Olden Days Of Christmas: My Favorite Recipe

Thanksgiving means stuffing to me.  Oh, yes the turkey gets an invitation to show up.  That turkey is the supposed star of the show.  But, the stuffing gets my vote as the VIP of the holiday table.

It started when I was a little girl.

My mother made her stuffing the way her mother taught her to.  It included bread cubes, mashed potatoes, hamburger, scallions, celery and sage.  Too much sage when her younger brother was in attendance during the stirring process.

“Put any more sage in my stuffing?” she’d yell at him from the kitchen sink.  “I will break your arm.”

My uncle would shake that canister a few more times and make a run for it.

My new husband tasted my mother’s stuffing and asked for more turkey.  I thought that was weird.  It seems my mother’s stuffing was very different from his mother’s stuffing.  Thus, it was inferior.  He kept his mouth shut about it at the actual dinner table.  But, I grilled him on the subject during the car ride home to our newlywed apartment.

I listened to him.  My mouth hung open in the darkness of the car going down the highway.  I harumphed at him.  I crossed my arms.

How could your mother’s stuffing possibly be better than my mother’s I thought.  I let it go.  Sometimes you find your new husband to be a little delusional on any number of subjects.  If you want to get to your golden wedding anniversary……….you let a lot of stuff go unchallenged.

I took a part time job in a Christmas store when my children were small.  This did three things for me.  Number one: stop taking me for granted I thought!  All of you including the cat!  Number two: my husband actually got out of work on time so he could take care of his kids while Mommy sold advent calendars.  Number three: my husband learned to cook.

Oh, I thought he’d be feeding the kids the regular stuff.  Hot dogs.  Macaroni and cheese.  Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.  Grilled cheese and tomato soup.  But, no.  My man got out the cookbooks and whipped up chicken marsala.  Salmon with lime butter and such things for two kids that could hardly reach the table.

I’d come home from selling Christmas ornaments and I’d sniff.  If I was lucky they’d saved me some of whatever he’d cooked.

I took a ladle and made my husband bow in front of me.  I christened him the new holiday and company showoff cook.  Holidays became a lot easier on me with him planning and executing the menus.

I got out of practice cooking the fancy stuff.  Oh, I can keep you alive and happy with my meatloaf.  I can make a mean mashed potato.  I’m the weekday cook.

My father was visiting one Thanksgiving.  My mother had been gone for years.  He was all mine on most holidays.  My husband had to run into work for an emergency on Thanksgiving morning.  The phone rang.  I answered.  I listened.  I swore.

I started banging around the pots and pans.  I took the turkey out of the brine.  My husband was stuck at work.  I’d have to cook all of this myself.  I knew I was out of practice.  It was kind of terrifying.

My father stopped watching his 24 hour on a loop news station.  He came out to the kitchen and asked me what the problem was.  I told him I was going to have to cook this whole meal myself.  I didn’t admit to him that I no longer knew what the heck I was doing.  I lined up the recipes in front of me and smiled at him.

“Well……I can say one thing Daddy.  It will all be made with love.” I told him.

I said a little prayer.  Everything came out at the same time.  It was all delicious.  I still say that was the most moist turkey we’ve ever had.  I can’t tell you how that happened.  Because?  I really didn’t know what I was doing.

I think it was the prayer that did it.  My husband even got out work in time to eat it all.

The stuffing at that dinner was from a recipe my husband found.  It’s been tuned up to our tastes.  I love it so much the turkey can stay out in the field skipping around in circles.  Run, turkey, run!  This stuffing puts you to shame.

This stuffing is loved by every single one of us.  We make enough for leftovers.  Because, people will eat this for a midnight snack.  They will be looking for more to warm up for breakfast.

Calm down.  Don’t get nervous.  I’m going to give you the recipe.

My daughter got married.  She lives far away.  For years the phone would ring and I would read the stuffing recipe to her over the phone.

I got a little sick of reciting this recipe out over the phone.  But, you know what?  It’s great to hear her voice at the holidays.

This stuffing was now a big hit at her in-laws Thanksgiving dinner.  It was her contribution to the holiday table.  I think it could be one of the reasons they love her so much.

One Thanksgiving time came and she was tired.  So, so tired.  From working.  And rehearsing a show.  Not enough sleep.  Eating on the run.  She was beat.  Thanksgiving was her one day off.

She told her in-laws that she wasn’t making the stuffing this year.  She didn’t have the energy in her body to do it.  She pointed her finger at her husband and said “Make your green bean casserole.”

She fibbed about the reason why.

The fib came………………when she didn’t want her exhaustion to sound like laziness.

She said on the phone “I’m sorry.  I’m not making that this year.  It’s just too expensive.  What with the bottle of Grand Marnier.  The almonds. The dried apricots.  The sausage.  The bread cubes………….and all the rest of it.  Just too expensive.”

She was trying to play the “We are poor little newlyweds” card.

An hour later the doorbell rang.  Two bags of groceries were pushed into her face.  The bags contained Grand Marnier.  Almonds. Dried apricots.  Sausage.  A bag of bread cubes………….and all the rest of it.

She slapped herself awake and made the stuffing.

********************************************************

Grand Marnier Apricot Stuffing

1 cup diced dried apricots
1 cup Grand Marnier
1 cup (2 sticks) unsalted butter
2 cups coarsely chopped celery
1 large yellow onion, chopped
1 pound bulk pork sausage (I use sweet)
1 pound herb stuffing mix (I use Pepperidge Farms Herb)
1 cup slivered almonds
2  1/2 cups chicken broth
1/2 teaspoon dried thyme
salt and freshly ground black pepper, to taste

1.  Place the apricots and 1 cup Grand Marnier in a small saucepan.  Heat to boiling. Remove from the heat and set aside.
2.  Melt 1/2 cup of the butter in a large skillet over medium heat.  Add the celery and onion and saute for 10 minutes.  Transfer to a large mixing bowl.
3.  Cook the pork sausage in the same skillet, crumbling with a fork, until it is no longer pink.  Remove from the heat and add to the celery mixture.
4.  Add the stuffing mix, apricots with liquid and almonds.  Stir to combine.
5.  Heat the remaining 1/2 cup butter and the chicken stock in a small saucepan just until the butter melts.  Pour over the stuffing mixture.  Stir well to moisten the stuffing.  Season with the thyme and salt and pepper to taste.

Enough for a 21-24 pound turkey
Note:  I don’t cook stuffing inside the turkey.  I put into a glass casserole (no cover)  and cook at 350 for a half hour or until the top of the bread looks a little crispy.  I often make it the day before because that turkey is taking up the oven.  It tastes the same if it’s microwaved to heat it up for the big meal.

Also note:  the Grand Marnier is important for flavor.  But, sometimes I cut that ingredient in half and make up the extra liquid with chicken broth.  It’s to taste really.

 

 

Sick In Bed On Christmas

I don’t get sick much.

When I do?  People panic a little.  I’ll lay on the sofa nursing a rotten head cold.  I moan a bit through my nose.  I’m just trying to open up my sinuses.  The vibration feels good.  My husband comes flying around the corner ready to give me a piggyback ride to the car.  He thinks I need medical attention.

What a hoot!

I didn’t get sick often when I was a child either.  Oh, you know.  The regular stuff.  Like chicken pox.  I remember my mother wrapping me up like a mummy with gauze so I wouldn’t scratch and mar my skin for life.

Mom used to always go a little overboard when she was nursing.

I have two older brothers.  The eldest is eight years older than I am.  He left to go to college when he was eighteen and I was ten.  I have very little memory of him as a kid.

My other brother is four years older.  He played with me when we were in the privacy of our own house.  He ignored me for the little girl that I was when we were out and about in the neighborhood.

“What’s your kid sister doing here?  Send her home.  No girls allowed!” his friends would say as they were all set to build a fort out of the latest foot of snow.

He’d send me home.  Then I would moan about it to my mother.

My mother didn’t force me on that group of boys.  She just told me “Well, a bunch of boys don’t want a little girl hanging around.  Don’t blame your brother.  It’s just the way it is.  Give them a few years.  Those boys will like girls just fine.  Someday you’ll be beating them off with a stick and slamming doors in their faces.  That’s not much fun either.  But, I’ll teach you how to do it when the time comes.” she added.

Sometimes my mother’s explanations just caused me to squint my eyes at her and shake my head.

“Go and get your Barbies.  I’ll play with you while the soup simmers.” she offered.

My brother was known to get pneumonia at Christmas time.  Oh, it’s family lore.  I don’t remember it.  But, according to Mom my poor brother almost ruined every Christmas by trying to hack up a lung.  The whole family would be grounded because his poor little face was all white with big black smudges under his eyes.

I probably don’t remember it because he was four years older.

He did have strep throat one December.  He was feeling just fine right about the time Santa was about to appear down our chimney.  That’s when I caught it.

I was tucked up into my parent’s fluffy bed.  The doctor actually made a house call that night.  I think house calls were out of style by that time.  My mother went into such a panic that I was sick…………..the child that never gets sick………she called the doctor’s office just as he was putting on his coat and hat to go home.

The doctor was a good soul.  He grabbed his medical bag and stopped in on his way home to his own sick kids and his dinner.

His hands were freezing.  I jumped a foot.  My muscles were sore from fever and I tightened up all over.  Then he landed a stethoscope made out of ice cubes onto my chest.  He stuck another cold instrument in my ears.  I said ah! nice and big for him.  I figured that would make this man get the heck away from me.

“She’s caught strep from her brother.  I’ll call in the antibiotics.  Keep her in this bed.  Plenty of fluids.  Don’t let her run around.  The kids that never get sick can react the worst when they do catch something.” he said to my mother.

The doctor pointed his finger at me.

“You stay in this bed, little girl.  Christmas will come to you.  I want you laying down and covered up.  You listen to your mother.  You drink plenty of liquids.  And, sleep.  Sleep cures everything.  You shut your eyes and dream about Santa Claus but I do not want you out in that living room waiting for him.  Do you understand me?” he asked.

How did he know that I tried to catch Santa every year?

“Yes, sir.” I answered.

I wasn’t about to argue with him.  My muscles ached so much from the fever that I felt like I’d tumbled off of a bicycle.  I turned my nose up at my mother’s meatloaf.  I loved my mother’s meatloaf.  That’s how rotten I was feeling.

That’s about the time I tried to convince my mother to postpone Christmas.  Oh, say, just for a week.  Because of me there would be no Christmas Eve trip to my grandparent’s house.  No incense at church.  No relatives laughing down the walls of our little house.

My mother just smiled at my suggestion and put a glass of gingerale with a droopy paper straw on the table next to the bed.

My throat was on fire.  I had hard knobs behind my ears.  Every time I swallowed my ears clicked.  I drank some soda and fell asleep again.

I slept so much that day I was wide awake that night.  Everyone else was asleep.  I grabbed the blanket off the top of the bed.  I went into the living room and plugged in the tree.  I curled up underneath it like a puppy and stared at the lights.  I was missing Christmas and under the tree was where I wanted to be.  I fell asleep again.

My father must have been on night time nursing duty.  He found me and carried me back to bed.  I have a hazy memory of him giving me his version of a talking to.

“You stay in this bed, Little Girl.  I’m not kidding.  That floor out there is cold.  You’ll still be sick for New Years Eve if you keep up this kind of behavior.  I’m going to sleep here with you tonight.  I’ll put my head at the bottom of the bed so I don’t catch your sore throat.  I’m tired.  Do not wake me up with your shenanigans again tonight.” he said.

The next day was Christmas Eve.  I still felt terrible but I had a little bit more energy.

I was driving my parents nuts.  I kept trying to sneak out of bed to be in the living room with the tree and the nativity set.

My father tossed me into the bed again.  He tucked the blankets around me very, very tightly.  He gave me the look.  He raised his eyebrows at me.  He tilted his head.  He stared deeply into my eyes.

“Knock it off, Little Girl.  Just knock it off!” he said quietly.

That’s when my brother came through the door.  He put a tray table with folding legs up next to the bed.  He dragged in a small artificial tree.   He decorated it with with a string of lights and mismatched ornaments from the bottom of the box.  He put a lopsided angel on top.

Next, he carried in his little portable black and white television set.  He flipped the channels and found a movie.  Shirley Temple was smiling her big dimpled smile as she tap danced down a long flight of stairs.

He set up two more tray tables next to the bed and played erector set with me.  For hours.  Until I rolled over and fell asleep one more time.

“I’m sorry I got you sick at Christmas.” I heard him murmur as he left the room.

Santa came while I slept.  I was the youngest.  So, without my participation the gifts were opened at a normal time of day.  Older people just don’t jump out of bed before daylight even if it is Christmas Day.

My mother took me to the bathroom.  She felt my forehead.  It was hot.  She gave me more pills.  She made me get back into that bed.

“Boy!  When you get sick ………….you get sick, Little Girl.” she said to me.

My father was working in the kitchen.  I lay in the bed and tried to identify the noises.  He was wrestling with a half frozen turkey that bobbed around the water in the sink.  He was peeling potatoes.  He was urging my mother to put more sage into her stuffing.

I dozed again.

I woke up and found the foot of the bed covered in presents.  My brother grinned at me as I took everything out of my stocking.  I opened up new dolls.  And, Barbie clothing.  Plastic food for my play kitchen.  A stuffed tiger with a transistor radio jutting out of it’s belly.  I sniffed at the new Colorforms.  There were two new sets.  One was Barbie and her fancy closet.  The other was the Flintstones and their furnished cave.

I heard relatives enter the house.  I felt the draft from the kitchen door being opened and closed.  Aunties and uncles and cousins stuck their heads in the bedroom door.  They held their breaths and waved hello to me.  New teddy bears, a Raggedy Andy doll and picture books landed on my bed.

Still, my brother stayed with me.  The one that told me to go home when he was with his friends.

“Let’s play colorforms.” said my brother that was too old for such toys.  “I’ll take the Flintstones.  You take Barbie.”

He was so kind to me.  His sick little sister.  Sick in bed on her favorite day of the year.

It was a wonderful Christmas after all.  Because?  After all, I remember.

 

 

 

Wisps of Memory and Writing

Memories.  They come at me full speed when I’m writing.  One memory leads into another.  I jot down ideas on a pad of paper that lives next to my right elbow.  Because, I’m either on empty?  Or, the words and ideas fly out of me too fast.

Sometimes I just get wisps.  Snatches of smells and sounds from the days I’ve lived.  The days I spent with the ones I loved.  The ones that I can’t talk to or touch any longer.

A story teller wants to turn those wisps into a story.  Sometimes there is no time or need for that.  A whisper in the ear is just that.  A whisper.  And, that’s okay.

Just today my notebook at my elbow filled up.  I have no time for writing stories because I’m editing my very first book.  It’s a book of Christmas stories.  I think my parents and grandparents would be proud.  I think if I could give them a copy………….they would have actually read it.

I smelled my grandmother today.  Wisps………….of talcum powder.  Maple syrup.  Powdered sugar.  I felt her hand on my cheek.  She never said much to me when I knew her but I know she loved me.

She leaned in today and whispered in my ear.  “Beautiful.  Just, Beautiful.” she said to me.  A memory?  I don’t know.

But, I heard her.

I write for a reason.  I’m not looking for attention.  My husband makes sure I get plenty of that.  I am a friendly person but I must spend many hours being solitary.  I’m not an attention seeker.

I write to bring them all back to me.  The biggest part of my life is behind me now.  A large crowd of people that loved me are just memory.   The people that were most important to me.  I wrote my first story and I heard their voices.  I wrote more and more.

And?  There they were.  Once again.  Standing next to me.

I finally found what the talent I was born with was good for.

I pause in my editing endeavors to pour a cup of coffee.  I glance out the kitchen window and enjoy the yellow leaves cascading down from a tree in the back yard.  I smell smoke.  I see a burn barrel that no longer exists.  I’m a little girl again helping my father with a yard full of fall leaves.  I feel the blisters on my hands.  I smell the smoke in my hair.

I’m hungry.  I cut up an apple.  I sniff before I bite.  I’m young again and back in a kitchen on Columbus Street.  Peeling apples and measuring cinnamon and nutmeg.  I’m helping my mother bake an apple pie.  I laugh when I remember how I would run away from the dirty dishes in the sink.

I smile and get misty eyed when I realize ………..my mother let me.

I click around on Facebook while I sip my coffee.  I see my mother in the photos of her great grandson.  I wonder if he’ll ever know just who he looks like.

I am practiced.  I am a writer now.  I can turn any one of these wisps into a full length story.  It’s what I do.

But, not today.

Today I am polishing my first book to go out into the world.

Sometimes a wisp of memory …………a whisper in the ear is just that.

And, that is enough.

It’s plenty.

 

 

 

Mickey On The Shelf

I love Mickey Mouse as much as the next person.

My husband and I took our kids to Disney World a few times.  I remember acres of perfection.  Main Street smelled like heaven.  That means that heaven smells like waffle cones from the Ice Cream Parlor on the corner.

I remember long days and sore feet.

My daughter interned there during one of her last semesters of college.  She too remembers long days and sore feet.  She did earn a bonus.  She came home with a fiance and he became her husband.

But, before that……….Mickey was a squeaky voiced entertainer.

I grew up in the late fifties and early sixties.  I watched The Mickey Mouse Club on a black and white television.  I felt like I knew Jimmy and all those kids.  Even then………I thought Annette got a little too much screen time.

My favorite of course was Darlene since we share a name.

I asked my mother once where she got my name.  She tilted her head and gave me a look that said “I thought you were smarter than this!”

“I named you after that beautiful dark haired girl on the Mickey Mouse Club.  I wanted you to be just like her.  I thought she was just perfect.” she explained.

I apologized for just being me.  She told me that I was quite alright.  I had turned out even better than she had expected since I looked just like her.  She would appreciate a little more drying of the dishes and a little less wisecracking however.

Not all Darlenes are perfect I told her.

I have started a collection of Mickey Mouse Christmas ornaments.  I don’t know how.  I don’t know why.  My son considers me difficult to shop for.  He buys them for me.  Mickey hangs on the branches of our tree.  Andy buys me snow globes with Mickey waving his big white gloved hand at me.

My son received a plastic Mickey ornament in his Christmas stocking when he was a little boy.  It sat on a shelf in his room among Transformers and action heroes.  It still stands on a shelf in his room.

My little boy wasn’t very forthcoming when he was a kid.  I would ask him how school was when he was in first grade.  I got the generic answer of “Fine!”  unless something was really, really bothering him.

But, Mikey could get him talking.

He asked for a story before bed when he was little.

I went to grab a book off the shelf when he said “No, Mommy.  Make Mickey talk.  Let Mickey tell me a story!”

So, the Mickey ornament danced in front of my little boy.  Andy grinned from his pillow as the ornament started asking him questions in his high pitched Mickey Mouse voice.

“Hi, Andy!  How are you today?  What did you do in school today?” asked Mickey.

My little boy stared at the ornament and actually answered.  He told Mickey all about his day.  The good and the bad.

“Boy! Andy!  You did so good!  You got all your work done and you made a friend!  I am so so proud of you!” squeaked out the famous mouse.

“So, Andy!  Christmas is coming!  It’s right around the corner.  Have you written a letter to Santa yet?” asked Mickey.

“No.  I think I’m getting too old for that.” said Andy with an uncertain pout on his face.

Mickey noticed.

“Oh, Ha!” he squeaked.  “I don’t think you’re too old.  But, that’s okay.  Santa and I are great pals.  Minnie and I have him over for dinner all the time.  Just tell me what you’d like and I’ll pass it on since we’re friends.”

My son listed off quite a few things that he’d like to see under the tree.  I just hoped to remember half of them.  Eyes were getting heavy.  I put Mickey back on his shelf and sneaked out of the room.

I bumped into my husband sitting on the stairs.  He’d been listening in.

“Oh, my God!  You sounded just like Mickey Mouse!  How do you do that?” he wanted to know.

Um…………..secret talent that I didn’t even know I possessed?

Night after night my son requested an audience with Mickey.  They got to know each other very well.

Years went by and my son was all grown up.  He’d grab his car keys and go off to the mall to do his Christmas shopping for the family.  He’d come back a few hours later and slam the door in frustration.  It seems I’m impossible to shop for.  It seems I don’t like anything.

According to my son.

It’s not true by the way.  I like most anything and everything.  Except, anything yellow.  Oh, and licorice.

I began to receive beautiful ornaments.  Snow globes and other collectibles from my son.  They were all Mickey Mouse themed.

I wondered out loud to my husband.  Why?

“Duh!” my husband answered.

“Duh?” I inquired.

“Hi, Andy!  How are you?  What did you do in school today?” said my husband in his best mouse voice.

I stared at him in consternation.  And, then my eyes widened in knowledge.

“Imagine!  Him remembering that after all these years!” I said to my husband.

“I do believe that little ornament is still on the shelf in his room.” he remarked.

Yes, it’s still there.  The Transfomers and the action figures have disappeared.  But, Mickey still sits in a place of honor in my son’s room.

I got a big smile on my face.

“I wonder if that other Darlene turned out to be as good a mother as I am?” I asked with great satisfaction.

The best Christmas gifts are the ones you don’t expect.  The ones that don’t cost a penny.

 

On the Doorstep

Christmas was coming and my mother was irked.  I was rushing her.  My mother didn’t like to be rushed.

I was pressuring her to put up the Christmas tree.  The scent of Thanksgiving turkey and stuffing still hung in the air.

I mentioned the Christmas tree in the basement.  Mom rolled her eyes at me.

“Go dry those dishes!  Eat some pumpkin pie.  Dear, God!  Give me a break with the Christmas talk!” she said.

The next day I told her I was bored.  I lie in front of the TV with my chin in my hand.  An almost empty bag of Hershey Kisses sat next to me.  The cat batted around the aluminum foil wrappers from the candy.

Our TV got three stations.  I had been intrigued to find the really old version of A Christmas Carol on the television.  I expected it to followed by another Christmas movie.  Instead, they gave me a Western starring Ronald Reagan.

I rolled on my back.  Candy wrappers and the cat scattered.

“I’m so bored!” I wailed.

“Oh!  You’re bored are you?  Go find something to do…………or I’ll find something for you to do.” my mother threatened.

“I want to put up the Christmas tree!” I yelled at the ceiling.  I’m thinking I was  overdosing on chocolate.  Because, usually when my mother threatened to “find something for you to do” I would run from the room.  I vacated whatever floor she was on.  I would hide under my bed to avoid my mother giving me something to do.

Because, when my mother was really irked?  She’d hand me q-tips and a can of Lemon Pledge.  I knew what that meant.  I had to go shine up the curliques and flowers carved in the legs of the table in front of the picture window.  She even saved this job as a punishment.

My mother walked into the den.  She stood over my body and squirted a little Lemon Pledge into the air.  This was supposed to make me run for the hills.  I stayed put.  I narrowed my eyes at her.

“Fine!  I’ll clean the table legs.  And, then we’re putting up the Christmas tree!”I declared as I whipped the can out of her hand.

“Oh, you’re twelve years old now!  And, you think you’re all of a sudden the boss of me?” my mother said as she briskly followed me into the living room.

“Let’s get one thing clear, Little Girl.  I’ll speak nice and slow and nice and loud so that you understand.  This is my house.  My rules.  You do as I say.  I will tell you when that Christmas tree comes up from the basement.  And, it’s not going to be today.” my mother announced as she stared me in the eyes.

“So, you do the curliques on this desk and the front table.  Then, I will give you some money.  You can walk to Grants.  Buy yourself a nice big fat Santa coloring book.  That should keep you busy.  That should stop you from being bored.  Stop you from trying to shove Christmas down my throat!” my mother declared with her hands on her hips.

“I’m too old for coloring books, Ma.  Nice try.  Alright.  I’ll leave you alone about the Christmas tree.  But, I’m going to put the village under the table as soon as it’s all shined up.” I announced.

Mom rolled her eyes and left me to it.  The neighbors couldn’t see a Christmas village on the floor under the window.  That seemed to satisfy her.  No blinking lights coming from her living room while it was still the end of November.

That was the first year the Head Elf visited.

I got home from school on Monday and found a box on the back stairs.  The box was taped shut and it had my name printed on the top of it.  I held the aluminum door open with my butt.  I picked up the box and shoved it into the kitchen in front of me.

“What the hell is that?” my mother asked.

“I don’t know!  But, it has my name on it!” I said in an excited voice.

Mom dried her hands on a dish towel.  She stood over the box and pointed to the corner.

“I don’t have my reading glasses on.  What does that say in the corner?” she asked.

“From:  The Head Elf,  North Pole.” I answered.

I looked up at her.  I narrowed my eyes.  My green eyes stared into hers.  She didn’t blink.  Not a twitch.

“Well, are you going to open it?” she asked.

I picked up the box and put it on the kitchen table.  My mother handed me a pair of scissors from the drawer.  I opened the cardboard flaps and looked inside.  Something large was wrapped in brown paper.  I lifted it out and unwrapped it.

I didn’t know what I was looking at.  It was made of aluminum piping.  It was full of hinges.  I turned it over and the label said “Tabletop Easel”.  I cut open the cellophane and looked at the instructions.  With a few flips of the wrist an easel stood on the table.

I dug deeper into the box and came up with a large shiny box with a metal clasp on the side.  I undid the clasp and opened up the tri-fold box.  One side had colored pencils and a sharpener.  The middle section held thirty water colors and artist brushes.  The right side held square…………crayons.

My mother pointed to them.  “Those are pastels.  They’re like crayons for adults.” she explained.

A note in a flowery handwriting that I didn’t recognize was attached to a large pad of artist paper.

I flipped open the note and read it out loud to my mother.

Dear Darlene,  We heard the news that you are now too old for Santa coloring books.  This news has us greatly concerned.  Your letter to Santa is always printed on one of those brightly colored pieces of artwork.  We thought it was time for you to create your own.  Draw!  Paint!  Create!  Get out your typewriter and write us a story.  But, remember.  Christmas can not be rushed.  It will arrive on December 25th as usual.  Have faith!  Your friend, The Head Elf.

I stared at my mother again.

“What?  What?  What are you looking at?” she asked.

I stared some more.

She picked up the note.  She waved it in my face.

“Tell me!  Is that my handwriting?” she asked.

It was not.

I settled down at the table to create.  Of course, I spent a lot of time that day just sniffing deeply at the new paint and pencils and pastels.  I thought the paper was almost too lustrous to lay claim to. But, eventually I started.

My mother spent weeks chasing me away from her kitchen table.  She needed to set the dishes down.  She needed to feed us.  I found this aggravating and relocated my projects to my desk upstairs.  Even though the heat never really reached my room.

I got out my typewriter and I tapped away.  I wrote stories about Santa to go along with my art work.

My mother had to beg me for help decorating the house a few weeks later.  The Head Elf had started me on a mission.  Now, I was the one irked to be interrupted.

I grew up.  I had a family of my own.  The big yellow school bus pulled up in front of our house.  The screech of the brakes brought me to the front door to greet the two little children that ran up the driveway.

They were excited because school was over and Christmas was almost here.  I knew they were going to drive me crazy for the next few days.  I would try to cook and clean and they would be underfoot with their anticipation.

A large cardboard box sat on the front steps.  I couldn’t swing the glass door open to allow them entrance into the house.  They dropped their back packs and whooped for joy.

Big sister read out the note attached to the box to her little brother.

For Chrissy and Andy.   Remember………..Christmas can’t be rushed.  It will arrive on December 25th as usual.  Have faith!  Your friend, The Head Elf

Years later my children were grown.  They were making their own way in the world.  They hit bumps in the road.  They persevered.  They learned how to be adults.

Chrissy spent a few years trying to make it in show business.  Christmas found her exhausted.  She was doing many shows a week.  She was playing Mary Poppins.  She performed with a head cold.  Her feet hurt so much from the Victorian boots that Mary wears.  She visited a massage therapist and paid him to rub her feet for an hour.  Exhaustion washed over her as she did meet and greet with hundreds and hundreds of school children.

Just as she thought she didn’t have an ounce of energy left in her body ……………..she received a letter in the mail.

It was a sweet letter of encouragement.  It came from the North Pole.  It was from the Head Elf himself.   It seemed that after all these years………………that elf felt comfortable with her.

He finally signed his name.

Chrissy called me to tell me about the letter.  She said through tears “Oh, Mommy.  He finally signed his name.  I know the Head Elf’s name!”

It was signed “Have faith!  Love, Mortimer!”

 

 

 

 

 

A Letter From Santa

From the Desk of Santa
1 Jingle Way
North Pole

My dear one,

Thank you for your letter dated November 28, 2018.  I receive many letters as you well know.  I don’t often find the time to answer.

In answer to your question: Yes!  I do keep up on current events here at Santa’s Workshop.  I do know what is going on in the world.  I see the good.  I see the bad.  I witness the devastation that storms bring.  I do see people treating each other badly.

I know why you cry.

I am not just old.  I am ancient.  I have been around a very long time.  There is good and there is evil.  There are good people and there are bad.  There are days when all hope seems to be gone.

You are very young.  So, I will ask that you trust me as I am very old.  I have seen it all.

Good always prevails over bad.  Evil has no chance.  Love always chases hate away into the shadows.  One candle can dissipate the darkness.  Many candles together become a torch that frightens darkness into the corner where it can do no harm.

It all starts with a prayer.  You don’t have to be good at it.  It just needs to come from the heart.

Thankfulness and prayer are one and the same.  When you utter “Oh, what a beautiful day!” and you mean it?  You have just said a prayer.

You smile at an old lady in the grocery store parking lot?  She will always smile back.  You have lent her some of your joy on a day when she feels the world’s weight on her shoulders.

You open a door and say “After you!”.  You have just made someone’s day.  You may have just changed that someone’s opinion on the state of this whole wide world.

When you take care of your neighbor’s cat ………….you have made a difference.

When you babysit and read book after book to those little children……….you have made a difference.

When you make a friend a birthday card…………..you have made a difference.

When you listen to your grandmother’s stories and say “Tell me more!”………….you have made a difference.

A smile is a kindness.  You have plenty of them to share.  Do not despair and think that you can’t possibly change this world.  You change it for the better every day.  Every day that you try!  Every day that you don’t give up!  Every day when you say “What can I do for you?”

Joy is easily ignited. It can be shared. I watch.  I’ve seen the joy that surrounds you.  I’ve seen you give it to others.  When you pay a compliment.  When you bake cookies and give them away.  When you smile and wave at a baby in the supermarket.

Oh, you think these things aren’t important?

Oh, my dear child!  They are!

The goodness in you and the millions of people like you……………will defeat the bad.  Battles have been lost but goodness wins every war.

You are full of light.  You are full of joy.  You are full of love………….yes, even on days when you feel empty.

You; together with others just like you are a beacon.  A floodlight that cuts through the darkest of thick black clouds.

This beacon of love provides all the light here at the North Pole.  The torch of love that comes from millions of prayers powers all the workshops here.

You asked another very important question.

The answer is Yes!  Christmas will come again this year.

Love,

Santa Claus

 

 

 

An Important Message From Santa

Sammy sat on Santa’s lap.  The mall was busy with Christmas shoppers.  Other little kids waited in line.  Little girls scratched at the lace of their red velvet Christmas dresses.  Little boys ran around them in circles.

Sammy’s mom yelled at him to smile.  She held up her cell phone and took photos.  She ignored the lady dressed as Mrs. Santa that was trying to sell her 8X10 glossies.  Sammy smiled for the phone.  He tried to get off of Santa’s lap.

“Whoah!  Whoah!  Not so fast!” said Santa as he pulled Sammy back.  “What’s the rush?  You haven’t even told me what you’d like me to bring you for Christmas yet!”

The man in the Santa suit gave out a big belly laugh.  Sammy realized the belly was real.  He looked up and decided the beard was for real too.  He wasn’t all that surprised.  This mall was known for hiring the best Santas at Christmas.

Thus the long line of kids stretching all the way into the food court.

Sammy was six years old.  His parents had gone through a divorce this year.  He just wasn’t in the mood for all this foolishness.

“I’m not asking you for anything because I’m on the naughty list.” said Sammy as he tried to disengage himself from the man in red yet again.

Santa held on tight.

He leaned down and whispered into Sammy’s ear.

“Let me tell you a secret, son.  There is no naughty list.  No such thing.  Never has been.  Totally made up.  By mothers and fathers.  Trying to keep the kiddies in line.  Works from October until December 25th I hear.  But, really.  No such thing.  Now!  What would you like most for Christmas this year?  Sammy.” asked the Santa.

Sammy didn’t notice that he’d just been called by name.  He did however notice that his mother had lost all interest in him.  Lost all interest in Santa.  Candy canes.  Mechanized elves.  Jingle Bells.  She sat on a nearby bench with her eyes glued to her phone.

Like always.

Facebook.  Candy Crush.  Twitter.  Ebay.  Facebook again.  Wherever that phone could take her?  That’s where she wanted to be.

He sighed in frustration.

“What should I call you?” asked Sammy.  “Santa?  Good Old St. Nick?  Kris Kringle?  Would you prefer I call you Kris?  Does it matter?  Cause, I just don’t believe in all this crap, Kris!”

Santa looked at the woman on the phone.  He shook his head with a small grimace on his face.

The big man with the white beard looked kindly down at the little boy on his lap.

“That doesn’t matter, Sammy.  Because?  I believe in you.  Your father will be with you for New Years.  He’s going to try to take you to Chucky Cheese yet again.  You need to open your mouth.  You need to tell him that you don’t like all that noise.  You need to speak up and tell him that you really don’t like pizza.  Tell him that you want to go to the park.  That you want to feed the ducks.  Just speak up, Sammy!  Moms and Dads aren’t mind readers.  Tell him that you dream of having a picnic in the park.  Just the two of you!” said the department store Santa.

Sammy stiffened up.  His eyes flew open wide in shock.  He leaned back and looked at the man that was holding him again.

Sammy took a deep sniff.

This Santa did not smell like moth balls.  He didn’t smell like tobacco and breath mints.  He smelled like………..cinnamon…………..and sugar cookies……………and wood smoke………..and ……………..barn?

“Do I smell barn?” asked Sammy in shock.

Santa chuckled.  He chuckled so hard that Sammy was bounced around on his lap.

“Yes, I guess you do, son.  I take care of the reindeer myself.  Every morning.  Every night.  I do flight training at midnight.  Reindeer have to fly in the dark after all.  It’s not all magic.  It’s a lot of hard work.  So, yes, Sammy.  I guess I might smell like barn.” said Santa.

Sammy sat sideways on the man’s lap.  He looked deeply into this man’s eyes.

He spoke softly but the kind man heard him.

“You are really Santa?  THE Santa?  For real?  Please, don’t lie to me.  I don’t like lies!” the little boy whispered with his eyes full of tears.

The man leaned down and leaned his forehead against Sammy’s.

“I am really, truly, without a doubt, cross my heart, wouldn’t lie to you, THE one and only real Santa.” said the saint.

Sammy believed him.

“Now, we’re running out of time.  Lean in and whisper in my ear.  Tell my what your heart wants for Christmas.” coaxed Santa.

Sammy leaned in and whispered into the man’s ear.

Santa didn’t chuckle.  Santa didn’t Ho Ho Ho.  He didn’t look all that jolly when he heard the little boy’s request.  He set Sammy down onto the ground and said solemnly “Go and bring me your mother. Merry Christmas, Sammy!”

Sammy dragged his mother over.  The fake Mrs. Santa made impatient motions at Santa.  She pointed to the long line.  Santa gave her a big smile and held up his finger.  One minute please he asked without speaking.

Santa nodded Sammy over to the bench his mother had just vacated.

“Lizette.  Lizette!  I need you to put down the phone and look at me.  I just need one minute of your time.  Lizette.  The phone.  Put it down.  Look at me!” snapped Santa.

Even saints can snap once in a while.

Sammy’s mother Lizette looked up from the phone’s screen.

“Who the hell do you think you’re talking to, old man?  Only my friends call me Lizette.  And, I do not think we’re friends, Mr. Department Store Santa.” she said in an unfriendly manner.

“I’m not an old man, Lizette.  I am a very ancient man.  I’ve been around for thousands of years.  I’ve seen it all.  I never imagined that I’d see grown women addicted to phones………..but here we are.  I need you to listen up because the crowd is getting impatient.” Santa said as he leaned forward.

“And, really, we are old friends Lizzie.  The letter you sent me when you were six really caught my eye.  You drew a very pretty Christmas tree with your crayons and markers.  I was quite surprised to see that tree decorated with jack-o-lantern stickers.  That was unique and interesting.  It made you stand out from the crowd!” Santa said almost getting his jolly back.

He had Lizette’s attention now.  For sure.  She even forgot to check her Facebook feed for photos of precious kittens.

“I’m sorry you didn’t get that pony, Miss Lizette Squires of Apartment 4B.  But, you know now that ponies belong on farms.  Not, in fourth floor apartments.  I hope you enjoyed the Baby Puffalump, the Polly Pocket and the Dress Up Vanity.  Everything you wanted was pink that year!  I hope you didn’t expect a pink pony!” said Santa with a chuckle.

Lizette stood at attention.  She stared this man in the face.  She had totally forgotten her phone for two minutes.

“Santa?” Sammy’s mom whispered.

“Yes!  I’m out of time.  So listen up.  Sammy is yours.  All yours.  But, for just a short amount of time.  He’s six now.  In a blink of an eye he’ll be off to college.  You’ll be staring at that phone of yours just hoping for a text message.  A phone call that says he’s alright.  These years are precious.  I know you’ve gone through hard times.  You are strong.  You are smart.  You’re going to be fine.  You’ll find love again.  Life will be good to you. ” said Santa as he leaned back in his chair.

He waved to the next little girl in line to call her forward.

“Lizette.  Sammy has asked for one thing for Christmas and one thing only.  It’s something only you can give him.” said Santa as he gathered a little girl into his lap.

“What? What is it?” Sammy’s mom asked as she backed away.

“He wants you to shut off that phone.”