It was Christmas Eve. The most important night of the year. Church was over. A visit to the grandparents had been taken care of too.
Little Girl had a nap on the way home from Grammy and Grampy’s house. The little bit of coffee with copious amounts of cream added…..did nothing to keep her awake in the car.
Little Girl’s family arrived home to a very dark house.
Ma said in the front seat of the station wagon “Didn’t we leave the lamp on in the front window? Why are the Christmas lights on the bushes not glowing?” she wondered.
This woke Little Girl up. She was now well rested. There was no chance now of going to sleep early……to make way for Santa and reindeer and the sliding down of chimneys.
“The power must be out.” said Daddy.
“Oh, crap!” said Ma.
“Wait here in the station wagon until I can find and light a lantern.” Daddy said. So we did.
Daddy found a lantern. We went into a dark house. We bumped into furniture. Ma found her stash of candles. She removed mirrors from the walls and placed the candles in front of them for extra light.
“Get the camp stove up from the basement, Ralph. I’m not hungry but I want a nice hot cup of tea.” my mother instructed.
“Could I have hot chocolate?” I asked.
We sat in the living room and listened to the quiet. Quiet makes a noise you know. We’re not used to it anymore. Quiet on Christmas Eve is very loud indeed. When you’re used to Bing on the record player and It’s A Wonderful Life on the television set that only gets three channels.
“I suppose we could just go to bed.” my father suggested.
The women in the family just gazed at him like he’d lost his mind.
“Or, you could tell us a story.” I suggested to my father.
“I’m not the storyteller.” my father admonished me. “That would be your Ma.”
“I’ve heard her stories……..she’s forever telling them.” I announced to the aggravation of my mother.
“I want a story from you. About when you were a little boy. On Christmas Eve” I suggested.
My Daddy gazed at the candles. He thought way back. Back to when he was a little boy. To when he was sitting in front of a blue spruce pine tree decorated with handmade ornaments and candles.
“On Christmas Eve……we brought hot oatmeal with a pat of butter on it…..out to the barn. It was for Tomte you see.”
That’s the night my Daddy told me about my Swedish heritage.
My mother told me that I was born singing. Perhaps my newborn wails were more musical than my brother’s were? I have no idea. But, that’s what she said.
I was a shy little girl. I wasn’t crippled by it. I tended to sit and listen. I absorbed. I didn’t need to be the center of attention. I enjoyed boisterous people….those folks tended to be related to my mother. I enjoyed quiet people…………those folks belonged to my father.
But, if I was asked to sing? I did it. I wasn’t looking for applause. I was born with music in me. Perhaps my pitch isn’t perfect. Perhaps I would never be a vocalist. But, I could sing a pretty ditty and not be nervous about it as a child
My mother’s parents were gone by the time that I was born. I heard a lot about them. My mother was a story teller. I know them by their shining moments. The ones that stood out in my mother’s memories. She was well loved by wonderful people. They just happened to live in heaven now.
My father’s parents lived a few towns over. I spent every Sunday of my youth visiting with them. We went to church on a Sunday. Stopped at home for a bathroom break and perhaps a change of clothing. And, then a half an hour drive to Grammy and Grampy’s house for cookies and coffee and a little chat.
My mother went along every Sunday. As I said………….I was a listener…………and adults tend to talk in front of quiet little children. I soon realized that my mother accompanied my father because she was doing her wifely duty. She was never very comfortable with the quiet Swedes that were my father’s parents.
My grandparents loved me……………….in the same room…………but, at a distance. I think this was because they knew they made my mother uncomfortable. They knew they were very different from her in temperament. My mother’s hair was red and her eyes a vivid green. She looked like a movie star and I suppose that was a little off putting to plain folk.
She was also a Catholic and they were not. My father left their protestant religion to marry my mother. This didn’t cause trouble. This caused a certain sense of awkwardness that never wore off.
Awkwardness, yes. Oh, but there was love. Love and respect. Perhaps, not kindred spirits………………but, there was love.
I can honestly say I never had a babysitter when I was growing up. I never terrorized a neighborhood teenage girl that was paid to take care of me. My parents hardly went anywhere without their children.
But, there were two times that I remember that my grandparents were asked to watch me overnight. My memory is hazy here, but I think both times were so my parents could go out of state for funerals. My brothers were old enough to stay at home alone.
My grandparent’s house was a cozy little bungalow in the country. It was built in the 1930’s and it wasn’t fancy. It had lovely little corners with china hutches though. An apple green kitchen with a free standing stove with many burners and two ovens. A small porch with a creaky swing for reading. A spare bedroom with matching bedspreads and a little desk.
I was left with my grandparents one cold winter’s afternoon. My parents said they’d be back for me the next day and off they went.
I sat on the pink satin bedspread in the spare room. I patted my Barbie suitcase sitting next to me. That suitcase held my little bit of home. Pajamas. An outfit for tomorrow. A toothbrush and a new coloring book and crayons.
And, a note from my mother that said “Don’t be afraid. We’ll be together again before you know it.”
I stared at a painting of a praying Jesus on the wall. This was nothing new to me. My own home had beautiful renditions of Jesus in almost every room. The Virgin Mary stood on my mother’s dresser. The weight of many sets of rosary beads never made her fall over. Mary is strong, you know. Strong enough to carry the weight of millions of prayers on her shoulders.
My mother taught me that.
I stared at the praying Jesus. He looked terribly sad. I’d been to enough catechism lessons by this time…………I’d seen enough movies starring Charleton Heston…………..that I recognized Jesus in the desert. That’s why he was so sad. He was lonely. He had no one to talk to. I preferred the happy Jesus at my house. The one telling stories to smiling children underneath a beautiful leafy tree.
I was very uncertain of what room I should be in. If I was to stay there…………..in the cozy little bedroom with the hissing radiator and Jesus………….or, if I should go looking for adult company.
My grandmother came into the little spare bedroom to find me.
“I talked to your parents. And, it’s alright with them. Our church is having an early Christmas service tonight and Grampy and I would like to take you along. It’s not the kind of church that you’re used to. It’s not fancy. There are no stained glass windows. There is no incense. The altar is plain. We don’t have a priest in robes. We have a minister in a nice black suit. His wife and children will be sitting in the front row. There will be singing and there will be praying. People will say “Thank You, Jesus! out loud.” my grandmother rushed through this speech as she sat on the bed next to me.
She seemed a little nervous. As if I might turn down her invitation. That never crossed my mind.
“They thank Jesus, out loud?” I asked. Catholics didn’t just blurt out what they wanted to. Catholics had a script I thought.
Grammy laughed.
“Yes, sometimes people thank Jesus…………out loud.” she replied.
“Okay. I’ll go. But, can I pee first? And, maybe have a cookie. Or, two? And, some hot chocolate? And, can I wear pants under this dress? Churches are cold, Grammy.” I kicked off with.
“And, do I get to sing? Is everyone allowed to sing? Or, is it just the choir that gets to sing? I can sing you know.” I followed up with.
“You’re dressed warm enough. My church is very small and they have a very good furnace. You’ll be nice and toasty warm there.” Grammy assured me. “And, you can sing all you want to if you know the words.”
So, Grammy and Grampy brought me to their little protestant church.
I was used to a big, grand building with sweeping staircases and even an elevator. I was captivated by the little white church sitting among the pine trees. The windows glowed yellow with candles. The steeple was still visible in the fading daylight. Christmas wreaths decorated the double doors in front.
My grandparents were on either side of me holding my hands. I stopped and stared at their place of worship.
“Grammy! It looks just like the church you gave me last Christmas! The one that lights up! And, when you wind it up it plays Silent Night!”I exclaimed.
“You remember that?” she asked.
“Well, of course! It’s on my nightstand. I wind it up every night before I go to sleep.” I answered as we headed towards the door with the rest of the people from the parking lot.
“Don’t get all weepy, Martha.” my grandfather said for some reason.
I remember that night. The warmth of people in their woolen coats. There was no getting up and down and kneeling. The minister stood behind a lectern and spoke of love and the Christ child. Hymns were sung and yes, a few people made me jump when they yelled”Praise Jesus” at odd moments.
A pretty woman sat on a chair up in front of all the people. She had long glowing blonde hair and a guitar. She said she was going to teach us all how to sing the Lord’s Prayer set to music.
I said to my Grandmother “Oh, I know this one.” ………….well, because I did.
The pretty young woman heard me. I think she was the minister’s wife. She had the kindest sweetest face I’ve ever seen. So, when she said “Little Girl, will you please come up here…………..and help me to sing the Lord’s Prayer?” ……………..I did.
The young woman started to sing the words that I knew…………..but, the tune was all wrong. When I didn’t sing with her…………….she stopped.
She said, “Do you want me to start again? Don’t be shy.”
I told her……………..and the whole congregation………………and my grandparents…………who were looking a little uncomfortable…………………..”No. I’m sorry. I don’t recognize this tune. The words are the same…………..but, the song is different.”
“I only know the Catholic version.”
My grandmother’s hands went up to her face. My grandfather had his eyes shut as if he was in a little pain.
“Well, that is wonderful! It’s the same……………..but, a little different!” the beautiful young woman said. By now she was the perfect version of the Virgin Mary in my little girl’s mind.
“Could you sing it for all of us?” she asked. “I’d love to hear it. If you’re too shy to do it……….we’ll understand. But, I would so love to hear the Catholic version of the Lord’s Prayer sung by a beautiful little girl like you. Because, you know what? You and I are the same……………..just, a little different.”
My mother told me I was born singing.
So, I did that night.
The acoustics in that tiny little church were very grand.
I finished the song. My grandparents were sitting up straight and were smiling again.
The whole congregation said as one……………”Praise, Jesus!” before they burst into applause.
That was many, many years ago. But, every time it snows at night……………..I bundle up. I stand in my yard and I sing the Lord’s Prayer to the night sky. I remember that special night with my grandparents.
I remember that beautiful little white church sitting among the pines.
And, no matter how cold it is outside…………….warmth fills my body.
I hope that they can hear me. Because, after all…………………we were a little bit different…………but, all the same.
You can’t tell my husband anything. Say stop! And? He goes. Say red and he’ll argue that it was green. He does this, why? To get on my nerves.
Oh, don’t worry about me. I have nerves of steel.
I told him to keep away from that door. Did he listen? No.
I had asked him what he wanted for Christmas a few weeks ago. We have what we need. We have what we want. So, asking for a Christmas wish list is met with the rolling of the eyes around here……….no matter who is asking.
He had an answer for me this year.
He asked Santa for a …………..wait for it…………..yeah, I couldn’t believe it either………..he asked for a wheelbarrow.
“A what?” I asked in exasperation when he said it out loud.
“A wheelbarrow. I was picking up branches after that last wind storm. My wheelbarrow is shot. I can’t keep air in the tire. So, I want Santa to bring me a new wheelbarrow.” my husband explained.
The wheelbarrow lives in the shed. It is over forty years old. The squirrels sleep in it. I’ve been offering to buy my husband a new one every Father’s Day for thirty years. Oh, no. He didn’t need a new one. He’d take off the tire. Go to the local gas station and pump up the tire. They don’t make them like this anymore! Sturdy! Thick metal!
Flat tire.
So, finally! He asks Santa for a new wheelbarrow. He can ask for anything in the world. Santa loves him. Santa appreciates everything he’s done and been for the past forty years. He can ask for the world and Santa will try to provide. Santa will plant a big red bow on it.
So, the door bell rings. I have a smart phone. The phone is smarter than I am. I’m still trying to figure it out. This smarty pants phone blinged about ten minutes before my husband got home from work. It told me that a wheelbarrow was going to be delivered to our doorstep in the next half an hour.
Bad timing.
So, when that door bell rang? I knew it was a man dressed in brown banging down a big cardboard box. I knew what was in the box shaped like…………….you guessed it………….a wheelbarrow.
“Do not go to that door!” I yelled at my husband.
He took it as a challenge.
He giggled like a little girl and ran for the door.
He looked out through the glass window and said to me “Oh, boy! A box shaped like a wheelbarrow! I wonder what it could be?”
He was going out of his way to aggravate me. It’s the weekend. That’s how it goes around here.
“Santa………….is………….not …………….pleased.” I hissed in his face.
“Santa?” my sweet husband said in the most innocent voice I’ve ever heard.
“Are you Santa?” he asked to goad me some more. “Santa? Why didn’t I get that train set I asked for when I was ten? I was a good boy all year. And, no train set. I’ve always wanted to ask. And, now is my chance. Why? Santa? Why? No train set?”
“Do I look like Santa? Do I have a white beard and a red suit? You need a nap. You’re a silly man, aren’t you?’ I answered.
“Now, open that door and carry in your birthday present. I’m not even going to bother wrapping it now, you smartas**.” I said as I walked away from the door.
And then there was the Christmas…….we put Santa coloring books aside. We took naps. The whole family went to midnight mass.
Father got to the end of the mass. He invited all the little children to come to the railing at the altar. An altar boy swung the incense burner as Father gently placed baby Jesus in the manger.
My two year old son stood with all the other little children. His sister held his hand.
The priest raised his hands and went to say something meaningful……instead my two year old boy piped up and spoke instead.
My little guy had never smelled incense before. He wrinkled his nose and bellowed “Something smells FISHY to me!” at the top of his lungs.
The congregation bit their lips and tried not to smile and laugh. Because, how was Father going to handle having his big moment stolen from him by a beautiful, blonde two year old boy?
Father threw his head back and laughed. He scooped up my son and showed him to the crowd.
The priest said “Merry Christmas!” to us all as he enjoyed the moment. He whispered into my son’s ear.
“Bless us, everyone.” my boy said loudly enough for all to hear.
growinguponcolumbusstreet 