Christmas Eve

Stealthy. Like a cat. Sitting in the corner. The little girl sat in the arm chair facing the Christmas tree. The lights blinked like they would all night. She took a sip of Coca Cola. She knew one of the ingredients was caffeine.

She needed to stay awake.

She did something she had been forbidden to do. She took the pot holder that sat on the small stack of logs. She grabbed the fireplace shield and she pulled it back. She added another log to the fire.

If she was going to be staring at the fire all night it might as well be a good one.

She put on her sun glasses. The ones that made her look like James Bond. 007. That James Bond. She needed to look intriguing and slightly dangerous.

She was on a mission.

She waited hours while the house slept. Mommy and Daddy were sleeping in their room. Daddy’s snores made the curtains move. The golden cat lie across her lap. She heard the bed springs squeak above her head. Both of her brothers snored along with her father.

One instant he wasn’t there. Then, the next he was.

Santa. Santa with his sack.

The little girl didn’t move a muscle. She watched Santa deposit things down the woolen stockings. He bent to place packages under the tree. A train track appeared with a locomotive and a caboose. A big box leaned against the wall. It contained another set of tracks and race cars.

Santa snapped his fingers and a black lacquered child sized rocking chair appeared. And, a doll carriage. The doll of the little girl’s dreams sat propped inside the carriage. Warm and cozy wrapped in a pink and white baby blanket.

Santa stood and surveyed the scene. He felt satisfied. He went to put a finger aside of his nose.

“Cookie, Santa?” asked the little girl that had stayed silent and still just a few feet away from all of this holiday action.

Santa jumped about a foot when he noticed the little girl .

She held out a plate of cookies.

Santa regained his composure. He chuckled a quiet ho ho ho. He took a cookie off of the plate and took a big bite.

“Well, look at you! Awake in the middle of the night! This doesn’t happen very often. I’m thinking I even know your name.” Santa said in Santa fashion.

“I’m not here for small talk.” said the little girl.

That stopped Santa mid cookie bite.

“You’re not! Ho ho ho. The sunglasses are a nice touch, little girl. A bit of intrigue. Are we practicing to be a spy?” he chuckled even though he wasn’t finding any of this all that funny.

“I guess the glasses are my way of saying I mean business.” said the little girl. “Sit!”

Santa sat in the chair directly opposite of her.

“And, what business do you want to talk about?” Santa asked.

Taking the wishes of children seriously is really Santa’s one and only business after all.

“The business of children. The business of Christmas.” said the little girl. She slipped her glasses off and stared him in the beard. Yes, she was right. His beard actually had glitter in it just like the Christmas cards.

“Go on. We need to make it quick though. Blitzen will be at that door in a few minutes looking for me.” Santa explained.

“Year after year you let me down.” said the little girl as the golden cat jumped off of her lap with a big yawn.

“Do I?” Santa asked in earnest. “I get your letters. I read them. I make notes. Dolls. Miniature tea pots and crayons. I don’t think you have anything to complain about, my dear.”

“Oh, but I do.” the little girl said as she leaned forward and stared Santa straight in the eye.

“My Mommy and Daddy used to be little children back in the day. They wrote letters to Santa. They wrote during The Great Depression. They wanted trains and dolls and all sorts of wonderful toys only made by Santa. They got mittens. They got a few walnuts and oranges in their stockings and they were happy. They were trained not to be spoiled. They were conditioned not to expect anything.” whispered the little girl in a deadly serious tone.

“You should have done better!” she ended.

“My mommy and Daddy have gray in their hair now. But, when they play with me…….when they color with me………..when they throw snowballs with me………..when they sing me songs and read me stories……….I see the little children they used to be.” the little girl said as she got up and shook herself off.

She headed towards the stairs and her bed.

“Fix it!” she demanded. “If you need a trade? Take the rocking chair. Take the doll carriage. Take the doll if you must. But, you need to fix this.”

“Tonight!”

The little girl set her spy sunglasses on her night stand. She slid under her quilt. She stroked her legs up and down and waved her arms to warm up the sheets. She shut her eyes. She wished for Christmas morning.

She heard the reindeer and sleigh lift off of the roof.

Well, she had done her best she thought as her eyes slid shut.

Christmas morning was gray. Snow cascaded past the picture window. The little girl awoke to her brother’s voices exclaiming over trains and locomotives. She heard her parent’s tired moans when her feet hit the bottom stair.

The embers in the fireplace still glowed. The tree still twinkled in the corner. But, the room was a little more crowded than it was the night before.

The little girl sat on the floor with her cat in her lap.

She smiled as her Daddy came across the big red Craftsman tool box that sat under the table. He opened it and it was full of every tool a weekend carpenter might ever need. Her mother ran her hands over a beautiful table with a sewing machine that lifted up. Spools of thread in every color were in a drawer. Cascades of fabric spilled from the other drawer.

The rocking chair………and the doll carriage and doll were still in their places. Just like the last time the little girl had seen them.

No trade has been necessary.

Santa had finally fixed it.

Hallelujah!

Stories are told. Songs are written. The person that wrote the music or the words will tell you whether it was hard or easy. It might have taken years or it might have taken mere minutes.

Sometimes the artist will be aggravated to tell you that it took mere minutes. It came so easily that the maestro was a little miffed by it.

I see that as divine intervention.

A person was used as a vessel for a message that was meant for all.

Oh, there are songs that touch you. You heard it the first time. You stopped what you were doing. You listened to every note and every lyric. It means something to you. Forever more, that song will make you stop in your tracks. It was written just for you. You may find that much of humanity feels the same way about it. That fact doesn’t make it feel any less special to you.

The human voice is powerful. Our mother’s voice saying “Stop it!” or “I love you!” will never be forgotten. Michael Jackson’s voice singing “I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus” makes me shudder. Celine Dion may be a million people’s choice as the most beautiful voice in the world.

She sounds like a robot to me.

The human voice in conjunction with the perfect song? Oh, I think that was meant to be. A producer may take credit for it. A stage mother might say “I told you so!”. But, it was out of their hands.

Because…………….there is heaven. Because……….there are angels.

Because……….there are prayers.

Times are hard. Humanity is suffering. The great minds of the medical field work twenty-four hours a day to help us. Politicians screwed it all up. Our lives have been disrupted. We’ve had to be patient. We’ve relied on ourselves and each other.

We’ve prayed.

Those prayers have been heard.

The music is there!

I sat on the deck with my husband. The air was crisp and the sun was sinking. The birds and squirrels were back in their nests. The neighbors were eating their dinners and watching Netflix.

All was quiet.

Something made me pull my phone out of my pocket. I’m not afraid of silence. Having nothing to talk about doesn’t frighten me.

My phone went to youtube. I typed in the word “Hallelujah” and out came one of the songs I’ve been telling you about.

A sweet school girl’s voice took up space on the deck. Her schoolmates sang back up for her. I would never give this vocalist an A+. She sings through her nose. She breathes in all the wrong places……….but! But, she believes every word she is singing. She has paid attention to the lyrics. That is where her power lies.

My husband swayed to the music and enjoyed it.

I shut my eyes and took it in.

“Why do you shut your eyes when you hear certain songs?” my husband asked me.

“Because, I need to see it.” I responded.

We’ve been married so long he understood why and really didn’t have to ask.

“What did you see?” he asked quietly.

“I saw signs. Today, people that see dragon flies as a sign of the afterlife……………had dragon flies land on their hands. Even though dragon flies only have a six month life cycle. Even though, they aren’t usually alive in December……….people saw dragon flies today.” I explained.

“Roses bloom in June. Today people shoveled snow. They strung Christmas lights. They came across perfect resplendent rose buds in bloom today.” I counseled.

“Many folks believe in cardinals as a sign from a loved one. The red birds were out today. They were an army wearing red feathers to lift people’s spirits.” I sighed as I looked at the sky.

The last chorus of ‘Hallelujah’ filled up the back yard.

“Close your eyes. Listen to the end of the song. This song was not written by any man. I don’t care who took credit for it. Open your eyes and look at the sky. What do you see? I asked my husband

“The answer to all our prayers.” he whispered as he looked at the spectacular sunset resplendent with colors and clouds.

“The clouds are a million angels with their wings spread wide.”

Christmas Prayer

Oh, we’re all feeling a little pitiful! Our spark isn’t sparking. It’s kind of a fizzle where a quick hot glow used to happen. We’re doing our best. Some days are better than others.

One minute I say to myself “I can do this. I can outlast this. Everything that is important is fine. They’re all healthy. They’ve all kept their jobs. It’s lonely. It’s freaky to step outside the door………but, I can do this.”

The next minute?

I can’t take this anymore.

I’ve been accused of being a Pollyanna in my day. I will quote the positive at you when you want to wallow in the negativity. You love me anyways.

But, even I have to admit. It’s been hard. It’s gone on too long.

We can laugh at those old toilet paper shortages. We feel safe in the assumption that the grocery stores will catch up on stocking the paper products. Sure in the knowledge that people with 120 rolls of the stuff will eventually say enough is enough……..and stop buying it. It’s happened. You’re stuck with all that toilet paper that you were going to give away as Christmas presents.

Christmas……………it’s going to be hard on a lot of us.

Let’s talk just about me because I know the boat that I’m in. I don’t know if you’re lonely on a yacht or sinking in a row boat.

So, I’ll talk about me.

I know how lucky I am. I know I’m better off than most. We’re employed. The mortgage is paid. The lights are on. The water is flowing and hot. The grocery store hasn’t disappointed me much. No one in this house is coughing. There are no fevers. Yes, we are very lucky.

But, we’re all kind of lonely. We do virtual hugs with friends…….from over six feet away. We haven’t seen members of our extended family in over a year. Phone calls and emails……..that’s all we have now.

I spent hours wrapping gifts. Then I found shipping boxes. Packaging tape got stuck to my fingers. I fought with the United States Postal office on line when the labels didn’t want to print.

I wrapped and remembered other such moments. Wrapping presents in my girlhood room. It was so cold up there at the top of the house…….I’d move down to the kitchen table. My father asked why I was taking over the kitchen with this mess. I told him that scotch tape doesn’t work in the coldness of my bedroom.

That’s the moment Daddy realized he needed to buy a new furnace.

I remembered wrapping gifts after my children were in their beds. And, then scurrying around finding places to hide those gifts. I left Santa a post it note with hiding locations before I would fall into my bed in exhaustion.

I remembered my mother’s handwriting on gift tags. The handwriting that I’ll never see again. I remembered Daddy taking me for a walk through the snow ………..to show me the reindeer footprints. The carrots that they had missed in their hurry on Christmas Eve.

I remembered the first Christmas tree my husband and I put up as newlyweds. The nativity that Daddy built for us that year. The figurines my mother filled it with. The way my babies played with bright paper and cardboard boxes when they had an over abundance of gifts to ignore. I remembered how impressed my father in law was when I’d find the kind of shirt he liked……..two pockets and stiff collar. How my mother in law always writes at least two thank you notes to say she loved her gifts this year.

Those are a lot of memories to come at you when you’re attaching a gift tag to a present. When you’re feeling pitiful that Christmas is not going to be the same this year.

A little prayer. A prayer of gratitude. A prayer of acceptance.

“This Christmas may be different, Oh, Lord! But, I do remember that it is about you after all. I’m glad that you’re in my life. I ask that you watch over all the people that receive these little gifts. That we’ll all be together again, soon. That you and your angels guard over all the people that I love.” I thought as I stuck another gift tag on another present.

I looked down and read the fine print on the generic sticky gift tag.

It said “Families Don’t Melt”.

I threw back my head and howled with laughter.

Message received!

Christmas Winner

I was a newlywed.

Thanksgiving had come and gone. My parents were depressed. They tried to hide it. They failed.

My brother and I had married into the same family. We had the same in-laws. Thanksgiving was a big deal to them. We had both attended Thanksgiving dinner at the in-law’s house. Leaving my parents to feel like orphans. It was sad…….but, I had promised them Christmas Day in exchange.

A few days after the turkey had been consumed I called my parent’s house.

“How was your turkey day?” I asked my mother.

My father wasn’t allowed to actually talk on the phone when she was around. I knew he hovered next to her shoulder trying to hear what he could. She held the phone a little distance from her ear so that he could catch every other word.

“Oh, you know.” my mother said in a pitiful pained voice.

“No, I don’t. That’s why I’m asking.” I urged her on.

“Well, your other brother……..you know the one that didn’t marry into your new family came over. He stayed a couple of hours. But, I suppose he had better things to do…….just like you.” my mother said quietly.

I burst out laughing.

My mother didn’t usually play the victim. Actually, she couldn’t stand any one that played the victim. Her usual attitude about poor pitiful souls was ……….”Oh, God! Pull yourself up. Quit your whining. Get a grip. Show some self worth! Wah! Wah! Oh, poor you.”

I didn’t parrot her own words into her ear…….or, my father’s ear. I knew he was listening to every word.

“I’m sorry. We missed you too.” I said. “I was wondering what you’re doing this weekend? I thought if you could come on Friday night and stay until Sunday…….well, we could cook a small turkey and do it all again.”

I heard my father say “There ya go!” as he slapped my mother on the shoulder and walked away.

Daddy was happy. Daddy was in. Daddy could eat turkey every other day and be extremely happy. As long as there was an apple pie somewhere in the house.

“Well, I don’t know…………” my mother said. She was playing hard to get.

“Sick of turkey?” I asked with a chuckle.

My parents were retired and could come and visit at the drop of a hat.

“What do you know about cooking a turkey?” my mother tried to insult me.

“Well, how hard can it be?” I asked. “There is instructions on the bird. You defrost it. You pull out the plastic bag of gizzards. You buy a meat thermometer and a baster. You put it on a platter and grab a knife. As long as it isn’t still bleeding when it comes out of the oven………I’d call it a success.”

I’d been dealing with my mother for 21 years now.

There were always negotiations.

“Says the girl that called last week to ask me how to wash a kitchen floor.” my mother parried with.

“Yup, and it was a success.” I told her. “Although my eye balls are still burning from the floor cleaner you suggested.”

“Says the girl that calls me once a month to ask me how to perk coffee.” my mother continued.

“Well, Ma……I don’t drink coffee. I forget in between visitors. I wrote it down so I don’t have to bother you again about it. I guess you’re not interested in visiting this weekend. Could have been fun. Bye!” I said and dropped the phone back into the cradle.

I didn’t move away from the phone. I stood in the same spot. I counted to ten.

The phone rang.

“You shouldn’t hang up on your mother, Little Girl.” my father said over the miles.

“I’m playing with her, Daddy. I know how to play her little reindeer games.” I explained to my father.

He chuckled into the phone.

“Yes, you were taught by the best.” he replied.

“Give me that phone!” I heard my mother say.

She got back on the line.

“Okay, when are we eating this turkey?” she wanted to know.

“Saturday night. When you get here Friday……we’re having pizza and playing cards until Daddy can’t keep his eyes open.” I told her.

I had her at “playing card”. That woman lived to play cards.

“And, then Saturday…….we’re going to stick the turkey in the oven. The men can watch it and boil potatoes while we go to the church Christmas bazaar.” I explained to her.

“Wait a minute. You and I are going to prance off to a church bazaar leaving two men to make most of the dinner?” my mother replied breathlessly.

“Yeah, sure! Michael is a much better cook than I am. The salad will be all ready. You’re bringing the stuffing whether you know it or not. The pies will be baked. My church is a block down the street. We’ll walk down and buy some handmade mittens and hats. We’ll buy raffle tickets and try to win stuff. We’ll come home and set the table. Easy peasy, Ma!” I laid out the plan.

This plan was almost too much for an old fashioned wife that pretended her husband couldn’t run a washing machine.

“Oh, forget the bazaar and raffle. I don’t need any mittens and I never ever, Never Ever win anything!” my mother said.

“Nope! My house……my rules!” I barked across the phone line.

I’d been waiting 21 years to say that to her.

It felt great!

“Well, whatever………Little Miss doesn’t know how to wash a kitchen floor …….or make coffee…….or cook a turkey! This is all just going to turn out great!” my mother said in a resigned fashion.

What she meant was “This is going to be a fiasco but I’ll try not to say I told you so.”

Friday night came. My new husband and I got home from work. We flew around the apartment stuffing clothing into hampers and watering wilting plants. The spare room was all ready for company. The pies sat in the pantry. The turkey thawed in the refrigerator.

My parents arrived. They climbed the stairs to our apartment over and over. Carrying stuffing. And mini cherry cheesecakes. Boxes of dishes my mother thought we should have. Bags of curtains. Boxes of books I’d left behind at their house.

My father said “Do I smell apple pie?”

My mother said “Whose deal? Are we playing cards in the kitchen or dining room?”

We ordered pizza and played cards until my father couldn’t keep his eyes open.

The next day went just as I had planned except my mother made me set the dining room table before we went off the the church bazaar.

“I didn’t know the church was so close to your house!” my mother exclaimed as I pointed out it’s spire from my front porch.

“Do you actually go to mass once in a while? Or, are you forcing me to go to a church bazaar so I just THINK you go to church once in a while? “my mother asked.

I threw my head back and roared!

“Dear, Lord! Woman! When are you going to stop sniping at me because I couldn’t come to your house for Thanksgiving? Wah! Wah! Snap out of it! And, yes, I go to mass when I can. How else would I know there is a bazaar today? It was in the church bulletin!” I said as I dragged her up the church’s marble steps.

Now, I had been my mother’s right hand girl through many of her own church bazaars. I still helped out when she sold her used jewelry. We had beaten her own bazaar records when we raffled off a Cabbage Patch doll from her booth just weeks before. We knew our church bazaars.

This one was smaller than we were used to. The ladies of the parish had done their best. They were a small group compared to the army of knitters and crocheters that we knew. But, it was still a nice place to spend an hour.

Especially, when there was a turkey roasting back home with only men to watch it. My mother’s words ……not mine.

We bought a few pairs of mittens. I bought a scarf decorated with snow man buttons. My mother sniffed at the mess of tangled necklaces on the used jewelry table. Amateurs!

I bought an arm length of raffle tickets. Ma did too. This church was trying to raise money to repave their parking lot.

We stuck our tickets into coffee cans with the name of the prize written on them.

“It’s a good cause, I suppose. But, I Never Ever win anything!” Ma stated once again.

We weren’t to know right then if we won anything because we only stayed an hour. That turkey roasting without her was making my mother a nervous wreck. Our names and my phone number were on the back of every ticket. Not, that it was needed. We never win anything! I was told this over and over.

We returned to my apartment. I was told how lucky I was to live so close to a church. To the stations of the cross. To the incense and to the choir I had just joined.

But, you should never leave your turkey alone with two men.

The turkey was succulent. The men knew how to mash a potato. My mother’s stuffing was great even when it wasn’t Thanksgiving.

We got to Daddy’s favorite part of the meal. His coffee cup was full and the first forkful of apple pie was almost to his lips.

The phone rang.

I answered and said “Ma! The phone is for you!”

This made her clutch her chest. Because, who knew how to chase her down at my house? Someone must be dead!

Ma hung up the phone with a stunned expression on her face.

“I won a bushel of apples!” she whispered to the room. “Ralph! Walk down to the church and pick up my apples!”

My father put down his fork. Apple pie still on it. He was a disciplined man.

“You’d better turn these apples into pies. I never ever win anything!” he said in a sing song voice as he donned his jacket and headed down the stairs.

Daddy came up the stairs with a bushel of prize apples. He took a sip of tepid coffee. The first bite of pie made it to his mouth.

The phone rang again.

“Ma, it’s for you.” I said again with a laugh.

She hung up the phone. She handed my father his jacket again. He stuffed half a piece of pie in his face at one go.

“I won an Italian musical nativity.” my mother said in wonder. “A nativity! From Italy!”

Daddy and my husband made the trip together this time. I’m thinking it was to get out of helping with the dishes.

They came back with the nativity. It was rustic and beautiful. We wound it up and it played ‘Oh, Holy Night’. My mother was captivated and played it over and over again while mumbling “I never win anything.”

The phone rang again.

I just handed her the phone.

“I won a hand knitted tree skirt. You can have that. But, the nativity is mine!” she exclaimed as she grabbed her coat and mine from the coat tree in the hallway.

We walked down the darkened street together. We enjoyed the Christmas displays in store front windows. I pointed out the pharmacy where I now worked at.

“I guess you’re a winner now, Ma!” I said as we went to retrieve her new tree skirt.

“Yes! I am! You live in a beautiful home on a beautiful street. You can walk to your nice new job. You can walk to your church and use your gorgeous voice in their choir. Your husband glows whenever you walk into a room. You’re so busy and you still invite us to your home for a second Thanksgiving.” she said as she held my hand in the dark.

“Yes, I’m a winner.”