thanks
Santa
What would the Big C want with me thought Gilldorff, “Oh ya, I’m going to be sent to the reindeer doo doo den, boy that evaluator didn’t waste any time?" He went to sleep with a heavy heart. He didn’t feel much better the next morning either. When he arrived at Claus Central he was ushered into “The Office” by two large elves dressed in green and purple, they were the Big C’s right hand dudes. As he entered the room visions of shovels haunted his head. Then in an instant his hand was being shook vigorously by a round bearded man decked in red velvet. “So glad you could make it Gilly old boy, I've been watching you since you were knee high to a snow beetle, “Here it comes," thought Gilldorff, "Willy’s new bunkmate.” Santa continued, “due to your superior service and unceasing kindness to the citizens of the North Pole, I hereby promote you to the highest order of Elf worker. Gill, welcome to the EIA.” Amazement and relief swept through Gilldorff’s body. He wasn’t in trouble! He was going to be part of the EIA, whatever that was, but before he could ask, a trap porthole in the floor opened and he was sucked inside. Gilldorff found himself inside a musty dark room. He heard footsteps at the far end; a door opened and in it stood Willy the Whistler.
"But . . but . . I thought you were in . . ."
"I was but the big C gave me a second chance thanks to you, and here I am head of Elf Intelligence agency. Gill you have been chosen because of your compassion, caring and kindness to be a part of the most important team an elf can be on. Your mission will be to inform the Clausemyster of the naughties and nices of the children from the 39th parallel to the 67th. You will begin your training tomorrow and enter the field in one-week, congratulations."
Gilldorff was one elated Elf. He skipped smiling all the way home and thought to himself, “maybe it pays to be a nice elf after all.”
19 Remembering Christmas’s Past!
Christmas 1969 was a magical time, one that represented the holidays clearly and without fanfare. How nostalgic!
With the stars glowing brightly in their shimmering armor, and Nat King Cole’s The Christmas Song softly playing in the background; a nostalgic haze looms across the sky, and I’m transported back to 1969, and the most riveting Christmas of my childhood. Hence, every time I see a child riding a bike, or making a cake in an Easy Bake Oven, my mind drifts back to that incredible Christmas 41 years ago.
As I recall, excitement was in the air as I rushed into the living room, where I saw my grandmother putting the finishing touches on the turkey. Peering at the stove, she asked me what I was looking for. Slightly flustered, I remarked, “my presents.” Smiling my grandmother responded, “Well you’ll have to wait until everyone gets here.”
As my grandmother pointed to the tree crammed with twinkling lights and colorful ornaments, I saw stacks of presents just waiting to be opened. Checking the names, I asked her if there was anything for me. Without changing expressions, she nodded at the presents in the corner. There were at least 10 gifts in all.
“Oh boy,” I thought, “all those presents, and they’re mine.” Like most children, I couldn’t wait for the rest of the family to arrive, I wanted to tear into those gifts right then and there. Luckily for me, I didn’t have to wait long.
With my parents, aunts, uncles and grandmother looking on; I let out a shriek as my hands tore away at the beautiful wrapping paper. I opened up one box after the other, finding inside toys, money, shoes, clothes and a deluxe Easy Bake Oven. A smorgasboard for any kid. However, the piece de resistance, was a blue bike that had been carefully hidden in the bathroom the night before.
Straddling my bike, the flash from my mother’s camera caught me off-guard, as she snapped a photo of me attempting to “burn rubber”. And before you ask, yes I looked goofy. My feet barely touched the pedals and I had difficulty with the handle bars. But I didn’t care, because I was so happy.
As the remaining gifts were opened, I strolled into my bedroom and put on one of my new dresses, a pink and white ensemble dripping with lace. Hey, believe me when I say it was gorgeous!!!!! Remember, this was the 1960s and lace was hot, so no giggling, okay? Now back to the story. When I entered the living room, modeling my new dress, my family was seated at the dining table. Looking at me, my mother smiled as everyone commented on my frilly duds. After that it was time to eat.
For the next 20 minutes we dined on turkey, stuffing, potato salad and every dessert imaginable. Looking at everyone seated at the table, my heart was warmed by those seven people as we basked in the holiday spirit.
At that tender age, I couldn’t grasp the true meaning of Christmas. For me it was a time for getting gifts and eating candy. The only thing on my mind, was me. And honestly, isn’t that the way most kids feel?
After we ate, the rest of the day was a hubbub of fun and thrills. My aunts took turns riding my bike, which I didn’t mind, since it was a tad too big for me. And they eliminated any displeasure I may have felt, by riding me on the handle bars. Wow, talk about a wild adventure! For the rest of the day we rode up and down the street, with me encouraging them to go faster and faster.
Hours later the day was over, and we returned home. As we entered the door my grandmother’s humming could be heard. That was music to my ears. Smiling broadly she asked me if I wanted to join her in finishing off the remainder of the pecan pie, to which I replied with a gleeful “yes mam. “
As we ate our pie, we reminisced about the day’s events. Sensing my joy, my grandmother asked me if I had enjoyed my day. She only had to take one look at me, to know what the answer was. Afterwards, I excused myself to go to the bathroom and wipe away the stickiness of the pie from my hands.
A minute later I returned and our conversation resumed. If anyone had wandered into that kitchen, with its red tile and checkered wall paper, they would have seen a little girl and a middle-age woman quietly enjoying one of those poignant conversations, only grandmothers and granddaughters share.
As my bed time neared, I put on my pajamas and took my teddy bear and placed it on the pillow next to me. And as I lay in the darkness, the cold air nipping at my ears, I took a moment to reflect on December 25, 1969. Unfortunately, the more I thought, the sadder I became. I was a kid, yet I remember feeling remorseful, that never again would my entire family spend another Christmas together. Little did I realize, that my thoughts were a premonition of things to come. The next year, my two uncles celebrated Christmas in Vietnam, and things were never the same.
I have celebrated many holidays since then, but I can still recall that one with total accuracy. I can still visualize those smiling faces. My parents’ joy, my uncles so young and handsome, my aunts wide eyed with wonderment and my grandmother’s hearty laughter.
Today, my family and I still gather around the tree and open presents. But for me, Christmas has lost much of its magic. My youngest uncle was killed in Vietnam and my grandmother proceeded him 17 years later. Moreover,commercialism has replaced the true spirit of the holidays.
And as I write this passage, thoughts of Christmas Past gingerly tug at my heart. It is then that I close my eyes and return to that marvelous Wednesday 41 years ago. Back to a day forever woven in the joy and simplicity of a child’s memory.
With the stars glowing brightly in their shimmering armor, and Nat King Cole’s The Christmas Song softly playing in the background; a nostalgic haze looms across the sky, and I’m transported back to 1969, and the most riveting Christmas of my childhood. Hence, every time I see a child riding a bike, or making a cake in an Easy Bake Oven, my mind drifts back to that incredible Christmas 41 years ago.
As I recall, excitement was in the air as I rushed into the living room, where I saw my grandmother putting the finishing touches on the turkey. Peering at the stove, she asked me what I was looking for. Slightly flustered, I remarked, “my presents.” Smiling my grandmother responded, “Well you’ll have to wait until everyone gets here.”
As my grandmother pointed to the tree crammed with twinkling lights and colorful ornaments, I saw stacks of presents just waiting to be opened. Checking the names, I asked her if there was anything for me. Without changing expressions, she nodded at the presents in the corner. There were at least 10 gifts in all.
“Oh boy,” I thought, “all those presents, and they’re mine.” Like most children, I couldn’t wait for the rest of the family to arrive, I wanted to tear into those gifts right then and there. Luckily for me, I didn’t have to wait long.
With my parents, aunts, uncles and grandmother looking on; I let out a shriek as my hands tore away at the beautiful wrapping paper. I opened up one box after the other, finding inside toys, money, shoes, clothes and a deluxe Easy Bake Oven. A smorgasboard for any kid. However, the piece de resistance, was a blue bike that had been carefully hidden in the bathroom the night before.
Straddling my bike, the flash from my mother’s camera caught me off-guard, as she snapped a photo of me attempting to “burn rubber”. And before you ask, yes I looked goofy. My feet barely touched the pedals and I had difficulty with the handle bars. But I didn’t care, because I was so happy.
As the remaining gifts were opened, I strolled into my bedroom and put on one of my new dresses, a pink and white ensemble dripping with lace. Hey, believe me when I say it was gorgeous!!!!! Remember, this was the 1960s and lace was hot, so no giggling, okay? Now back to the story. When I entered the living room, modeling my new dress, my family was seated at the dining table. Looking at me, my mother smiled as everyone commented on my frilly duds. After that it was time to eat.
For the next 20 minutes we dined on turkey, stuffing, potato salad and every dessert imaginable. Looking at everyone seated at the table, my heart was warmed by those seven people as we basked in the holiday spirit.
At that tender age, I couldn’t grasp the true meaning of Christmas. For me it was a time for getting gifts and eating candy. The only thing on my mind, was me. And honestly, isn’t that the way most kids feel?
After we ate, the rest of the day was a hubbub of fun and thrills. My aunts took turns riding my bike, which I didn’t mind, since it was a tad too big for me. And they eliminated any displeasure I may have felt, by riding me on the handle bars. Wow, talk about a wild adventure! For the rest of the day we rode up and down the street, with me encouraging them to go faster and faster.
Hours later the day was over, and we returned home. As we entered the door my grandmother’s humming could be heard. That was music to my ears. Smiling broadly she asked me if I wanted to join her in finishing off the remainder of the pecan pie, to which I replied with a gleeful “yes mam. “
As we ate our pie, we reminisced about the day’s events. Sensing my joy, my grandmother asked me if I had enjoyed my day. She only had to take one look at me, to know what the answer was. Afterwards, I excused myself to go to the bathroom and wipe away the stickiness of the pie from my hands.
A minute later I returned and our conversation resumed. If anyone had wandered into that kitchen, with its red tile and checkered wall paper, they would have seen a little girl and a middle-age woman quietly enjoying one of those poignant conversations, only grandmothers and granddaughters share.
As my bed time neared, I put on my pajamas and took my teddy bear and placed it on the pillow next to me. And as I lay in the darkness, the cold air nipping at my ears, I took a moment to reflect on December 25, 1969. Unfortunately, the more I thought, the sadder I became. I was a kid, yet I remember feeling remorseful, that never again would my entire family spend another Christmas together. Little did I realize, that my thoughts were a premonition of things to come. The next year, my two uncles celebrated Christmas in Vietnam, and things were never the same.
I have celebrated many holidays since then, but I can still recall that one with total accuracy. I can still visualize those smiling faces. My parents’ joy, my uncles so young and handsome, my aunts wide eyed with wonderment and my grandmother’s hearty laughter.
Today, my family and I still gather around the tree and open presents. But for me, Christmas has lost much of its magic. My youngest uncle was killed in Vietnam and my grandmother proceeded him 17 years later. Moreover,commercialism has replaced the true spirit of the holidays.
And as I write this passage, thoughts of Christmas Past gingerly tug at my heart. It is then that I close my eyes and return to that marvelous Wednesday 41 years ago. Back to a day forever woven in the joy and simplicity of a child’s memory.
18 Leaving Everything Behind
My name is Emma and I’m upset. In my forlorn eyes it shows. My disposition displays my doldrums. My mood defines my disappointment. Three weeks before Christmas and we’re moving – moving. Father took a new job and timing was horrible. Father’s first day, somewhere in Montana, was two weeks before Christmas so we piled into the Suburban. Yesterday we experienced the emotions of father being released as bishop and saying goodbye to our ward family. Saying goodbye to my best friend, Sarah, tore at my soul. My stomach turned in circles and my heart ached. What could possibly be good about Christmas this year when I was leaving everything I cared about behind.
I was not alone in my despair. My sisters, Norma and Judy, shared my sorrow. Patrick, my six year old brother, didn’t understand. He was happy going with dad; he didn’t care where we were going. But I was sixteen and I was leaving my best friend behind. Moving to Montana made no sense to me. Why couldn’t we stay in Salt Lake where everything was familiar? Christmas would be a waste of time this year without my friend.
“Why do we have to move right now?” I blurted out. “It’s so unfair, dad.”
Father knew my pain and in his compassionate voice, said, “You’re going to love Helena, sweetheart. You’ll make new friends and you’ll be happy before you know it.”
I appreciated my father’s optimistic outlook; although I must admit I didn’t share in it. The future I foresaw didn’t appear rosy. Sure, I might make new friends, but not in time for Christmas. Dad couldn’t understand why I needed friends to share my Christmas stories with.
We pulled out of the driveway towing the u-haul. I curled up in a fetal position feeling sorry for my plight. I stared blankly at the city I loved. Snow fell from the darkened sky which meant travel would be slower. That was okay because I planned to sleep. Snowflakes turned from solid shapes to disconnected images as I began to dose.
I awoke when we stopped for lunch. I couldn’t believe I’d slept for three hours. However, my sleep had done nothing to improve my spirits. I looked out on unfamiliar surroundings and resumed my binding connection with remorse. I wanted to scream out at my father to turn around. He could work in Salt Lake. He should do it for his family. If he loved me he’d do it for me. But who was I kidding. We weren’t turning around just because I wanted to. Instead, father turned north. Our new home and the end of life as I knew it lay ahead.
I rode the rest of the way in silence. I felt no desire to talk to anybody. Random thoughts of growing doom passed through my mind as I stared uncomprehending at the passing landscape. Before I knew it my dad, always cheerful, announced we were nearing Helena. My despair reached a new low.
Helena was larger than I expected. It wasn’t like Salt Lake, but maybe there’d be things to do. I couldn’t stay at home and hang out with my family 24/7. I got enough of that with all those family things dad insisted we participate in. Scripture reading, family prayer, family home evening; it all piled up and sometimes suffocated me. Family would always be there, but I needed a friend, someone who understood me and related to the burdens I carried.
We pulled into a driveway rimmed with snow. Someone had used a snow blower to clean a space. Snow walled the driveway almost five feet high. I immediately wondered why we pulled into the driveway. Dad had said nothing about a house, but this must be where we would live. I had assumed we would stay in a motel for awhile until dad and mom found a place. I hoped dad would see how miserable life was going to be away from Salt Lake and decide to move back.
“Everybody pile out,” my over exuberant dad led the way. “Welcome to our new home.”
I was crushed. That was it then. We had really moved. A new home meant we were staying. Norma, Judy and Patrick raced after mom. They showed much more enthusiasm than me. My devastation obliged me to become lethargic as I approached the house. I moved through thick molasses, each step heavy laden. The only silver lining I considered with my current situation was maybe dad would skip family home evening. We’d traveled all day and the hour was late. His next words smacked of a double whammy. Not only would we have a short family home evening, but it would be preceded by scripture reading and family prayer. Dad sure knew how to pile it on.
Dad kept his word. Family home evening was short. I read one verse. It was something from Alma about trusting in the Lord when things were crumbling down around you. I didn’t want to read but something about the words in the verse stuck with me as I lay down in my bed. I felt a strange kind of comfort invade my rebellious soul.
I hated mornings in the Thomas family. We were always getting out of bed way too early. My inclination was to pull the covers over my head and curl up in a ball. Let the world pass me by, I noted mutely to no one. Next thing I knew dad jostled my shoulder.
“Time to get up, sweetheart,” his tone was soothing, with an abrasive edge. You, Norma, Judy and Patrick must get registered at your new schools.”
What? I couldn’t believe what I’d just heard. Was there no God? At least let me wait until after Christmas to start going to a strange school. I couldn’t go through new girl syndrome right now. Not when I thought back on how we often treated new kids coming to our school in Salt Lake. Suddenly I realized how cruel people could be. I had been cruel more than once.
“Do I have to go to school, dad?” I asked. “Can’t I wait until after Christmas?”
“Christmas is three weeks from now, Emma. You can’t stay out of school for three weeks.”
I could do it without working up a sweat I wanted to blurt out to my dad. Instead, I got out of bed and began dressing. I couldn’t think of anything good happening to me living in Helena. All I could expect was sorrow and torment. I had no way of knowing that a heartbreaking incident involving people from Helena and Salt Lake would help me realize I was perhaps the most fortunate person on the earth. I would come to understand I’d left nothing important behind.
I was quiet the first couple days at school. This was not normal for me; no, definitely not normal. Sarah, my best friend, would have been shocked. She would’ve said this is not the Emma she knew. Emma is much more talkative and friendly, she’d say. I would ordinarily agree with the assessment, but something about the kids in Helena was different. There was a girl named Lani, who I’d talked to a couple times. She seemed genuinely nice. Still, I decided to put caution first as I chose new friends. Lani couldn’t be the kind of friend Sarah was.
Sunday came before I had time to prepare for it. I must face a new ward for the first time in many years. I considered, briefly, asking father if I could stay home, but I knew he’d never allow that. Truthfully, I wanted to go. I couldn’t blame Heavenly Father for my father taking a job in Helena, Montana. So I dressed in my floral ankle length dress, put on a respectable amount of eye shadow and chose some modest earrings.
The ward in Helena matched the one I’d left in Salt Lake. There were fewer people, but everyone extended their hands. I went to Sunday school and was surprised when Lani sat down next to me. I had no idea she was LDS. I hadn’t seen her in the chapel. Maybe, just maybe, I should pursue a friendship with Lani. After all, she would think like I did and have the same standards.
“Hi, Emma,” Lani’s greeting was enthusiastic. “I didn’t know you were LDS.”
“I didn’t know you were LDS either,” I said. My mind explored the possibilities of having Lani for a new friend. The more I thought about it the more I liked it. A friend would make living in a strange city bearable. But Sarah was my best friend and I didn’t want someone else to take her place. Could I have two best friends? I knew Lani was far from being a best friend, but I felt I could have two friends. I knew I needed somebody to be my friend right now.
Two days before Christmas news came from Salt Lake that brought my world crashing down. At the same time I would learn the true meaning of friendship; of Christ like love when I needed it most. The icy roads of Salt Lake claimed many accident victims, but I was oblivious to most of them. That changed when Brother Brown called my father. His daughter and my best friend, Sarah, had collided with a truck on a slippery intersection. She was in the hospital and the next forty-eight hours would be crucial. Father didn’t tell me the details. He just brought our family together to pray for Sarah.
I retreated to my room and curled up on my bed. Tears streamed down my cheeks unabated. I loved Sarah so much. She had to be okay. Christmas would be completely ruined if Sarah died. My anger rose when I thought of father’s new job in Helena and me being too far away to be with Sarah. My heart ached with the pain of separation. Later exhaustion took over and I fell asleep.
A bright sun shone off the white snow when I awoke. The pain in my eyes reminded me of the pain in my heart. I rushed downstairs to see if dad had heard anything new. Brother Brown had not called back. Dad reminded me it was still early. A feeling I’d never experienced before tormented my soul. I had to talk to someone, someone my own age who could understand. I went back to my room and dialed Lani’s number.
Lani answered after the third ring, sleep evident in her voice. “Hello,” she said, disoriented.
“Hi, Lani, this is Emma. I’m sorry for calling so early. Something terrible happened. I needed somebody to talk to.”
Lani’s voice cleared almost immediately. “I will be right over,” she said.
“Are you sure you can come over?” I asked. “I don’t want to take you away from your family.”
“It’s fine. I want to be there for you. That is what a friend does. My family won’t mind. They would expect me to be there for my friend.”
Lani’s words of friendship unfeigned brought new emotions to me, unexpected, but welcomed. My worry for Sarah didn’t lessen, but Lani gave me a reason for hope. I couldn’t explain where the feeling came from. It simply was there, fighting for space in a troubled heart.
Thirty minutes later Lani knocked on our front door. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a ponytail. She didn’t take time to put on makeup nor did her beautiful face need any. I hugged her at the door. Her arms embraced me tight in response. Lani understood, perhaps instinctively, my sorrow and fear. I hadn’t made any attempt to keep it at bay. My face showed evidence of continuously falling tears.
“Good morning, Brother Thomas,” Lani greeted my father, who’d come to see who our guest was. “Emma asked me to come over. I hope I’m not intruding.”
My father always knew what to say. His voice had a velvet touch that naturally soothed. “You’re welcome any time, Lani. I assume Emma told you about Sarah.”
I grabbed Lani’s arm. “We’re going to my room, daddy,” I said.
“Okay, I’ll call when mother has breakfast ready.”
“Please let me know as soon as Brother Brown calls.”
“Of course, sweetheart.”
I climbed onto my bed and motioned for Lani to sit near me. She sat down facing me and waited for me to open up. My emotions churned near the surface and Lani knew I needed her strength. Instead of speaking, however, my cheeks once again became stained with falling tears. I began to sob. I tried to control my emotions, but couldn’t. As I began feeling embarrassed, with tender hands Lani dried my cheeks with a Kleenex.
“Can we pray for Sarah?” Lani asked.
Feeling an immediate need for the strength I knew prayer could provide, I slipped off my bed and onto my knees. Lani followed, kneeling next to me. Her head was bowed in reference. For a moment we knelt there saying nothing, perhaps waiting for some guidance.
“You should pray for Sarah, Emma. But, if you can’t, I will,” Lani spoke softly.
“I can do it,” I replied. “I want to do it.”
After a few moments of silence, words began forming in my heart. They transferred from my heart to my brain and from there spilled forth in humble prayer. I can not remember the spirit taking me over so completely before. Yes, I was young, only sixteen, but father had taught us children to pray from an early age and we had done so often. But something different was happening now as I prayed for Sarah. I, for the first time, really felt the words and wanted, really wanted this prayer to be heard and especially to be answered. Accompanying my prayer were tears I could not restrain. Soon I would see that Lani could not stem the flow of her tears either.
I finished with a customary “Amen” and heard Lani repeat it, adding confirmation to my prayer. Now I truly felt Sarah’s recovery was in the Lord’s hands. An indescribable joy filled my soul as I received confirmation from the Holy Ghost that Sarah would be okay.
But I heard nothing from Salt Lake. The day before Christmas I went shopping with mom, Norma and Judy. At my request, Lani also joined us. Patrick spent the day before Christmas with dad doing whatever men did the day before Christmas. It was usually the day dad got mom her present. Even as I window shopped, I thought of Sarah. I wanted so much to hear her voice; to know she was okay. Lani reached for my arm and led me away from my mom and sisters.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“Follow me,” she whispered. “Your mom and sisters will be fine.”
I wasn’t worried about mom or my sisters, but I wondered if they should know where I was going. When Lani pointed toward a painting her eyes moistened with true emotion. I looked at the painting then at my mother standing about twenty feet away. The scene was a peaceful place and center stage was Jesus, my Savior, looking with loving eyes into the troubled eyes of a teenage girl. I knew beyond any doubt the young girl was me. I wanted so bad to be with Sarah as she lie in her hospital bed, but my Savior spoke softly saying I was where I needed to be. I felt it so strong in my heart. My mother’s smile told me she had been party to my revelation all along. Later I went to sleep feeling much different than a few weeks before.
I imagined Christmas morning in our home wasn’t unlike Christmas morning in many other homes. We began with family prayer, as we did each morning. My brother gave a short prayer. Next we opened presents and smiles and hugs were offered abundantly. Each of us had gotten several material things we’d asked for in our lists. It was still early when my mother opened the final gift, another family tradition, and held up a beautiful blouse from my father for all of us to see. Then, to our surprise, while I helped mother prepare waffle batter for breakfast, the phone began ringing.
My father answered the phone and moments later motioned toward me. His smile told me I soon would be very happy. The phone call would be the Christmas gift I’d hoped for most of all. I lifted the phone to my ear and said, “Hello,” my voice hoping, yet tentative.
Then beautiful words filled my ears. “Hi there, Emma,” Sarah’s sweet voice was stronger than I expected. “I wanted to call my very best friend and tell her Merry Christmas. I am feeling so much better and the doc says I can go home soon.”
“I was so worried about you,” my words were broken, genuine emotion touching my voice. “Then Lani asked if we could pray. I felt so much better after we prayed.”
“Who’s Lani?” Sarah asked.
“Sarah, when we moved here I thought I was leaving behind my best and only friend. Lani showed me I could have a second best friend. She is so nice and she’s been there for me when I really needed someone.”
“Lani sounds wonderful,” Sarah said, now sounding tired.
“You’re tired, Sarah,” I didn’t want to stop talking, but knew I had to. “You need to rest.”
“Thank Lani for taking care of my best friend. I look forward to meeting her when I come to see you in the summer. I am tired, Emma. I need more rest. I love you. Bye, bye.”
I closed the phone and I was no longer upset. The curve of my smile confirmed my joy. My disposition now displayed the delight in my soul. And I was a very, very happy girl.
I was not alone in my despair. My sisters, Norma and Judy, shared my sorrow. Patrick, my six year old brother, didn’t understand. He was happy going with dad; he didn’t care where we were going. But I was sixteen and I was leaving my best friend behind. Moving to Montana made no sense to me. Why couldn’t we stay in Salt Lake where everything was familiar? Christmas would be a waste of time this year without my friend.
“Why do we have to move right now?” I blurted out. “It’s so unfair, dad.”
Father knew my pain and in his compassionate voice, said, “You’re going to love Helena, sweetheart. You’ll make new friends and you’ll be happy before you know it.”
I appreciated my father’s optimistic outlook; although I must admit I didn’t share in it. The future I foresaw didn’t appear rosy. Sure, I might make new friends, but not in time for Christmas. Dad couldn’t understand why I needed friends to share my Christmas stories with.
We pulled out of the driveway towing the u-haul. I curled up in a fetal position feeling sorry for my plight. I stared blankly at the city I loved. Snow fell from the darkened sky which meant travel would be slower. That was okay because I planned to sleep. Snowflakes turned from solid shapes to disconnected images as I began to dose.
I awoke when we stopped for lunch. I couldn’t believe I’d slept for three hours. However, my sleep had done nothing to improve my spirits. I looked out on unfamiliar surroundings and resumed my binding connection with remorse. I wanted to scream out at my father to turn around. He could work in Salt Lake. He should do it for his family. If he loved me he’d do it for me. But who was I kidding. We weren’t turning around just because I wanted to. Instead, father turned north. Our new home and the end of life as I knew it lay ahead.
I rode the rest of the way in silence. I felt no desire to talk to anybody. Random thoughts of growing doom passed through my mind as I stared uncomprehending at the passing landscape. Before I knew it my dad, always cheerful, announced we were nearing Helena. My despair reached a new low.
Helena was larger than I expected. It wasn’t like Salt Lake, but maybe there’d be things to do. I couldn’t stay at home and hang out with my family 24/7. I got enough of that with all those family things dad insisted we participate in. Scripture reading, family prayer, family home evening; it all piled up and sometimes suffocated me. Family would always be there, but I needed a friend, someone who understood me and related to the burdens I carried.
We pulled into a driveway rimmed with snow. Someone had used a snow blower to clean a space. Snow walled the driveway almost five feet high. I immediately wondered why we pulled into the driveway. Dad had said nothing about a house, but this must be where we would live. I had assumed we would stay in a motel for awhile until dad and mom found a place. I hoped dad would see how miserable life was going to be away from Salt Lake and decide to move back.
“Everybody pile out,” my over exuberant dad led the way. “Welcome to our new home.”
I was crushed. That was it then. We had really moved. A new home meant we were staying. Norma, Judy and Patrick raced after mom. They showed much more enthusiasm than me. My devastation obliged me to become lethargic as I approached the house. I moved through thick molasses, each step heavy laden. The only silver lining I considered with my current situation was maybe dad would skip family home evening. We’d traveled all day and the hour was late. His next words smacked of a double whammy. Not only would we have a short family home evening, but it would be preceded by scripture reading and family prayer. Dad sure knew how to pile it on.
Dad kept his word. Family home evening was short. I read one verse. It was something from Alma about trusting in the Lord when things were crumbling down around you. I didn’t want to read but something about the words in the verse stuck with me as I lay down in my bed. I felt a strange kind of comfort invade my rebellious soul.
I hated mornings in the Thomas family. We were always getting out of bed way too early. My inclination was to pull the covers over my head and curl up in a ball. Let the world pass me by, I noted mutely to no one. Next thing I knew dad jostled my shoulder.
“Time to get up, sweetheart,” his tone was soothing, with an abrasive edge. You, Norma, Judy and Patrick must get registered at your new schools.”
What? I couldn’t believe what I’d just heard. Was there no God? At least let me wait until after Christmas to start going to a strange school. I couldn’t go through new girl syndrome right now. Not when I thought back on how we often treated new kids coming to our school in Salt Lake. Suddenly I realized how cruel people could be. I had been cruel more than once.
“Do I have to go to school, dad?” I asked. “Can’t I wait until after Christmas?”
“Christmas is three weeks from now, Emma. You can’t stay out of school for three weeks.”
I could do it without working up a sweat I wanted to blurt out to my dad. Instead, I got out of bed and began dressing. I couldn’t think of anything good happening to me living in Helena. All I could expect was sorrow and torment. I had no way of knowing that a heartbreaking incident involving people from Helena and Salt Lake would help me realize I was perhaps the most fortunate person on the earth. I would come to understand I’d left nothing important behind.
I was quiet the first couple days at school. This was not normal for me; no, definitely not normal. Sarah, my best friend, would have been shocked. She would’ve said this is not the Emma she knew. Emma is much more talkative and friendly, she’d say. I would ordinarily agree with the assessment, but something about the kids in Helena was different. There was a girl named Lani, who I’d talked to a couple times. She seemed genuinely nice. Still, I decided to put caution first as I chose new friends. Lani couldn’t be the kind of friend Sarah was.
Sunday came before I had time to prepare for it. I must face a new ward for the first time in many years. I considered, briefly, asking father if I could stay home, but I knew he’d never allow that. Truthfully, I wanted to go. I couldn’t blame Heavenly Father for my father taking a job in Helena, Montana. So I dressed in my floral ankle length dress, put on a respectable amount of eye shadow and chose some modest earrings.
The ward in Helena matched the one I’d left in Salt Lake. There were fewer people, but everyone extended their hands. I went to Sunday school and was surprised when Lani sat down next to me. I had no idea she was LDS. I hadn’t seen her in the chapel. Maybe, just maybe, I should pursue a friendship with Lani. After all, she would think like I did and have the same standards.
“Hi, Emma,” Lani’s greeting was enthusiastic. “I didn’t know you were LDS.”
“I didn’t know you were LDS either,” I said. My mind explored the possibilities of having Lani for a new friend. The more I thought about it the more I liked it. A friend would make living in a strange city bearable. But Sarah was my best friend and I didn’t want someone else to take her place. Could I have two best friends? I knew Lani was far from being a best friend, but I felt I could have two friends. I knew I needed somebody to be my friend right now.
Two days before Christmas news came from Salt Lake that brought my world crashing down. At the same time I would learn the true meaning of friendship; of Christ like love when I needed it most. The icy roads of Salt Lake claimed many accident victims, but I was oblivious to most of them. That changed when Brother Brown called my father. His daughter and my best friend, Sarah, had collided with a truck on a slippery intersection. She was in the hospital and the next forty-eight hours would be crucial. Father didn’t tell me the details. He just brought our family together to pray for Sarah.
I retreated to my room and curled up on my bed. Tears streamed down my cheeks unabated. I loved Sarah so much. She had to be okay. Christmas would be completely ruined if Sarah died. My anger rose when I thought of father’s new job in Helena and me being too far away to be with Sarah. My heart ached with the pain of separation. Later exhaustion took over and I fell asleep.
A bright sun shone off the white snow when I awoke. The pain in my eyes reminded me of the pain in my heart. I rushed downstairs to see if dad had heard anything new. Brother Brown had not called back. Dad reminded me it was still early. A feeling I’d never experienced before tormented my soul. I had to talk to someone, someone my own age who could understand. I went back to my room and dialed Lani’s number.
Lani answered after the third ring, sleep evident in her voice. “Hello,” she said, disoriented.
“Hi, Lani, this is Emma. I’m sorry for calling so early. Something terrible happened. I needed somebody to talk to.”
Lani’s voice cleared almost immediately. “I will be right over,” she said.
“Are you sure you can come over?” I asked. “I don’t want to take you away from your family.”
“It’s fine. I want to be there for you. That is what a friend does. My family won’t mind. They would expect me to be there for my friend.”
Lani’s words of friendship unfeigned brought new emotions to me, unexpected, but welcomed. My worry for Sarah didn’t lessen, but Lani gave me a reason for hope. I couldn’t explain where the feeling came from. It simply was there, fighting for space in a troubled heart.
Thirty minutes later Lani knocked on our front door. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a ponytail. She didn’t take time to put on makeup nor did her beautiful face need any. I hugged her at the door. Her arms embraced me tight in response. Lani understood, perhaps instinctively, my sorrow and fear. I hadn’t made any attempt to keep it at bay. My face showed evidence of continuously falling tears.
“Good morning, Brother Thomas,” Lani greeted my father, who’d come to see who our guest was. “Emma asked me to come over. I hope I’m not intruding.”
My father always knew what to say. His voice had a velvet touch that naturally soothed. “You’re welcome any time, Lani. I assume Emma told you about Sarah.”
I grabbed Lani’s arm. “We’re going to my room, daddy,” I said.
“Okay, I’ll call when mother has breakfast ready.”
“Please let me know as soon as Brother Brown calls.”
“Of course, sweetheart.”
I climbed onto my bed and motioned for Lani to sit near me. She sat down facing me and waited for me to open up. My emotions churned near the surface and Lani knew I needed her strength. Instead of speaking, however, my cheeks once again became stained with falling tears. I began to sob. I tried to control my emotions, but couldn’t. As I began feeling embarrassed, with tender hands Lani dried my cheeks with a Kleenex.
“Can we pray for Sarah?” Lani asked.
Feeling an immediate need for the strength I knew prayer could provide, I slipped off my bed and onto my knees. Lani followed, kneeling next to me. Her head was bowed in reference. For a moment we knelt there saying nothing, perhaps waiting for some guidance.
“You should pray for Sarah, Emma. But, if you can’t, I will,” Lani spoke softly.
“I can do it,” I replied. “I want to do it.”
After a few moments of silence, words began forming in my heart. They transferred from my heart to my brain and from there spilled forth in humble prayer. I can not remember the spirit taking me over so completely before. Yes, I was young, only sixteen, but father had taught us children to pray from an early age and we had done so often. But something different was happening now as I prayed for Sarah. I, for the first time, really felt the words and wanted, really wanted this prayer to be heard and especially to be answered. Accompanying my prayer were tears I could not restrain. Soon I would see that Lani could not stem the flow of her tears either.
I finished with a customary “Amen” and heard Lani repeat it, adding confirmation to my prayer. Now I truly felt Sarah’s recovery was in the Lord’s hands. An indescribable joy filled my soul as I received confirmation from the Holy Ghost that Sarah would be okay.
But I heard nothing from Salt Lake. The day before Christmas I went shopping with mom, Norma and Judy. At my request, Lani also joined us. Patrick spent the day before Christmas with dad doing whatever men did the day before Christmas. It was usually the day dad got mom her present. Even as I window shopped, I thought of Sarah. I wanted so much to hear her voice; to know she was okay. Lani reached for my arm and led me away from my mom and sisters.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“Follow me,” she whispered. “Your mom and sisters will be fine.”
I wasn’t worried about mom or my sisters, but I wondered if they should know where I was going. When Lani pointed toward a painting her eyes moistened with true emotion. I looked at the painting then at my mother standing about twenty feet away. The scene was a peaceful place and center stage was Jesus, my Savior, looking with loving eyes into the troubled eyes of a teenage girl. I knew beyond any doubt the young girl was me. I wanted so bad to be with Sarah as she lie in her hospital bed, but my Savior spoke softly saying I was where I needed to be. I felt it so strong in my heart. My mother’s smile told me she had been party to my revelation all along. Later I went to sleep feeling much different than a few weeks before.
I imagined Christmas morning in our home wasn’t unlike Christmas morning in many other homes. We began with family prayer, as we did each morning. My brother gave a short prayer. Next we opened presents and smiles and hugs were offered abundantly. Each of us had gotten several material things we’d asked for in our lists. It was still early when my mother opened the final gift, another family tradition, and held up a beautiful blouse from my father for all of us to see. Then, to our surprise, while I helped mother prepare waffle batter for breakfast, the phone began ringing.
My father answered the phone and moments later motioned toward me. His smile told me I soon would be very happy. The phone call would be the Christmas gift I’d hoped for most of all. I lifted the phone to my ear and said, “Hello,” my voice hoping, yet tentative.
Then beautiful words filled my ears. “Hi there, Emma,” Sarah’s sweet voice was stronger than I expected. “I wanted to call my very best friend and tell her Merry Christmas. I am feeling so much better and the doc says I can go home soon.”
“I was so worried about you,” my words were broken, genuine emotion touching my voice. “Then Lani asked if we could pray. I felt so much better after we prayed.”
“Who’s Lani?” Sarah asked.
“Sarah, when we moved here I thought I was leaving behind my best and only friend. Lani showed me I could have a second best friend. She is so nice and she’s been there for me when I really needed someone.”
“Lani sounds wonderful,” Sarah said, now sounding tired.
“You’re tired, Sarah,” I didn’t want to stop talking, but knew I had to. “You need to rest.”
“Thank Lani for taking care of my best friend. I look forward to meeting her when I come to see you in the summer. I am tired, Emma. I need more rest. I love you. Bye, bye.”
I closed the phone and I was no longer upset. The curve of my smile confirmed my joy. My disposition now displayed the delight in my soul. And I was a very, very happy girl.
12/13/10
17 'Twas the night before Christmas
Jane and Max Schaefer scurried around their bedroom wrapping the last of the Christmas presents for their son, Billy.
“To: Billy, From: Santa. There, all done.” Jane smiled as she set the last present in the pile of other presents waiting to be taken downstairs. “I hope Billy enjoys the Super two-thousand whatever you call it gun.”
“That’s Super Soaker Two-Thousand Water Pistol. He’s only been asking for it for the past four months. He deserves it after we put him through so many years of getting him nothing but knit sweaters.”
“Hey! I happen to like those knit sweaters.” Jane pouted as Max laughed and walked across the room to console her with a hug.
“Let’s go put Billy to bed so we can take the presents downstairs.”
“Okay,” Jane said as she walked into the hall and yelled down the stairs, “Billy! Come up here and brush your teeth!”
“There,” Billy said as he set the last mouse trap near the bottom of the stairs. He carefully tip-toed through the barricade of mouse traps until he reached the fireplace. He cautiously picked up his check-list and read it carefully so he wouldn’t forget anything.
“Tacks inside the fireplace? Check… Trip-wire across the fireplace entrance? Check… Mouse traps from the fireplace to the staircase in case he tries to escape? Check.”
Billy walked over to the small table where a glass of milk and plate of cookies sat, along with a note addressed 'To: Santa Claus, From: Billy.'
“Let me see; Glue in place of milk? Check… Oatmeal cookies? Check.” Once finished, Billy quickly checked his list for a second time before he was satisfied.
Jane, still standing at the top of the stairs, was growing impatient. “Billy! I mean it, mister!”
“I’m coming, Mom!”
“Move it, young man, or you’ll get coal in place of presents.”
“It’d be better than clothes again,” Billy muttered under his breath. Billy slowly maneuvered back through the maze of traps and raced up the stairs leaving the list safely hidden. His mother was waiting impatiently at the top of the stairs.
“Did you remember to set out the milk and cookies for Santa? It’d be a shame if you forgot after all the work you put into those oatmeal raisin cookies.”
“Yeah,” Billy smirked as he thought to himself, ‘those aren’t raisins.’
Jane leaned down and kissed Billy on the cheek. “Now get to bed.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Billy ran to his bedroom and quickly got ready for bed. After Jane tucked him in and turned off the light, she went back to her bedroom to wait for Billy to fall asleep. She paced the room restlessly.
“Be patient, my dear. We have to wait for Billy to fall asleep.”
“I can’t wait to try those cookies Billy made. He wouldn’t even let me taste test one when he was done making them. He said he made them especially for Santa.”
Billy slowly slid out of his bed and crept through the darkness to the corner of his room. He turned on a flashlight, trying not to shine the light towards the door. He shined the light into the small cage and whispered softly to the rabbit, “You did great, Pebbles. I just wish I could see the look on Santa’s face when he takes a bite of those oatmeal raisin cookies. Santa will soon learn never to give Billy Schaefer clothes again.”
‘Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house, not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse. With Jane creeping forward, and I at her back, we crept down the stairs to—SNAP SNAP SNAP SNAP.
“To: Billy, From: Santa. There, all done.” Jane smiled as she set the last present in the pile of other presents waiting to be taken downstairs. “I hope Billy enjoys the Super two-thousand whatever you call it gun.”
“That’s Super Soaker Two-Thousand Water Pistol. He’s only been asking for it for the past four months. He deserves it after we put him through so many years of getting him nothing but knit sweaters.”
“Hey! I happen to like those knit sweaters.” Jane pouted as Max laughed and walked across the room to console her with a hug.
“Let’s go put Billy to bed so we can take the presents downstairs.”
“Okay,” Jane said as she walked into the hall and yelled down the stairs, “Billy! Come up here and brush your teeth!”
“There,” Billy said as he set the last mouse trap near the bottom of the stairs. He carefully tip-toed through the barricade of mouse traps until he reached the fireplace. He cautiously picked up his check-list and read it carefully so he wouldn’t forget anything.
“Tacks inside the fireplace? Check… Trip-wire across the fireplace entrance? Check… Mouse traps from the fireplace to the staircase in case he tries to escape? Check.”
Billy walked over to the small table where a glass of milk and plate of cookies sat, along with a note addressed 'To: Santa Claus, From: Billy.'
“Let me see; Glue in place of milk? Check… Oatmeal cookies? Check.” Once finished, Billy quickly checked his list for a second time before he was satisfied.
Jane, still standing at the top of the stairs, was growing impatient. “Billy! I mean it, mister!”
“I’m coming, Mom!”
“Move it, young man, or you’ll get coal in place of presents.”
“It’d be better than clothes again,” Billy muttered under his breath. Billy slowly maneuvered back through the maze of traps and raced up the stairs leaving the list safely hidden. His mother was waiting impatiently at the top of the stairs.
“Did you remember to set out the milk and cookies for Santa? It’d be a shame if you forgot after all the work you put into those oatmeal raisin cookies.”
“Yeah,” Billy smirked as he thought to himself, ‘those aren’t raisins.’
Jane leaned down and kissed Billy on the cheek. “Now get to bed.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Billy ran to his bedroom and quickly got ready for bed. After Jane tucked him in and turned off the light, she went back to her bedroom to wait for Billy to fall asleep. She paced the room restlessly.
“Be patient, my dear. We have to wait for Billy to fall asleep.”
“I can’t wait to try those cookies Billy made. He wouldn’t even let me taste test one when he was done making them. He said he made them especially for Santa.”
Billy slowly slid out of his bed and crept through the darkness to the corner of his room. He turned on a flashlight, trying not to shine the light towards the door. He shined the light into the small cage and whispered softly to the rabbit, “You did great, Pebbles. I just wish I could see the look on Santa’s face when he takes a bite of those oatmeal raisin cookies. Santa will soon learn never to give Billy Schaefer clothes again.”
‘Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house, not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse. With Jane creeping forward, and I at her back, we crept down the stairs to—SNAP SNAP SNAP SNAP.
16 Christmas at the Hotel Bill
The hook bit into the plaster, and Bill swore under his breath as plaster dust rained onto his glasses and a large chip shattered on the floor. This corner of the ceiling, over the check-in desk, gave him trouble every year.
“It looks pretty, Bill,” chirped Karma, the day clerk. The string of lights threatening to fall on her head cast shifting rainbows over her face. She’d outlasted most of the perky college students he hired. Within a month or two at the Hotel Williams—the “Hotel Bill,” as the long-term residents called it—they usually saw more of the real world than they cared to. But Karma had stayed two years.
The easy-listening station finished “White Christmas” and started “From a Distance.”
Bill snorted. “Whitney Houston?”
“Bette Midler,” Karma corrected. “I hate this song.”
“Yeah, me too.” Bill ducked to avoid hitting his head on the curved place where the ceiling met the wall. The Hotel Williams was nearly a hundred years old, and the ceilings arched inward. Visitors exclaimed in delight at the elderly architecture—at least the guests who weren’t wrestling wild children, or strung out on drugs or booze when they checked in. Someone had redecorated in the 70s, with dark, chunky furniture. Luckily, chunky meant sturdy. Even a heated domestic argument, complete with thrown furniture, only dinged the already-dinged finish.
To Bill’s eye, the blasted place always looked dark. No matter where he installed lights and placed lamps, shadows always muddied the edges, same as the traffic patterns in the old carpet, or the grime around the window frames. The shadows were ground-in. Every Christmas, he played with lights, but the shadows always showed up better to his eye than the lights did.
God is watching us, from a distance, Bette Midler sang.
“You believe that, Karma?” Bill crackled and popped his way down the ladder.
She looked up from the cleaning schedule. “Come again?”
“You think we look all shiny and pretty from where God sits?”
“The gospel according to Bette Midler?” She sniffed. “God has better eyesight than that. He sees sparrows.”
A pair of sharp blue eyes behind wire glasses and a head covered in wispy grey hair appeared behind the counter. Bill jumped. He hadn’t realized Agnes had crept up on them. “I rode the double-decker bus!” she crowed.
“Great, Agnes!” Karma said. “Was it worth the eight bucks?” Some entrepreneur was selling evening tours of the Christmas-lighted downtown.
“Got off at the library,” Agnes answered. “Drug conviction in room 212.” Agnes spent most of her time spying on the other guests, or looking for their criminal records on the library Internet.
“When, Agnes?” Bill asked.
The blue eyes narrowed. “1972.”
Bill nodded solemnly. “I’ll keep an eye on him.” Every couple of months, Agnes’ information came in handy. Even paranoids could have actual scary neighbors—especially at the Hotel Williams.
And there are no guns, no bombs, and no dis-eeeeease.
Bill slapped his forehead. “Thank you, Bette Midler!” He tossed Karma the sticky notes. “Could you ask Mariana to check the drawers when she cleans 115? I’m thinking he’s got guns in there. And keep an eye on those Montoya kids—the two-year-old looked like he had pinkeye, and he was trying all the doorknobs on the third floor. Maybe you could give his mother the address for the free clinic.” That took care of guns and disease. At least they hadn’t had a bomb scare in a while.
Karma nodded and made two notes.
No hungry mouths to feed, sang Bette.
From the corner of one eye, Bill glimpsed the six-year-old Montoya sneaking an orange from the bowl on the coffee table. “Heads up!” Bill called. He tossed another orange in a long, easy arc toward the kid, who cringed sharply. The orange hit the carpet and rolled off.
Bill hurried out from behind the counter, grabbing the orange off the floor. He squatted and held it out as a peace offering before the boy could bolt. The boy looked up, eyes pink and oozing pus.
“Sorry, guy,” Bill said. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
The kid grabbed the orange and darted down the hall, and Bill flopped onto the lobby’s worn green couch. From here, the curved walls seemed to close in around him, and the twinkling Christmas lights just multiplied the ground-in shadows.
Karma looked at him over the counter. “Remember your hand sanitizer, or you’ll have a pink Christmas.”
“You should ride the Christmas bus,” Agnes said, somehow appearing between Bill and the coffee table. Bill had forgotten about her. She usually wandered off after delivering her daily report.
“Yeah, I’ll think about it, Agnes.” But thinking about paying eight bucks just to see Main Street made him more tired.
The radio announcer cut off Bette’s final, pleading note. “Great song to kick off the Peace-on-Earth season, folks! Now for another Bette Midler hit!” Two notes into “Wind Beneath My Wings,” Karma switched off the radio, though Bill would have preferred to toss it out onto Main Street, where rush-hour traffic roared by in the snowy twilight.
“Go see the lights,” croaked Agnes, pointing at his nose. Agnes had come off the street about a year before, when her Social Security checks finally caught up with her and she could afford a room at the Hotel Williams. She still dressed like a bag lady. She took off her glasses and polished them on her shapeless grey sweater.
Bill waved a hand around the decorated room. “I’ve got Christmas lights right here.”
She put her own glasses back on and tapped Bill’s, catching his eye in her bright blue gaze. “You should ride the Christmas bus.”
Bill bit his tongue. “I’ll think about it, Agnes.” He didn’t want to become the center of her latest obsession.
He was too late. Agnes shadowed him all the next week, constantly telling him to ride the Christmas bus.
After exactly a week, the requests stopped. Instead, Agnes’ rolling grocery basket sprouted a selection of Christmas decorations made of cereal boxes, cotton puffs, and plastic holly she’d probably filched from the cemetery. She attempted to sell these to everyone she saw. If “customers” declined, she asked for donations instead. Bill bought a few decorations and added them to the little tree on the counter. Later, he saw her going door-to-door at the hotel. He waited for complaints, but none came.
He was just as glad. Christmas brought a rush of offers to provide Christmas dinner, Christmas gifts, and on and on. No one seemed to remember that Bill was a hotel manager, not a social worker, so he tried his best to hook the Montoyas into Sub for Santa, and to match up his three resident alcoholics with dinner invitations where they wouldn’t shock the earnest suburban families (Karma rolled her eyes when these left). With luck, the police would arrest the drug dealer before Christmas. Karma had arranged for Agnes to eat Christmas dinner with her family. Or Christmas milkshake, if Agnes mislaid her teeth again.
On Christmas Eve, Bill spent the day giving statements to the police about the drug dealer, now safely incarcerated. The bells on the front door jingled behind the last cop, but somehow they didn’t perk up Bill’s holiday spirit. He turned on his Christmas lights, scowled at the omnipresent shadows, and sprawled on the lobby couch looking for something on TV that wasn’t a “holiday” special.
He’d dozed off when Agnes appeared at his elbow like the ghost of bag lady Christmas, jolting him awake.
“Bus leaves in ten minutes,” she said. The Christmas lights haloed her head in light and ground-in shadow.
“The bus?” Bill shook his head to clear it. “Agnes, Karma’s parents are picking you up tomorrow morning.”
She pushed a grubby little card at him. “The double-decker bus.”
Bill squinted through his bifocals. “Senior, 55 and up. $8,” it said in scrolling gold. “Main Street Christmas Bus.”
“You’re riding again? Great.” He tried to hand it back, but she rummaged in her mounds of clothing and pulled out another ticket.
Bill turned over the ticket in his hands. “Agnes,” he asked, “did you buy this for me?” Suddenly, the cart full of rickety Christmas decorations made sense.
Agnes nodded so hard her glasses bounced on her nose.
“Well, thanks, sweetheart!” Bill switched off the TV and hauled himself off the couch. “I guess we’re going on a date.” Shoving down his distaste for the Main Street commercial pageant, he grabbed his coat and locked the front door. Agnes reached up and took his arm, as though she really was his date.
Out on the front step, snow was falling. As he made a mental note to shovel and salt, Karma walked up the steps, bundled in a parka.
Bill frowned. “What are you doing here?” She had the next three days off.
Karma shrugged, smiling. “Same as you. Riding the Christmas bus.” She winked at Agnes.
“Hey, what is this? Some sort of conspiracy?”
“Yep.” Karma took his other arm. “Hurry, or we’ll be late!” The two of them led Bill down the steps, where a crowd of people waited under the streetlight.
“What the—?”
Bill’s three drunks, Bob, Ramon, and Ivan, smiled crookedly at him in the gentle snow. The six Montoyas shouted and grappled, clearing a slushy spot of mud on the sidewalk. Mariana hurried up, late as usual, and even the family who’d checked in today because Best Western was full gave him a shy wave.
Bill snorted and tried to look gruff. “So, we’re having ‘It’s a Wonderful Life’ on a bus?”
“Not exactly,” Karma answered. “You might have noticed that Agnes asked you a time or two if you’d like to ride.”
“A time or two, yeah.”
“Well, she took up a collection. Then everyone wanted to go, but not everyone could afford it, so she—”
“She?” Bill interrupted. Agnes’ checks scarcely covered her room and the little food she ate.
“Okay, we helped out.”
“But—”
“Too late!” The bus roared up, flinging dirty slush, and everyone scrambled aboard the top deck, which was fortunately covered. No one would freeze, and the Montoyas couldn’t pitch each other overboard. A group of laughing college kids fell silent as Bob and Ramon collapsed into the seat behind them, and a well-dressed mother hurried three well-bundled children down the stairs to the lower level, glancing anxiously back to make sure no one from the Hotel Williams followed them. Shaking his head, Bill stepped aside for them and helped Agnes down the narrow aisle.
Agnes plopped herself down beside Bill. Then she gave him a toothless grin, removed her own glasses, and tapped Bill’s.
Bill jerked his head back. “What? Why?” The bus left the hotel and turned back toward the business sector, passing three pawnshops, a Salvadoran restaurant, and two bars. Then they entered the “historic” section, where upscale shops sold the toys, clothes, and gadgets no one at the Hotel Williams could afford. Christmas lights covered the trees and outlined details on the stately old buildings.
The Montoyas started in on a new fight, and Ivan’s whisky-infused breath surrounded Bill’s head like a fog.
Bill set his jaw to endure the ride, but Agnes’ reproachful gaze, vulnerable and childlike without her glasses, reminded him he was here on her dime. “Okay, sweetheart. You win.” He took off his bifocals and looked out the window over her shoulder.
It was still Main Street. If he squinted, he could read the signs.
Agnes whacked his shoulder. “The lights,” she croaked. “Look at the lights.”
So Bill looked. Without his glasses, the Christmas lights, traffic lights, and street lights had grown into glowing orbs, twinkling slightly with the falling snow. Bill leaned toward the window. The lights were so thick that their round auras overlapped, creating a single, multicolored glow punctuated by fuzzy pinpoints of light—and no shadows. Even the garish store windows seemed to shine now, rather than glare.
Bill discovered his jaw hanging open and hastily closed it. Karma grinned from the seat in front of him. “Great, huh?”
“How do you know?” Karma didn’t wear glasses.
Mariana also turned around, and Bill, leaning forward, saw they both had their eyes crossed.
“‘From a Distance,’ it’s not so bad,” Karma murmured.
Bill looked out the window as the bus passed the glowing library. With the lights melded, the darkness receded into the background. “No, it’s not.” They rode in silence for a while.
“Wait a minute,” Bill said. Karma turned around. “Does this mean Bette Midler was right?”
“Of course not!” She grinned. “But Agnes was.”
“It looks pretty, Bill,” chirped Karma, the day clerk. The string of lights threatening to fall on her head cast shifting rainbows over her face. She’d outlasted most of the perky college students he hired. Within a month or two at the Hotel Williams—the “Hotel Bill,” as the long-term residents called it—they usually saw more of the real world than they cared to. But Karma had stayed two years.
The easy-listening station finished “White Christmas” and started “From a Distance.”
Bill snorted. “Whitney Houston?”
“Bette Midler,” Karma corrected. “I hate this song.”
“Yeah, me too.” Bill ducked to avoid hitting his head on the curved place where the ceiling met the wall. The Hotel Williams was nearly a hundred years old, and the ceilings arched inward. Visitors exclaimed in delight at the elderly architecture—at least the guests who weren’t wrestling wild children, or strung out on drugs or booze when they checked in. Someone had redecorated in the 70s, with dark, chunky furniture. Luckily, chunky meant sturdy. Even a heated domestic argument, complete with thrown furniture, only dinged the already-dinged finish.
To Bill’s eye, the blasted place always looked dark. No matter where he installed lights and placed lamps, shadows always muddied the edges, same as the traffic patterns in the old carpet, or the grime around the window frames. The shadows were ground-in. Every Christmas, he played with lights, but the shadows always showed up better to his eye than the lights did.
God is watching us, from a distance, Bette Midler sang.
“You believe that, Karma?” Bill crackled and popped his way down the ladder.
She looked up from the cleaning schedule. “Come again?”
“You think we look all shiny and pretty from where God sits?”
“The gospel according to Bette Midler?” She sniffed. “God has better eyesight than that. He sees sparrows.”
A pair of sharp blue eyes behind wire glasses and a head covered in wispy grey hair appeared behind the counter. Bill jumped. He hadn’t realized Agnes had crept up on them. “I rode the double-decker bus!” she crowed.
“Great, Agnes!” Karma said. “Was it worth the eight bucks?” Some entrepreneur was selling evening tours of the Christmas-lighted downtown.
“Got off at the library,” Agnes answered. “Drug conviction in room 212.” Agnes spent most of her time spying on the other guests, or looking for their criminal records on the library Internet.
“When, Agnes?” Bill asked.
The blue eyes narrowed. “1972.”
Bill nodded solemnly. “I’ll keep an eye on him.” Every couple of months, Agnes’ information came in handy. Even paranoids could have actual scary neighbors—especially at the Hotel Williams.
And there are no guns, no bombs, and no dis-eeeeease.
Bill slapped his forehead. “Thank you, Bette Midler!” He tossed Karma the sticky notes. “Could you ask Mariana to check the drawers when she cleans 115? I’m thinking he’s got guns in there. And keep an eye on those Montoya kids—the two-year-old looked like he had pinkeye, and he was trying all the doorknobs on the third floor. Maybe you could give his mother the address for the free clinic.” That took care of guns and disease. At least they hadn’t had a bomb scare in a while.
Karma nodded and made two notes.
No hungry mouths to feed, sang Bette.
From the corner of one eye, Bill glimpsed the six-year-old Montoya sneaking an orange from the bowl on the coffee table. “Heads up!” Bill called. He tossed another orange in a long, easy arc toward the kid, who cringed sharply. The orange hit the carpet and rolled off.
Bill hurried out from behind the counter, grabbing the orange off the floor. He squatted and held it out as a peace offering before the boy could bolt. The boy looked up, eyes pink and oozing pus.
“Sorry, guy,” Bill said. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
The kid grabbed the orange and darted down the hall, and Bill flopped onto the lobby’s worn green couch. From here, the curved walls seemed to close in around him, and the twinkling Christmas lights just multiplied the ground-in shadows.
Karma looked at him over the counter. “Remember your hand sanitizer, or you’ll have a pink Christmas.”
“You should ride the Christmas bus,” Agnes said, somehow appearing between Bill and the coffee table. Bill had forgotten about her. She usually wandered off after delivering her daily report.
“Yeah, I’ll think about it, Agnes.” But thinking about paying eight bucks just to see Main Street made him more tired.
The radio announcer cut off Bette’s final, pleading note. “Great song to kick off the Peace-on-Earth season, folks! Now for another Bette Midler hit!” Two notes into “Wind Beneath My Wings,” Karma switched off the radio, though Bill would have preferred to toss it out onto Main Street, where rush-hour traffic roared by in the snowy twilight.
“Go see the lights,” croaked Agnes, pointing at his nose. Agnes had come off the street about a year before, when her Social Security checks finally caught up with her and she could afford a room at the Hotel Williams. She still dressed like a bag lady. She took off her glasses and polished them on her shapeless grey sweater.
Bill waved a hand around the decorated room. “I’ve got Christmas lights right here.”
She put her own glasses back on and tapped Bill’s, catching his eye in her bright blue gaze. “You should ride the Christmas bus.”
Bill bit his tongue. “I’ll think about it, Agnes.” He didn’t want to become the center of her latest obsession.
He was too late. Agnes shadowed him all the next week, constantly telling him to ride the Christmas bus.
After exactly a week, the requests stopped. Instead, Agnes’ rolling grocery basket sprouted a selection of Christmas decorations made of cereal boxes, cotton puffs, and plastic holly she’d probably filched from the cemetery. She attempted to sell these to everyone she saw. If “customers” declined, she asked for donations instead. Bill bought a few decorations and added them to the little tree on the counter. Later, he saw her going door-to-door at the hotel. He waited for complaints, but none came.
He was just as glad. Christmas brought a rush of offers to provide Christmas dinner, Christmas gifts, and on and on. No one seemed to remember that Bill was a hotel manager, not a social worker, so he tried his best to hook the Montoyas into Sub for Santa, and to match up his three resident alcoholics with dinner invitations where they wouldn’t shock the earnest suburban families (Karma rolled her eyes when these left). With luck, the police would arrest the drug dealer before Christmas. Karma had arranged for Agnes to eat Christmas dinner with her family. Or Christmas milkshake, if Agnes mislaid her teeth again.
On Christmas Eve, Bill spent the day giving statements to the police about the drug dealer, now safely incarcerated. The bells on the front door jingled behind the last cop, but somehow they didn’t perk up Bill’s holiday spirit. He turned on his Christmas lights, scowled at the omnipresent shadows, and sprawled on the lobby couch looking for something on TV that wasn’t a “holiday” special.
He’d dozed off when Agnes appeared at his elbow like the ghost of bag lady Christmas, jolting him awake.
“Bus leaves in ten minutes,” she said. The Christmas lights haloed her head in light and ground-in shadow.
“The bus?” Bill shook his head to clear it. “Agnes, Karma’s parents are picking you up tomorrow morning.”
She pushed a grubby little card at him. “The double-decker bus.”
Bill squinted through his bifocals. “Senior, 55 and up. $8,” it said in scrolling gold. “Main Street Christmas Bus.”
“You’re riding again? Great.” He tried to hand it back, but she rummaged in her mounds of clothing and pulled out another ticket.
Bill turned over the ticket in his hands. “Agnes,” he asked, “did you buy this for me?” Suddenly, the cart full of rickety Christmas decorations made sense.
Agnes nodded so hard her glasses bounced on her nose.
“Well, thanks, sweetheart!” Bill switched off the TV and hauled himself off the couch. “I guess we’re going on a date.” Shoving down his distaste for the Main Street commercial pageant, he grabbed his coat and locked the front door. Agnes reached up and took his arm, as though she really was his date.
Out on the front step, snow was falling. As he made a mental note to shovel and salt, Karma walked up the steps, bundled in a parka.
Bill frowned. “What are you doing here?” She had the next three days off.
Karma shrugged, smiling. “Same as you. Riding the Christmas bus.” She winked at Agnes.
“Hey, what is this? Some sort of conspiracy?”
“Yep.” Karma took his other arm. “Hurry, or we’ll be late!” The two of them led Bill down the steps, where a crowd of people waited under the streetlight.
“What the—?”
Bill’s three drunks, Bob, Ramon, and Ivan, smiled crookedly at him in the gentle snow. The six Montoyas shouted and grappled, clearing a slushy spot of mud on the sidewalk. Mariana hurried up, late as usual, and even the family who’d checked in today because Best Western was full gave him a shy wave.
Bill snorted and tried to look gruff. “So, we’re having ‘It’s a Wonderful Life’ on a bus?”
“Not exactly,” Karma answered. “You might have noticed that Agnes asked you a time or two if you’d like to ride.”
“A time or two, yeah.”
“Well, she took up a collection. Then everyone wanted to go, but not everyone could afford it, so she—”
“She?” Bill interrupted. Agnes’ checks scarcely covered her room and the little food she ate.
“Okay, we helped out.”
“But—”
“Too late!” The bus roared up, flinging dirty slush, and everyone scrambled aboard the top deck, which was fortunately covered. No one would freeze, and the Montoyas couldn’t pitch each other overboard. A group of laughing college kids fell silent as Bob and Ramon collapsed into the seat behind them, and a well-dressed mother hurried three well-bundled children down the stairs to the lower level, glancing anxiously back to make sure no one from the Hotel Williams followed them. Shaking his head, Bill stepped aside for them and helped Agnes down the narrow aisle.
Agnes plopped herself down beside Bill. Then she gave him a toothless grin, removed her own glasses, and tapped Bill’s.
Bill jerked his head back. “What? Why?” The bus left the hotel and turned back toward the business sector, passing three pawnshops, a Salvadoran restaurant, and two bars. Then they entered the “historic” section, where upscale shops sold the toys, clothes, and gadgets no one at the Hotel Williams could afford. Christmas lights covered the trees and outlined details on the stately old buildings.
The Montoyas started in on a new fight, and Ivan’s whisky-infused breath surrounded Bill’s head like a fog.
Bill set his jaw to endure the ride, but Agnes’ reproachful gaze, vulnerable and childlike without her glasses, reminded him he was here on her dime. “Okay, sweetheart. You win.” He took off his bifocals and looked out the window over her shoulder.
It was still Main Street. If he squinted, he could read the signs.
Agnes whacked his shoulder. “The lights,” she croaked. “Look at the lights.”
So Bill looked. Without his glasses, the Christmas lights, traffic lights, and street lights had grown into glowing orbs, twinkling slightly with the falling snow. Bill leaned toward the window. The lights were so thick that their round auras overlapped, creating a single, multicolored glow punctuated by fuzzy pinpoints of light—and no shadows. Even the garish store windows seemed to shine now, rather than glare.
Bill discovered his jaw hanging open and hastily closed it. Karma grinned from the seat in front of him. “Great, huh?”
“How do you know?” Karma didn’t wear glasses.
Mariana also turned around, and Bill, leaning forward, saw they both had their eyes crossed.
“‘From a Distance,’ it’s not so bad,” Karma murmured.
Bill looked out the window as the bus passed the glowing library. With the lights melded, the darkness receded into the background. “No, it’s not.” They rode in silence for a while.
“Wait a minute,” Bill said. Karma turned around. “Does this mean Bette Midler was right?”
“Of course not!” She grinned. “But Agnes was.”
15 It Came Upon a Midnight Clear
From a window, Celia watched, as snow fell like dew drops on her battered pickup. Shivering, she pulled a blanket over her head, as the wind banged against the tiny clap-board house.
Inside the one bedroom shack, three children wrapped in blankets lay on a bed covered with debris. Darla, the youngest of the three rubbed her eyes and reached for her doll.
Looking around the room, she watched as her mother continued to stare out the window. "Are you looking for Santa Claus mommy?" The voice seemed far away, then it grew louder. Had someone spoken? Then she heard it again. "Are you looking for Santa, mommy?"
Celia turned in the direction of the voice, and saw Darla, holding Miss Muffett, her doll. With so much on her mind, Celia had forgotten about Christmas. Besides, she didn't have any reason to celebrate. She lost her job, her husband of fourteen years divorced her, and there was a grand total of $3.50 in her checking account.
Stifling a sob, Celia turned to her daughter. "No honey, mommy's not looking for Santa Claus. Are you?" Nodding her head, the girl began rattling off a list of toys she wanted. Knowing she could not afford them, Celia asked the girl to choose one gift. But Darla was persistent, and said she wanted everything or nothing at all.
Although she was only six, Darla knew exactly how to manipulate her mother. "I bet if daddy was here he'd buy me all the toys I wanted." Bursting into tears, Celia turned and looked at her daughter. She wanted to take the girl in her arms, and tell her how sorry she was that she couldn’t afford presents this year. But she knew it was a no-win situation.
The girls had always chosen her ex-husband Eddie over her. No matter how hard she tried, Celia never measured up to their father, who in the girls’ eyes was a saint. But realistically, Eddie Cantrell was a scumbag. Handsome with extravagant taste, his weakness were women and money, in that order. And it was those obsessions that caused him to divorce Celia ten months ago. Now she was left to raise her daughters alone.
Although she received $700 a month in alimony, in addition to child support, without a regular paycheck she could not keep the girls in the lifestyle they had become accustomed to.
When she married Eddie, she had no idea she was marrying into one of the wealthiest families in Banton Grove. Raised by parents who were dirt poor, Celia reveled in her role as an aristocratic housewife. She drove a Lexus, wore designer clothes and lived in a luxurious home with six bedrooms and 5 bathrooms. Now as her eyes scanned each crumbling particle in the tiny room, it was apparent she had hit rock bottom.
It was two days before Christmas, and moments ago she received word from her former in-laws, that a bad investment had wiped out Eddie's savings. So the checks would be delayed, temporarily.
Wringing her hands, Celia stepped away from the window. She had taken three steps when she looked at the bed and lovingly peered at her daughters. They were the love of her life. Chebre, thirteen, was the oldest. Feisty and independent, she was the replica of her father. Sarafina, nine, was the quietest. Diagnosed with sickle cell at four, she was the spitting image of Celia. Then there was Darla, the chubby little girl whom her parents nicknamed "Boo, Boo." At nine and thirteen, Sarafina and Chebre knew the truth about Santa, but Darla waited in anticipation for the Big Guy's arrival.
Celia didn't have any money so she couldn't afford to buy presents. The girls were already angry at her for divorcing their dad. Now she had to tell them Christmas would be less than merry this year. Refusing to put it off any longer, she walked over to the bed. All three girls appeared to be sleeping. "Darla," she cried, instantly awakening the little girl.
The sound of Celia’s voice awakened the other children. "Darla, Chebre, Sarafina, sit up. I want to talk to you." Before going on, she reached over and tickled Chebre's toes. Regaining her composure Celia spoke again. "Your dad's checks are going to be a little late. So, instead of getting your presents on Christmas, you will get them the day after New Year's." Darla stared at Celia. What was she talking about? Moreover, what did her dad have to do with Christmas?
After telling the girls the bad news, Celia sat back and waited for the fireworks to begin. "If you had stayed married to daddy none of this would have happened," muttered Chebre. "Now we have to spend Christmas in this run-down shack with no food and no presents." "We've got each other honey," said Celia. "Chebre, Christmas is not about gifts and food. When you were little do you remember me telling you the story of baby Jesus?" "So what does that have to do with Christmas?” asked Chebre matter-of-factly. "All I know is that we'll probably end up going to the homeless shelter down the street and eating turkey with a bunch of strangers."
Staring at Darla and Sarafina, Celia noticed the anger etched on their faces. Celia tried to reason with the girls. But the more she talked, the angrier they became. With tears in her eyes, Celia wondered what she could do to alleviate the hostility in her daughters’ hearts. The more she thought about it, she knew what she had to do. But was it too late?
Christmas was just two days away. Thinking aloud, it occurred to Celia to check her jewelry box. Maybe that was a sign or something. Opening the gold-plated box, she checked the compartments. They were bare. She felt foolish. What was she expecting to find--money?
Walking into the tiny room, Celia looked at her daughters who were now watching TV. "I'm hungry mommy," exclaimed Darla. Finally, one of the girls spoke. Celia was so happy to hear her daughter's voice; she quickly asked the girl what she wanted to eat. "Cheeseburgers," shouted Darla. "Yeah, mommy cheeseburgers" they all chimed. "Okay, cheeseburgers it is," said Celia. Gone was the three angry children she saw moments earlier; her precious angels had returned.
Opening the refrigerator, Celia saw that there was just enough beef to make three burgers. And since she wanted the girls to be happy, she reasoned that, instead of a cheeseburger, she would eat the moth-eaten apples in the pantry.
After making the cheeseburgers, and watching the girls wolf them down, she felt bad that she didn't have money to buy presents.
Leaving the kitchen, Celia plopped down on the couch and began watching TV. The news was on. Staring at the screen, the distraught woman listened attentively as a representative from the local blood bank told a reporter that due to the increase in accidents based on holiday travel, people were encouraged to donate blood. "That's it," Celia declared. "That's the answer to my problem." Quickly, Celia wrote down the number to the Blood Bank. In the morning she would call and get more details. Now if things went as she expected them to, the girls would have a great Christmas.
The next morning Celia phoned the Blood Bank. The woman at the other end of the line gave her all the details. She then asked about the cost for donating blood. "That much," said Celia when the woman told her the amount. Feeling a brainstorm coming on, Celia proposed that if she went to both of Banton Grove's blood banks, she would have enough money to buy presents. Celia knew she was jeopardizing her health by donating so much blood. But her kids needed presents, and by God, she was going to give it to them, even if it caused her, her life.
Realizing what she had to do would take at least three hours, she took the girls over to her sister Maxie's house. At the first blood bank, she was asked to fill out an application. With the application completed, finally her name was called. Afterward, her weight was taken, along with other details, and then it was time to give blood. She had expected the procedure to be physically exhausting, but when Celia left the blood bank she felt great.
At the second blood bank, she went through the same routine as the first. By now, Celia was feeling light headed, but insisted on going through with the procedure. Hours later with money in her purse, Celia stopped by a chic boutique that specialized in clothes for kids and teens. She found several bargains at La Revitale, where items were being discounted as much as 75%.
As Celia left the store she was so happy, she decided to spend the rest of the money on food. So she purchased a small duck, a liter of Coca-Cola, 1 fruit cake and 2 pumpkin pies. Thinking that was not enough, she remembered she had sugar, eggs, butter, frosting and assorted cake mixes at home.
After picking up her daughters from Maxie’s, the girls spotted the packages in the back seat of the car and let out a squeal. Seeing their reaction, Celia knew that donating blood was worth it. But if she was so happy, why did she feel so sick?
That night Celia baked the cakes and went to bed. She had been in bed for 20 minutes when her head began hurting. At first the pain was like a gnawing tooth ache, and then it became more severe. She went into the bathroom and took two aspirin from the medicine chest, but the pain didn't stop. The pain then became so severe, she screamed in agony. The blood-curdling shriek awakened the kids. However, by the time they reached Celia, she was lying motionless on the floor. The girls, overcome with fear, tried to wake her up. Semi-conscious, Celia told Chebre to dial 911.
The girl did as she was told. When the dispatcher asked the frightened teen, what was the problem, Chebre told the woman her mother was lying on the floor, unable to move.
Within minutes an ambulance was enroute to 1376 Vista Boulevard. The girls were told one of them could accompany Celia to the hospital. And since Chebre was the oldest, it was decided she would go.
As the ambulance raced to the hospital, Chebre prayed for Celia's recovery. Although she had treated her mother badly, she loved her, and couldn't bear the thought of living without her.
At the hospital, the doctors and nurses rushed to Celia's side. After examining her, she was whisked away, where she went Chebre didn't know. Visibly upset, Chebre stood in the hospital, feeling alone and helpless. Since there was nothing she could do, she decided to sit and wait. Looking up, she spotted her Aunt Maxie, along with Darla and Sarafina.
After Celia was rushed to the hospital, Sarafina phoned Maxie, told her what happened and the three of them rushed to the hospital. Maxie inquired about her sister's health. A nurse casually informed her she was "holding her own." After twenty minutes the doctor came out.
"Are you related to Ms. Cantrell?" They all nodded. "She's lost a lot of blood, but with rest and proper medication she's going to be just fine." "Lost a lot of blood? How did that happen?" asked a stunned Maxie. "Well, in talking with her, it seems she donated a lot of blood yesterday," said the doctor. "So much that it almost killed her. Did you know Ms. Cantrell's blood pressure is extremely low?" "No, I didn't," said Maxie. "Doctor wouldn't that have been detected during the pre-examination or when she filled out the questionnaire?" "Yes, but apparently it wasn't since she went to two blood banks, and no one noticed the condition of her blood pressure." "What would possess her to do something that irresponsible?" asked a startled Maxie. "She said she did it so she could buy her daughters Christmas presents," the doctor said.
Maxie looked at her nieces. Celia had already clued her in on her financial situation. "Didn't your mother tell you she couldn't afford to buy presents this year?" "Yes," the girls said in unison. "So what did you do when she told you?" "We got mad and said mean things to her," blurted Darla. "And made her cry."
"Don't you know what Christmas is all about?" asked Maxie, disgusted by her nieces’ greed. "Mommy tried to tell me, but I guess I had to find out for myself," explained Chebre. "Now I know, and I want to tell her personally."
Seeing how upset Chebre was, Maxie asked the doctor if the girl could see her mother. "She's still weak, but this being Christmas Eve, yes she can see her."
Entering the room, Chebre saw her mother . She looked old and frail. Chebre now realized how much she loved her, and how much Celia had sacrificed for her and her two sisters. She really was a great mom, and Chebre wanted to let her know it.
Celia awakened briefly, and looked into her daughter's red eyes. "Hi, honey. How's my baby? "I'm all right," whispered Chebre, choking back tears. “How do you feel mommy?" "I'm feeling a little woozy right now, but I'll be okay," said Celia, trying her best to smile. "I know the true meaning of Christmas now mommy," said Chebre. "It's about a father who gave his greatest gift to the world...his only son. And that's what you did mommy, you were willing to do anything so we could have presents."
"Yes," said Celia. "That is what Christmas is really about. It's about giving love unselfishly, not all the trappings associated with the holiday like food and expensive gifts. But most of all it's about a miracle that took place upon a midnight clear thousands of years ago."
Shaking her head the teenager smiled at her mother. “Mommy, this year we’ve got the greatest gift of all.” Thinking Chebre was referring to the packages she saw the day earlier, Celia muttered, “Well, those gifts are for you and your sisters.” “No mommy,” said Chebre, casting a loving glance at the woman on the bed. “The greatest gift we have is that you’re okay, and we love you. With her voice cracking, the girl continued, ”You were willing to sacrifice your life to buy us presents, and that’s worth more than anything in those packages.” Choking back tears Celia touched her daughter’s face. “Merry Christmas honey, and Merry Christmas to the world."
Inside the one bedroom shack, three children wrapped in blankets lay on a bed covered with debris. Darla, the youngest of the three rubbed her eyes and reached for her doll.
Looking around the room, she watched as her mother continued to stare out the window. "Are you looking for Santa Claus mommy?" The voice seemed far away, then it grew louder. Had someone spoken? Then she heard it again. "Are you looking for Santa, mommy?"
Celia turned in the direction of the voice, and saw Darla, holding Miss Muffett, her doll. With so much on her mind, Celia had forgotten about Christmas. Besides, she didn't have any reason to celebrate. She lost her job, her husband of fourteen years divorced her, and there was a grand total of $3.50 in her checking account.
Stifling a sob, Celia turned to her daughter. "No honey, mommy's not looking for Santa Claus. Are you?" Nodding her head, the girl began rattling off a list of toys she wanted. Knowing she could not afford them, Celia asked the girl to choose one gift. But Darla was persistent, and said she wanted everything or nothing at all.
Although she was only six, Darla knew exactly how to manipulate her mother. "I bet if daddy was here he'd buy me all the toys I wanted." Bursting into tears, Celia turned and looked at her daughter. She wanted to take the girl in her arms, and tell her how sorry she was that she couldn’t afford presents this year. But she knew it was a no-win situation.
The girls had always chosen her ex-husband Eddie over her. No matter how hard she tried, Celia never measured up to their father, who in the girls’ eyes was a saint. But realistically, Eddie Cantrell was a scumbag. Handsome with extravagant taste, his weakness were women and money, in that order. And it was those obsessions that caused him to divorce Celia ten months ago. Now she was left to raise her daughters alone.
Although she received $700 a month in alimony, in addition to child support, without a regular paycheck she could not keep the girls in the lifestyle they had become accustomed to.
When she married Eddie, she had no idea she was marrying into one of the wealthiest families in Banton Grove. Raised by parents who were dirt poor, Celia reveled in her role as an aristocratic housewife. She drove a Lexus, wore designer clothes and lived in a luxurious home with six bedrooms and 5 bathrooms. Now as her eyes scanned each crumbling particle in the tiny room, it was apparent she had hit rock bottom.
It was two days before Christmas, and moments ago she received word from her former in-laws, that a bad investment had wiped out Eddie's savings. So the checks would be delayed, temporarily.
Wringing her hands, Celia stepped away from the window. She had taken three steps when she looked at the bed and lovingly peered at her daughters. They were the love of her life. Chebre, thirteen, was the oldest. Feisty and independent, she was the replica of her father. Sarafina, nine, was the quietest. Diagnosed with sickle cell at four, she was the spitting image of Celia. Then there was Darla, the chubby little girl whom her parents nicknamed "Boo, Boo." At nine and thirteen, Sarafina and Chebre knew the truth about Santa, but Darla waited in anticipation for the Big Guy's arrival.
Celia didn't have any money so she couldn't afford to buy presents. The girls were already angry at her for divorcing their dad. Now she had to tell them Christmas would be less than merry this year. Refusing to put it off any longer, she walked over to the bed. All three girls appeared to be sleeping. "Darla," she cried, instantly awakening the little girl.
The sound of Celia’s voice awakened the other children. "Darla, Chebre, Sarafina, sit up. I want to talk to you." Before going on, she reached over and tickled Chebre's toes. Regaining her composure Celia spoke again. "Your dad's checks are going to be a little late. So, instead of getting your presents on Christmas, you will get them the day after New Year's." Darla stared at Celia. What was she talking about? Moreover, what did her dad have to do with Christmas?
After telling the girls the bad news, Celia sat back and waited for the fireworks to begin. "If you had stayed married to daddy none of this would have happened," muttered Chebre. "Now we have to spend Christmas in this run-down shack with no food and no presents." "We've got each other honey," said Celia. "Chebre, Christmas is not about gifts and food. When you were little do you remember me telling you the story of baby Jesus?" "So what does that have to do with Christmas?” asked Chebre matter-of-factly. "All I know is that we'll probably end up going to the homeless shelter down the street and eating turkey with a bunch of strangers."
Staring at Darla and Sarafina, Celia noticed the anger etched on their faces. Celia tried to reason with the girls. But the more she talked, the angrier they became. With tears in her eyes, Celia wondered what she could do to alleviate the hostility in her daughters’ hearts. The more she thought about it, she knew what she had to do. But was it too late?
Christmas was just two days away. Thinking aloud, it occurred to Celia to check her jewelry box. Maybe that was a sign or something. Opening the gold-plated box, she checked the compartments. They were bare. She felt foolish. What was she expecting to find--money?
Walking into the tiny room, Celia looked at her daughters who were now watching TV. "I'm hungry mommy," exclaimed Darla. Finally, one of the girls spoke. Celia was so happy to hear her daughter's voice; she quickly asked the girl what she wanted to eat. "Cheeseburgers," shouted Darla. "Yeah, mommy cheeseburgers" they all chimed. "Okay, cheeseburgers it is," said Celia. Gone was the three angry children she saw moments earlier; her precious angels had returned.
Opening the refrigerator, Celia saw that there was just enough beef to make three burgers. And since she wanted the girls to be happy, she reasoned that, instead of a cheeseburger, she would eat the moth-eaten apples in the pantry.
After making the cheeseburgers, and watching the girls wolf them down, she felt bad that she didn't have money to buy presents.
Leaving the kitchen, Celia plopped down on the couch and began watching TV. The news was on. Staring at the screen, the distraught woman listened attentively as a representative from the local blood bank told a reporter that due to the increase in accidents based on holiday travel, people were encouraged to donate blood. "That's it," Celia declared. "That's the answer to my problem." Quickly, Celia wrote down the number to the Blood Bank. In the morning she would call and get more details. Now if things went as she expected them to, the girls would have a great Christmas.
The next morning Celia phoned the Blood Bank. The woman at the other end of the line gave her all the details. She then asked about the cost for donating blood. "That much," said Celia when the woman told her the amount. Feeling a brainstorm coming on, Celia proposed that if she went to both of Banton Grove's blood banks, she would have enough money to buy presents. Celia knew she was jeopardizing her health by donating so much blood. But her kids needed presents, and by God, she was going to give it to them, even if it caused her, her life.
Realizing what she had to do would take at least three hours, she took the girls over to her sister Maxie's house. At the first blood bank, she was asked to fill out an application. With the application completed, finally her name was called. Afterward, her weight was taken, along with other details, and then it was time to give blood. She had expected the procedure to be physically exhausting, but when Celia left the blood bank she felt great.
At the second blood bank, she went through the same routine as the first. By now, Celia was feeling light headed, but insisted on going through with the procedure. Hours later with money in her purse, Celia stopped by a chic boutique that specialized in clothes for kids and teens. She found several bargains at La Revitale, where items were being discounted as much as 75%.
As Celia left the store she was so happy, she decided to spend the rest of the money on food. So she purchased a small duck, a liter of Coca-Cola, 1 fruit cake and 2 pumpkin pies. Thinking that was not enough, she remembered she had sugar, eggs, butter, frosting and assorted cake mixes at home.
After picking up her daughters from Maxie’s, the girls spotted the packages in the back seat of the car and let out a squeal. Seeing their reaction, Celia knew that donating blood was worth it. But if she was so happy, why did she feel so sick?
That night Celia baked the cakes and went to bed. She had been in bed for 20 minutes when her head began hurting. At first the pain was like a gnawing tooth ache, and then it became more severe. She went into the bathroom and took two aspirin from the medicine chest, but the pain didn't stop. The pain then became so severe, she screamed in agony. The blood-curdling shriek awakened the kids. However, by the time they reached Celia, she was lying motionless on the floor. The girls, overcome with fear, tried to wake her up. Semi-conscious, Celia told Chebre to dial 911.
The girl did as she was told. When the dispatcher asked the frightened teen, what was the problem, Chebre told the woman her mother was lying on the floor, unable to move.
Within minutes an ambulance was enroute to 1376 Vista Boulevard. The girls were told one of them could accompany Celia to the hospital. And since Chebre was the oldest, it was decided she would go.
As the ambulance raced to the hospital, Chebre prayed for Celia's recovery. Although she had treated her mother badly, she loved her, and couldn't bear the thought of living without her.
At the hospital, the doctors and nurses rushed to Celia's side. After examining her, she was whisked away, where she went Chebre didn't know. Visibly upset, Chebre stood in the hospital, feeling alone and helpless. Since there was nothing she could do, she decided to sit and wait. Looking up, she spotted her Aunt Maxie, along with Darla and Sarafina.
After Celia was rushed to the hospital, Sarafina phoned Maxie, told her what happened and the three of them rushed to the hospital. Maxie inquired about her sister's health. A nurse casually informed her she was "holding her own." After twenty minutes the doctor came out.
"Are you related to Ms. Cantrell?" They all nodded. "She's lost a lot of blood, but with rest and proper medication she's going to be just fine." "Lost a lot of blood? How did that happen?" asked a stunned Maxie. "Well, in talking with her, it seems she donated a lot of blood yesterday," said the doctor. "So much that it almost killed her. Did you know Ms. Cantrell's blood pressure is extremely low?" "No, I didn't," said Maxie. "Doctor wouldn't that have been detected during the pre-examination or when she filled out the questionnaire?" "Yes, but apparently it wasn't since she went to two blood banks, and no one noticed the condition of her blood pressure." "What would possess her to do something that irresponsible?" asked a startled Maxie. "She said she did it so she could buy her daughters Christmas presents," the doctor said.
Maxie looked at her nieces. Celia had already clued her in on her financial situation. "Didn't your mother tell you she couldn't afford to buy presents this year?" "Yes," the girls said in unison. "So what did you do when she told you?" "We got mad and said mean things to her," blurted Darla. "And made her cry."
"Don't you know what Christmas is all about?" asked Maxie, disgusted by her nieces’ greed. "Mommy tried to tell me, but I guess I had to find out for myself," explained Chebre. "Now I know, and I want to tell her personally."
Seeing how upset Chebre was, Maxie asked the doctor if the girl could see her mother. "She's still weak, but this being Christmas Eve, yes she can see her."
Entering the room, Chebre saw her mother . She looked old and frail. Chebre now realized how much she loved her, and how much Celia had sacrificed for her and her two sisters. She really was a great mom, and Chebre wanted to let her know it.
Celia awakened briefly, and looked into her daughter's red eyes. "Hi, honey. How's my baby? "I'm all right," whispered Chebre, choking back tears. “How do you feel mommy?" "I'm feeling a little woozy right now, but I'll be okay," said Celia, trying her best to smile. "I know the true meaning of Christmas now mommy," said Chebre. "It's about a father who gave his greatest gift to the world...his only son. And that's what you did mommy, you were willing to do anything so we could have presents."
"Yes," said Celia. "That is what Christmas is really about. It's about giving love unselfishly, not all the trappings associated with the holiday like food and expensive gifts. But most of all it's about a miracle that took place upon a midnight clear thousands of years ago."
Shaking her head the teenager smiled at her mother. “Mommy, this year we’ve got the greatest gift of all.” Thinking Chebre was referring to the packages she saw the day earlier, Celia muttered, “Well, those gifts are for you and your sisters.” “No mommy,” said Chebre, casting a loving glance at the woman on the bed. “The greatest gift we have is that you’re okay, and we love you. With her voice cracking, the girl continued, ”You were willing to sacrifice your life to buy us presents, and that’s worth more than anything in those packages.” Choking back tears Celia touched her daughter’s face. “Merry Christmas honey, and Merry Christmas to the world."
12/10/10
14 The Magical Lights of Christmas
The girl was so angry. But she didn't know who she was more upset with, Santa for not being real… her mother for finally admitting it… or herself for having fallen for that big fat - ho, ho, ho - lie in the first place.
Now, on Saturday the 21st, she was feeling mad again because her brother, Nick, still believed and even though it was sort of fun leading him on or saying "Now, Nick, be good because you know Santa won't bring you anything if you hit me," she had sworn to her mom under pain of death that she would not say a word about what she knew in front of him. So, alone in her room, it was pure agony to remember that this year would be different. HOW COULD THEY DO THIS TO HER?
The cookies and milk, gone in the morning, a few crumbs left, or more if Santa was particularly full or in a hurry…
The letter explaining what it was she really wanted, hard to decide when there's just so darn much…
The waiting up, willing your eyes to stay open and your ears to stay tuned because this time you were determined to not fall asleep so you could once and for all catch the speedy guy in the middle of his act…
Now, all things of the past.
So, what's the point? What's the point of Christmas this year, she whined to herself.
Sure, your parents, the ones who probably got you all that stuff to begin with, will get you plenty again, even if just to make you feel better, somehow.
But, where's the excitement in that? Heck, you can always tell them what you want, but the thing is they might not get it for you. That was the cool part, you always had a chance with Santa. And you didn't have to listen to why nots, too expensives, or any of that. It was just a direct line, from you, the kid, to him, the KING of presents.
Sigh.
Then, giving herself up slowly to the flitting lights and shadows of the moving t.v. screen, the girl finally stopped thinking about it for a while.
* * *
At the universal North Pole, Roena, looking more than a little distressed, was saying to Loreano:
"Sometimes it makes me so mad that we have to lie to those kids. Look! Here's another list of children who are having serious trouble with being told."
"Now, now, you know the rule, 10 years old and that's the top limit. Some of them are lucky to remain unsure for the last couple years, or to convince everyone else that they have no suspicions. But by age 10 all that stops."
"Yes, I know that it has to be done, but I just feel so badly for them. Why can't we just tell them who Santa is? Why do they have to figure that out for themselves?"
"Were you sleeping during all ten classes of Santa-Ethics 101? If we told them, or even worse, let them still believe in Santa, until, say, 22 years-old or something, they might never do anything on their own. They might never learn what gift-giving is really all about or what the true gifts really are."
"But do they learn this way? Some are so disappointed that very first year, they can't be open to anything." Roena was thinking how she would feel if she lost her faith in the spirit of the holiday, and she shivered, just at the thought.
"Oh, most of them get over it," the more logical of the two was explaining. "They get bored with feeling left out so they start to make gifts, wrap presents, bake cookies and even become friendly to relatives they never paid attention to before. They start to appreciate the real meaning of giving. And only when they do, do they begin to see."
* * *
On the 22nd the girl's house was aglow with lights. She and her brother, who was actually cooperative for a change, had put all of the ornaments on the tree just after Thanksgiving and now she was putting the gifts for her teacher, mom and dad underneath. She had even wrapped up some of Nick's toys - ones he had lost behind the t.v. and under the beds and couches - and put a pretty green striped bow on the box because she knew it was his favorite color.
She was beginning to feel a little better about this Santa thing, because Christmas wasn't a total wash out after all. It was actually fun to know that you know something that someone else doesn't know so you think up more stuff to wrap so that they know less and less… well, something like that, anyway.
And as it got closer to Christmas Eve, she realized she wasn't angry… or sad… or disappointed… any longer. And on that night, while helping Nick get the cookies ready on "Santa's" Christmas plate and pouring the milk into the green-and-red holly etched glass, she could have sworn she heard a sound on the roof.
"Nick, get into bed," she counseled. "Santa won't come until you're fast asleep."
"How do you know, Kristen?"
"Because I used to stay up and he never, ever came while I waited."
"Oh," responded her little brother resignedly.
* * *
Roena and Loreano were now busy with all the gifts. They sang and laughed while they wrapped the small bright boxes of light.
Each box glowed in a different blend of color, some rainbow-like and others the multi-shaded hues of a single brilliant tone. There were green ones… purple/orchid ones… pink, pearly ones… and so on and on. All different, and each one just as beautiful as the other.
All of them would be gently guided to the Earth, then float above the houses… then drop into the chimneys… or even slide through the tiniest crack in a wall, window or door.
And wherever they landed, there would be magic.
* * *
Kristen's mom and dad had let her stay up later than usual that Christmas Eve, and eventually she fell asleep on the couch during the movie they were watching.
That's when she heard it again, something thudding on the roof.
Getting up, still groggy, she noticed a strange glow and went into the other room to see if the Christmas tree was turned off. Hmm, it wasn't the tree. Then what was it?
Standing at the parlor window she saw them: Dozens of sparks of radiant light… all of different colors… creating a vast rainbow dance in the sky. So beautiful, so soft and so peaceful, they swirled and twirled in the air, and then landed on the ground and on the rooftops of the houses. Once in a while, a single light would make its way inside a house and for a moment, just a quick moment, that house would blush with its specially tinted hue.
Then one light was coming closer. It seemed to be waltzing outside the parlor door. Without thinking, she opened the door and watched it gracefully glide in and float above her head. She continued to gaze in amazement it as it settled on the floor until it slowly faded and then finally vanished.
* * *
The next morning, Kristen awoke in her bedroom with the strangest feeling that something had happened during the night. Oh, yes, she recalled in excitement. It was Christmas morning. SANTA HAD COME!
She ran into the living room.
As usual, the cookies were gone and the gifts were piled high all around the tree. And for a moment, it was the same as it always had been. She was tempted to scream for Nick, mom and dad to GET UP and begin to open the presents.
But, instead, she quietly sat down… and began to remember.
The red and green light that had come into the house is what had given her this feeling. As it twirled around and around, finally stopping just before it disappeared, it was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. It was better than all of the Christmas presents in the world put together, and she just wanted to remember it forever.
But just as suddenly as the memory came it was leaving and now Nick was up and staring at all of the brightly colored wrappings. Christmas morning at the Bachta house was just beginning.
* * *
"Well, that's done until next year."
Loreano stretched while Roena added, "Yes, the red and green ones came out especially well and the yellow ones that look like stars were a lot brighter than usual."
Roena smiled to herself as she recalled what Santa had taught them during that very first session: "Most of them won't actually see the lights; or if they do, they won't remember. But what they will remember every year during this season, especially when they see the Christmas lights on the trees, around the rooftops, on the streets and in the stores, is a sense of peace-filled wonderment. And that is really the gift they will spend the rest of their Christmases sharing."
* * *
"Merry Christmas, Nick."
Kristen gave her little brother a big hug and kiss and took him by the hand to wake her sleeping parents.
Now, on Saturday the 21st, she was feeling mad again because her brother, Nick, still believed and even though it was sort of fun leading him on or saying "Now, Nick, be good because you know Santa won't bring you anything if you hit me," she had sworn to her mom under pain of death that she would not say a word about what she knew in front of him. So, alone in her room, it was pure agony to remember that this year would be different. HOW COULD THEY DO THIS TO HER?
The cookies and milk, gone in the morning, a few crumbs left, or more if Santa was particularly full or in a hurry…
The letter explaining what it was she really wanted, hard to decide when there's just so darn much…
The waiting up, willing your eyes to stay open and your ears to stay tuned because this time you were determined to not fall asleep so you could once and for all catch the speedy guy in the middle of his act…
Now, all things of the past.
So, what's the point? What's the point of Christmas this year, she whined to herself.
Sure, your parents, the ones who probably got you all that stuff to begin with, will get you plenty again, even if just to make you feel better, somehow.
But, where's the excitement in that? Heck, you can always tell them what you want, but the thing is they might not get it for you. That was the cool part, you always had a chance with Santa. And you didn't have to listen to why nots, too expensives, or any of that. It was just a direct line, from you, the kid, to him, the KING of presents.
Sigh.
Then, giving herself up slowly to the flitting lights and shadows of the moving t.v. screen, the girl finally stopped thinking about it for a while.
* * *
At the universal North Pole, Roena, looking more than a little distressed, was saying to Loreano:
"Sometimes it makes me so mad that we have to lie to those kids. Look! Here's another list of children who are having serious trouble with being told."
"Now, now, you know the rule, 10 years old and that's the top limit. Some of them are lucky to remain unsure for the last couple years, or to convince everyone else that they have no suspicions. But by age 10 all that stops."
"Yes, I know that it has to be done, but I just feel so badly for them. Why can't we just tell them who Santa is? Why do they have to figure that out for themselves?"
"Were you sleeping during all ten classes of Santa-Ethics 101? If we told them, or even worse, let them still believe in Santa, until, say, 22 years-old or something, they might never do anything on their own. They might never learn what gift-giving is really all about or what the true gifts really are."
"But do they learn this way? Some are so disappointed that very first year, they can't be open to anything." Roena was thinking how she would feel if she lost her faith in the spirit of the holiday, and she shivered, just at the thought.
"Oh, most of them get over it," the more logical of the two was explaining. "They get bored with feeling left out so they start to make gifts, wrap presents, bake cookies and even become friendly to relatives they never paid attention to before. They start to appreciate the real meaning of giving. And only when they do, do they begin to see."
* * *
On the 22nd the girl's house was aglow with lights. She and her brother, who was actually cooperative for a change, had put all of the ornaments on the tree just after Thanksgiving and now she was putting the gifts for her teacher, mom and dad underneath. She had even wrapped up some of Nick's toys - ones he had lost behind the t.v. and under the beds and couches - and put a pretty green striped bow on the box because she knew it was his favorite color.
She was beginning to feel a little better about this Santa thing, because Christmas wasn't a total wash out after all. It was actually fun to know that you know something that someone else doesn't know so you think up more stuff to wrap so that they know less and less… well, something like that, anyway.
And as it got closer to Christmas Eve, she realized she wasn't angry… or sad… or disappointed… any longer. And on that night, while helping Nick get the cookies ready on "Santa's" Christmas plate and pouring the milk into the green-and-red holly etched glass, she could have sworn she heard a sound on the roof.
"Nick, get into bed," she counseled. "Santa won't come until you're fast asleep."
"How do you know, Kristen?"
"Because I used to stay up and he never, ever came while I waited."
"Oh," responded her little brother resignedly.
* * *
Roena and Loreano were now busy with all the gifts. They sang and laughed while they wrapped the small bright boxes of light.
Each box glowed in a different blend of color, some rainbow-like and others the multi-shaded hues of a single brilliant tone. There were green ones… purple/orchid ones… pink, pearly ones… and so on and on. All different, and each one just as beautiful as the other.
All of them would be gently guided to the Earth, then float above the houses… then drop into the chimneys… or even slide through the tiniest crack in a wall, window or door.
And wherever they landed, there would be magic.
* * *
Kristen's mom and dad had let her stay up later than usual that Christmas Eve, and eventually she fell asleep on the couch during the movie they were watching.
That's when she heard it again, something thudding on the roof.
Getting up, still groggy, she noticed a strange glow and went into the other room to see if the Christmas tree was turned off. Hmm, it wasn't the tree. Then what was it?
Standing at the parlor window she saw them: Dozens of sparks of radiant light… all of different colors… creating a vast rainbow dance in the sky. So beautiful, so soft and so peaceful, they swirled and twirled in the air, and then landed on the ground and on the rooftops of the houses. Once in a while, a single light would make its way inside a house and for a moment, just a quick moment, that house would blush with its specially tinted hue.
Then one light was coming closer. It seemed to be waltzing outside the parlor door. Without thinking, she opened the door and watched it gracefully glide in and float above her head. She continued to gaze in amazement it as it settled on the floor until it slowly faded and then finally vanished.
* * *
The next morning, Kristen awoke in her bedroom with the strangest feeling that something had happened during the night. Oh, yes, she recalled in excitement. It was Christmas morning. SANTA HAD COME!
She ran into the living room.
As usual, the cookies were gone and the gifts were piled high all around the tree. And for a moment, it was the same as it always had been. She was tempted to scream for Nick, mom and dad to GET UP and begin to open the presents.
But, instead, she quietly sat down… and began to remember.
The red and green light that had come into the house is what had given her this feeling. As it twirled around and around, finally stopping just before it disappeared, it was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. It was better than all of the Christmas presents in the world put together, and she just wanted to remember it forever.
But just as suddenly as the memory came it was leaving and now Nick was up and staring at all of the brightly colored wrappings. Christmas morning at the Bachta house was just beginning.
* * *
"Well, that's done until next year."
Loreano stretched while Roena added, "Yes, the red and green ones came out especially well and the yellow ones that look like stars were a lot brighter than usual."
Roena smiled to herself as she recalled what Santa had taught them during that very first session: "Most of them won't actually see the lights; or if they do, they won't remember. But what they will remember every year during this season, especially when they see the Christmas lights on the trees, around the rooftops, on the streets and in the stores, is a sense of peace-filled wonderment. And that is really the gift they will spend the rest of their Christmases sharing."
* * *
"Merry Christmas, Nick."
Kristen gave her little brother a big hug and kiss and took him by the hand to wake her sleeping parents.
13 Our Basement Christmas
Following the end of World War II, millions of G.I.’s returned home, got married and started raising families. Many of them purchased affordable track homes built in rural regions just outside of major cities all across the country. So it was with our Italian family.
Our house was small but seemed opulent to my two brothers, sister and me. We three boys slept in the large, upstairs bedroom barracks style, complete with foot lockers and single beds. My sister and parents got the main floor bedrooms. The one thing the tract homes lacked was a formal dining room, something our family desired very much. And so began the tradition of the basement Christmas.
Our home had an unfinished basement and like so many Italian families in those days, we converted it into the dining room for holiday dinners. I remember my father rounding up my two brothers and me, handing each of us a paint roller and saying, “Now watch me for a minute and just do what I do.” I couldn’t believe our father was going to let us paint the basement walls!
Of course, there was nothing in the basement, so there was little risk of any real damage being done but I can still hear my mother, shouting from the top of the basement stairs, “You gonna make a bigga mess and I’m a no gonna clean it uppa for you.” I loved her beautiful Italian accent. Undaunted, we started rolling on the white paint and soon had as much paint on ourselves as the walls. We eventually finished while Dad stood back and supervised with a beer in his hand. To this day, I don’t recall ever hearing him laugh that loud again.
After the painting adventure, Dad and my uncles put down gaudy, pink and black linoleum squares on the floor. My uncles kept asking, “Where the hell did you steal these tiles? From the back of some garbage truck?” They were ugly tiles but Dad was as proud of them as if they were hand cut marble.
Next came a second hand dining table, a collection of slightly mismatched chairs and a china cabinet with sliding glass doors to house and display my mother’s finest dinnerware. It wasn’t long before we were planning our first Christmas party in the basement.
Christmas dinner in our house was not just a one day event. It took hours of planning, food preparation and skilled cooking. My mother and father were incredibly talented cooks and our meals often rivaled food found in the finest restaurants, although I didn’t realize that until many years later. Everything was home made. There was no running out to the supermarket to pick up a can of this or a jar of that.
My mother and sister would start making ravioli-like desserts filled with sweetened ricotta cheese, fried to crispy crunch and topped with powdered sugar. My mother, who was from Naples, called them Casadeddi, a treat she and her mother made when she was a little girl. “Please, can we try one now, Ma?” my brothers and I would beg. If we were persistent enough, we would get to eat the ones my mother wouldn’t serve to her guests. To us, the rejects were simply heaven.
Next she would spend hours making gnocchi by hand. As she rolled and cut them to size, we kids would carry them from the kitchen to her bedroom and carefully place each one on a clean bed sheet laid over her mattress. By the time we were done, the bed sheet was totally covered with the tasty little pastas. There they would sit for several hours until my mother somehow knew they were ready to put in a bowl. Because our tiny refrigerator was already overflowing, she would store the bowl in the milk chute until it was time to cook dinner.
Being the oldest son, I was usually enlisted to help Dad make sausage. He would clamp the shiny, cast iron meat grinder to the counter and say, “Okay, start grinding the handle slow and steady while I stuff the meat into the top.” It wasn’t too long before he began adding his favorite seasonings to the ground pork mixture, including a healthy portion of home made red wine. The one thing I remember the most about making sausage with him was being given my own glass a wine. Dad would say, “You can’t make sausage without drinking a little wine. Besides, it’s good for you.” That made me feel really grown up for an eleven year old. The most anticipated moment, however, was the sharing of “taste burgers”, small patties of his sausage meat fried in an old iron skillet. He used the burgers to taste test the recipe before he actually stuffed the sausage. It was always perfect.
Stuffing the sausage into their casings was the most fun. It was like a magic trick to all of us kids. Dad would place the meat into the grinder while I turned the handle slowly and out came the perfectly shaped sausage from the funnel on the other end. Dad would put them in a large, roasting pan and keep them in the garage until he was ready to cook them. With another glass of wine in his hand, he would say, “Gotta keep that garage door closed…the damn dogs around here will have a feast if we don’t.”
We went to midnight mass on Christmas Eve in order to get an early start the next day. Christmas morning was best described as joyous bedlam. Opening presents seemed like just the beginning of a day full of excitement and fun. Even before the gifts were opened, Mother had already started preparing an enormous pot of tomato sauce. The house was soon filled with the aroma of simmering garlic, basil and oregano, aromas that forever define a part of my childhood memories. The small kitchen stove and oven were brisling with pans full of bubbling water and pastas, roasting sausages, and even chestnuts. The precision of the cooking was like that of a symphony orchestra performing.
Before we knew it, guests had started to arrive. Dad had friends with the most colorful names I had ever heard. Scoofer, Speedway and Presti, were like characters in an old gangster movie. Along with my uncles, aunts and cousins, we had a houseful. Everyone knew to go to the basement. Dad had set up a bar in the laundry sink, complete with blocks of ice and crystal glasses precariously placed on a piece of plywood covered with one of Mom’s best pillow cases.
After all of our guest arrived, the food parade began. Everyone carried a pot, plate or bowl of something from the upstairs kitchen down to the basement. Mother had hung some clip- on Santa and snowflake decorations to the overhead light bulbs adding festive color to the long dinning table. Of course, all the adults sat at the big table and me, my bothers, sister and cousins, all sat at the ‘kids’ tables. It seemed to me that the adults had more fun than we kids ever did.
The ensuing commotion can only be best described as that found in a present day casino. The din of clanging silverware and plates, tapping wine glasses being raised in one boisterous toast after another and of course, a thick, blue haze of cigar smoke that permeated the air signaled the party was in full swing.
After days of preparation, the basement feast was over in less than an hour. The festivities, however, would continue well into the evening. Mind-numbing, post meal football games had not found there way to television yet, so after dinner, Dad poured shots of Crown Royal for all the men and they began playing a rowdy game of poker. I remember standing behind Dad, having him flash his cards to me over his shoulder and ask, “Should I raise him?” I said yes every time, just to hear him laugh. Then someone would yell at him, saying, “Come on Mono, shit or get off the pot.” Someone used that line at every game and I still smile when I think about it.
While the men played cards, the women all gathered around the big, twin tub, concrete laundry tub and washed dinner dishes. That was always a sure sign that dessert was coming. A pot of steaming hot coffee, sweet ravioli cakes, cannollis and angel wing cookies were the perfect way to finish our first basement Christmas.
It was perfect then and still is today. And although my brothers, sister and I still have Christmas together, no one has to eat in the basement anymore. But we still gather “downstairs” for a glass of wine and a toast to those glorious memories of our basement Christmas’ that crystallized our family’s traditions and legacy for the generations to come.
Our house was small but seemed opulent to my two brothers, sister and me. We three boys slept in the large, upstairs bedroom barracks style, complete with foot lockers and single beds. My sister and parents got the main floor bedrooms. The one thing the tract homes lacked was a formal dining room, something our family desired very much. And so began the tradition of the basement Christmas.
Our home had an unfinished basement and like so many Italian families in those days, we converted it into the dining room for holiday dinners. I remember my father rounding up my two brothers and me, handing each of us a paint roller and saying, “Now watch me for a minute and just do what I do.” I couldn’t believe our father was going to let us paint the basement walls!
Of course, there was nothing in the basement, so there was little risk of any real damage being done but I can still hear my mother, shouting from the top of the basement stairs, “You gonna make a bigga mess and I’m a no gonna clean it uppa for you.” I loved her beautiful Italian accent. Undaunted, we started rolling on the white paint and soon had as much paint on ourselves as the walls. We eventually finished while Dad stood back and supervised with a beer in his hand. To this day, I don’t recall ever hearing him laugh that loud again.
After the painting adventure, Dad and my uncles put down gaudy, pink and black linoleum squares on the floor. My uncles kept asking, “Where the hell did you steal these tiles? From the back of some garbage truck?” They were ugly tiles but Dad was as proud of them as if they were hand cut marble.
Next came a second hand dining table, a collection of slightly mismatched chairs and a china cabinet with sliding glass doors to house and display my mother’s finest dinnerware. It wasn’t long before we were planning our first Christmas party in the basement.
Christmas dinner in our house was not just a one day event. It took hours of planning, food preparation and skilled cooking. My mother and father were incredibly talented cooks and our meals often rivaled food found in the finest restaurants, although I didn’t realize that until many years later. Everything was home made. There was no running out to the supermarket to pick up a can of this or a jar of that.
My mother and sister would start making ravioli-like desserts filled with sweetened ricotta cheese, fried to crispy crunch and topped with powdered sugar. My mother, who was from Naples, called them Casadeddi, a treat she and her mother made when she was a little girl. “Please, can we try one now, Ma?” my brothers and I would beg. If we were persistent enough, we would get to eat the ones my mother wouldn’t serve to her guests. To us, the rejects were simply heaven.
Next she would spend hours making gnocchi by hand. As she rolled and cut them to size, we kids would carry them from the kitchen to her bedroom and carefully place each one on a clean bed sheet laid over her mattress. By the time we were done, the bed sheet was totally covered with the tasty little pastas. There they would sit for several hours until my mother somehow knew they were ready to put in a bowl. Because our tiny refrigerator was already overflowing, she would store the bowl in the milk chute until it was time to cook dinner.
Being the oldest son, I was usually enlisted to help Dad make sausage. He would clamp the shiny, cast iron meat grinder to the counter and say, “Okay, start grinding the handle slow and steady while I stuff the meat into the top.” It wasn’t too long before he began adding his favorite seasonings to the ground pork mixture, including a healthy portion of home made red wine. The one thing I remember the most about making sausage with him was being given my own glass a wine. Dad would say, “You can’t make sausage without drinking a little wine. Besides, it’s good for you.” That made me feel really grown up for an eleven year old. The most anticipated moment, however, was the sharing of “taste burgers”, small patties of his sausage meat fried in an old iron skillet. He used the burgers to taste test the recipe before he actually stuffed the sausage. It was always perfect.
Stuffing the sausage into their casings was the most fun. It was like a magic trick to all of us kids. Dad would place the meat into the grinder while I turned the handle slowly and out came the perfectly shaped sausage from the funnel on the other end. Dad would put them in a large, roasting pan and keep them in the garage until he was ready to cook them. With another glass of wine in his hand, he would say, “Gotta keep that garage door closed…the damn dogs around here will have a feast if we don’t.”
We went to midnight mass on Christmas Eve in order to get an early start the next day. Christmas morning was best described as joyous bedlam. Opening presents seemed like just the beginning of a day full of excitement and fun. Even before the gifts were opened, Mother had already started preparing an enormous pot of tomato sauce. The house was soon filled with the aroma of simmering garlic, basil and oregano, aromas that forever define a part of my childhood memories. The small kitchen stove and oven were brisling with pans full of bubbling water and pastas, roasting sausages, and even chestnuts. The precision of the cooking was like that of a symphony orchestra performing.
Before we knew it, guests had started to arrive. Dad had friends with the most colorful names I had ever heard. Scoofer, Speedway and Presti, were like characters in an old gangster movie. Along with my uncles, aunts and cousins, we had a houseful. Everyone knew to go to the basement. Dad had set up a bar in the laundry sink, complete with blocks of ice and crystal glasses precariously placed on a piece of plywood covered with one of Mom’s best pillow cases.
After all of our guest arrived, the food parade began. Everyone carried a pot, plate or bowl of something from the upstairs kitchen down to the basement. Mother had hung some clip- on Santa and snowflake decorations to the overhead light bulbs adding festive color to the long dinning table. Of course, all the adults sat at the big table and me, my bothers, sister and cousins, all sat at the ‘kids’ tables. It seemed to me that the adults had more fun than we kids ever did.
The ensuing commotion can only be best described as that found in a present day casino. The din of clanging silverware and plates, tapping wine glasses being raised in one boisterous toast after another and of course, a thick, blue haze of cigar smoke that permeated the air signaled the party was in full swing.
After days of preparation, the basement feast was over in less than an hour. The festivities, however, would continue well into the evening. Mind-numbing, post meal football games had not found there way to television yet, so after dinner, Dad poured shots of Crown Royal for all the men and they began playing a rowdy game of poker. I remember standing behind Dad, having him flash his cards to me over his shoulder and ask, “Should I raise him?” I said yes every time, just to hear him laugh. Then someone would yell at him, saying, “Come on Mono, shit or get off the pot.” Someone used that line at every game and I still smile when I think about it.
While the men played cards, the women all gathered around the big, twin tub, concrete laundry tub and washed dinner dishes. That was always a sure sign that dessert was coming. A pot of steaming hot coffee, sweet ravioli cakes, cannollis and angel wing cookies were the perfect way to finish our first basement Christmas.
It was perfect then and still is today. And although my brothers, sister and I still have Christmas together, no one has to eat in the basement anymore. But we still gather “downstairs” for a glass of wine and a toast to those glorious memories of our basement Christmas’ that crystallized our family’s traditions and legacy for the generations to come.
12 Snow Day
It was one of those dreary, gray winter days just after Thanksgiving yet not close enough to Christmas so that, even though vacation from school was just around the corner and almost here, it wasn’t. It was still weeks away. And so you had to sit in a classroom and just look out the window and then at the big calendar and try to calculate the number of days you had to go until V-Day: Vacation day.
Today was Thursday, a school day. But today wasn’t like Monday, or Tuesday, or Wednesday, or even like Friday, the day before the weekend, because on Friday you still had to sit in class and mentally cross off the calendar or erase and re-draw the minute hand on the clock-face you’d drawn on your notebook; the clock that counted down to 3:15. No. Today was Thursday but there wasn’t any school at Monroe Elementary. You see, the night before it had snowed 2 feet and 6 point 5 inches. The buses couldn’t run and the schools couldn’t open. It was a Snow Day!
Everyone was outside, sledding, snowboarding, skating or just plain sliding on the ice and drinking hot chocolate from a Thermos. Way better than school! There were the twins Emma and Lily, athletic Shayne, rambunctious Clay, talkative Taylor, funny Jeffrey, and even shy Violet. The entire third grade class was outside. Everybody was playing in the snow and loving it. Everybody, that is, except Kate. She had just moved to the neighborhood about a month ago after her mom had gotten the job transfer.
“It’s either move with the job,” her mother had explained, “or there’s no Christmas.”
Kate had thought “I’d rather have no Christmas.” She didn’t really mean it. But she gave a try thinking it. It didn’t change anything, though, and here they were. Inside and no school.
Kate didn’t like being outside with all those other kids from her class; so snooty. No. Kate liked being at school, especially in the library with Mrs. Bainbridge the librarian. Mrs. B was nice, and she let Kate have her own small table near the back corner where she could read without being bothered. There she could read books about far away places and times. Books like The Azure Arrow, about a little girl who lived in a castle in the middle ages. It took place around Christmas time. That little girl was lonely, too. But did she complain? No! She picked herself up and went for walks in the nearby forest. She made her own fun. And she even made a friend and had great adventures.
Well, ma’am. That was what Kate was going to do. She would get up, put on her coat, mittens and boots, and walk in the woods next door and make her own fun. Alone! Just like in that poem where the man stops his horse by a snowy woods and watches the snow fall, with his horse just sort of shaking his head wanting to get home. Well, what did horses know, anyway?
“Who needs those kids in the front yards?” thought Kate. She would go out the back door unseen and walk in the woods and – well - she’d just see what. So that’s what she did.
The woods out back were beautiful and white and still. You could taste the snow on your tongue and the cold made your cheeks red. It was wonderful. So quiet. So peaceful. SPLATTT! A very, very huge snowball disintegrated against the tree next to Kate. She turned and ducked at the same time shouting, “Hey!”
“I could have hit you if I’d have wanted.” It was Kevin from two houses down. He was in fourth grade. Who did he think he was throwing snowballs at innocents, and being in Kate’s private woods?
“Great day, isn’t it?” said Kevin, rather rhetorically.
“Rather be in school,” returned Kate.
“I’ve seen you in the library. Not many kids go there. But I like it. It’s quieter there. Gives you time to think,” he said. “Have you ever read The Azure Arrow? It’s about some kids who hung out in a woods like this. I think you’d like it,” continued Kevin.
Kate stood there gape mouthed. Kevin had read The Azure Arrow? She couldn’t believe it. This Kevin may be alright after all. All she could say, though, was, “It was a forest.”
“Yeah. That’s right. Hey, look.” said Kevin. “There’s a snowball fight across the street. Come on. You’re on my side!”
“Sure!” called Kate, as they raced into the melee hurling snowballs like professional jai-lai players.
“This is a great day,” thought Kate. “And this is going to be a wonderful Christmas.”
Today was Thursday, a school day. But today wasn’t like Monday, or Tuesday, or Wednesday, or even like Friday, the day before the weekend, because on Friday you still had to sit in class and mentally cross off the calendar or erase and re-draw the minute hand on the clock-face you’d drawn on your notebook; the clock that counted down to 3:15. No. Today was Thursday but there wasn’t any school at Monroe Elementary. You see, the night before it had snowed 2 feet and 6 point 5 inches. The buses couldn’t run and the schools couldn’t open. It was a Snow Day!
Everyone was outside, sledding, snowboarding, skating or just plain sliding on the ice and drinking hot chocolate from a Thermos. Way better than school! There were the twins Emma and Lily, athletic Shayne, rambunctious Clay, talkative Taylor, funny Jeffrey, and even shy Violet. The entire third grade class was outside. Everybody was playing in the snow and loving it. Everybody, that is, except Kate. She had just moved to the neighborhood about a month ago after her mom had gotten the job transfer.
“It’s either move with the job,” her mother had explained, “or there’s no Christmas.”
Kate had thought “I’d rather have no Christmas.” She didn’t really mean it. But she gave a try thinking it. It didn’t change anything, though, and here they were. Inside and no school.
Kate didn’t like being outside with all those other kids from her class; so snooty. No. Kate liked being at school, especially in the library with Mrs. Bainbridge the librarian. Mrs. B was nice, and she let Kate have her own small table near the back corner where she could read without being bothered. There she could read books about far away places and times. Books like The Azure Arrow, about a little girl who lived in a castle in the middle ages. It took place around Christmas time. That little girl was lonely, too. But did she complain? No! She picked herself up and went for walks in the nearby forest. She made her own fun. And she even made a friend and had great adventures.
Well, ma’am. That was what Kate was going to do. She would get up, put on her coat, mittens and boots, and walk in the woods next door and make her own fun. Alone! Just like in that poem where the man stops his horse by a snowy woods and watches the snow fall, with his horse just sort of shaking his head wanting to get home. Well, what did horses know, anyway?
“Who needs those kids in the front yards?” thought Kate. She would go out the back door unseen and walk in the woods and – well - she’d just see what. So that’s what she did.
The woods out back were beautiful and white and still. You could taste the snow on your tongue and the cold made your cheeks red. It was wonderful. So quiet. So peaceful. SPLATTT! A very, very huge snowball disintegrated against the tree next to Kate. She turned and ducked at the same time shouting, “Hey!”
“I could have hit you if I’d have wanted.” It was Kevin from two houses down. He was in fourth grade. Who did he think he was throwing snowballs at innocents, and being in Kate’s private woods?
“Great day, isn’t it?” said Kevin, rather rhetorically.
“Rather be in school,” returned Kate.
“I’ve seen you in the library. Not many kids go there. But I like it. It’s quieter there. Gives you time to think,” he said. “Have you ever read The Azure Arrow? It’s about some kids who hung out in a woods like this. I think you’d like it,” continued Kevin.
Kate stood there gape mouthed. Kevin had read The Azure Arrow? She couldn’t believe it. This Kevin may be alright after all. All she could say, though, was, “It was a forest.”
“Yeah. That’s right. Hey, look.” said Kevin. “There’s a snowball fight across the street. Come on. You’re on my side!”
“Sure!” called Kate, as they raced into the melee hurling snowballs like professional jai-lai players.
“This is a great day,” thought Kate. “And this is going to be a wonderful Christmas.”
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