Christmas Magic
Page 5
My Connie taught me that families are forever, especially at Christmastime.
~Joan Clayton
The Package
Christmas is not as much about opening our presents as opening our hearts.
~Janice Maeditere
As surely as turkey and dressing followed jack-o’-lanterns, every December since I left home a package from my mother arrived signaling the official beginning of the holidays in my household. Upon its arrival, I would place the package in a prominent place and ponder the ethics of opening a parcel clearly labeled with the admonition, “DO NOT OPEN ’TIL CHRISTMAS!” In the battle of ethics versus curiosity, ethics never prevailed.
I rationalized, “What if Mom sent perishables?” I do confess that in all those years, I never opened a parcel containing tuna sandwiches and potato salad.
The packages did contain a mixture of items that were so varied and unrelated, they were worthy of inclusion in a time capsule prepared in a moment of pure whimsy. Over the years, there were jewelry caddies, address books covered in simulated zebra skin, swizzle sticks with cute sayings like “Alexander Graham Bell had hang-ups,” and a gold electroplated Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer necklace, complete with “genuine ruby Nose.”
The one constant was my mom’s date and nut loaf, not to be confused with fruitcake. The date and nut loaves became legendary among my friends and work associates. The day after Thanksgiving, my friends became unusually solicitous. “How’s your mom?” Or “Have you heard from your mom lately?” Finally, when subtlety failed, “Has the package arrived yet and when will we get some of that wonderful cake?”
As my children became worldly enough to understand the package also contained things for them, they joined the post-Thanksgiving vigil. They viewed the package as a mystical link to a grandmother they rarely saw, but were utterly convinced loved them without reservation. My children were quick to differentiate between the somewhat conditional nature of Santa’s gifts and their grandmother’s, which were given with no expectation of scholastic achievement or moral fortitude. This phenomenon puzzled me until I had grandchildren.
The package never contained big-ticket items and we never expected any. The pleasure came from not knowing what to expect. My mom had a talent for finding mutant variations of rather ordinary things. I remember the wooden salad spoons with hula dancer handles, the Indian Head pennies, and the children’s sunglasses with pink plastic ballet dancers on the frames. My daughter wore them to dance class and was a sugarplum sensation.
An item that perplexed and then delighted me with its diabolical logic, when explained, was a book bag emblazoned with the name KIM. I did not have a child named Kim. Mom explained that she had heard on Oprah that it was not a good idea to allow young children to carry articles with their names in plain view. Some “bad person” could trick children into believing he knew them because he called them by name. Since my daughter’s name was not Kim, she could not be tricked. Flawless in its simplicity.
Mom was one of those rare people who understood completely there was more to gift giving than going to Macy’s. She knew anticipation far outweighed dollar value.
Even though we knew the package never arrived earlier than December 7th, we started actively discussing it at Halloween and then seriously looking for it after Thanksgiving. By the time it arrived, we had worked ourselves into a giddy frenzy. We adopted an almost Victorian formality when accepting the package from the postman: It’s here! Let the season begin.
My mom died in mid-October, too early for the package to have been mailed.
While cleaning Mom’s house in preparation for sale, I found a package, wrapped in brown paper, tied with string, addressed to me. I have never opened that last package, but every Christmas, sometime around December 7th, I take the package, now somewhat tattered, and gently place it under our Christmas tree.
Let the festivities begin!
~Barbara D’Amario
Little Boxes
The only gift is a portion of thyself.
~Ralph Waldo Emerson
Mom wanted to go Christmas shopping. It was hard to understand why exactly—she was so sick at this point, and if she would just give us a list, we could take care of this for her—but no, she wanted to go Christmas shopping. One day when her pain seemed relatively under control, we put aside our “sensible” thoughts about whether Christmas shopping was an appropriate activity for someone terminally ill, and we decided to go.
Somehow, we managed to get her, the wheelchair, little Joshua, his stroller, and the rest of the gang packed into the minivan and we were off to the mall. We took the diaper bag for Joshua and a bag full of pain meds for Mom. It was December 23rd, and we felt full of mischief.
The mall was packed, obviously, and it was helpful that we had the handicapped parking permit, so that we didn’t have to battle it out for parking. We took turns pushing Mom in her wheelchair and Joshua in his stroller. Most people were pretty decent about getting out of our way. Joshua smiled over at his grandma, wheeling along next to him. He actually sat in his stroller without complaint.
Soon after we arrived, after the initial giddiness of the outing wore off, it seemed as though Mom got a little overwhelmed. We started in a department store, but it was hard to wheel her through the racks of clothes and gift items. We tried to figure out what she wanted to look at, leaving her in the aisles while we brought things over to her.
Eventually she got a little upset. “I just want to go over and look at things, like everyone else.” Once we understood this, we made greater efforts to wheel her through those tight spaces.
We went out into the main part of the mall and she finally told us what she was really looking for—little boxes. She wasn’t looking for traditional gifts at all, and this caught me off guard. She was looking for little boxes in which she could display her most prized pieces of jewelry, to give them away to her loved ones on her final Christmas.
We found some little boxes at a watch store, and returned home soon after. Mom was exhausted from the outing.
On Christmas morning, Melissa, Mark’s then fiancée, now wife, was the first to open her little box from Mom. It was one of Mom’s favorites—a necklace with matching earrings, made of topaz. Melissa looked both stunned and deeply touched.
I knew what would be in my own little box, opened a bit later in the morning. It contained a marvelous diamond pendant on a spectacular gold omega chain. My dad had given Mom this piece on her 50th birthday, five years earlier. It was her most beloved piece of jewelry, and she had given it to me.
“Don’t save it for special occasions,” she told me. I couldn’t answer. The lump in my throat made it impossible to speak.
Despite Mom’s advice, most days the diamond pendant on its omega chain simply sits in its little box, tucked away in my armoire. When I do wear it, typically on special occasions, I feel as though I’m carrying around a little piece of her.
Just like Mom, it is beautiful and sparkling and never fails to attract admiration. But I am much too afraid of losing it, of losing this little piece of her, to wear it every day.
~Lisa Pawlak
Always Room in Our Inn
We should give as we would receive, cheerfully, quickly, and without hesitation; for there is no grace in a benefit that sticks to the fingers.
~Seneca
Kenny Rogers was serenading us with “I’ll Be Home for Christmas” from the stereo as the aroma of cinnamon created a holiday atmosphere in the kitchen. “Mom, Jen’s on the phone,” Becca called excitedly from the family room.
“Really? I wonder if they had to change plans?” I answered feeling an unwelcome knot forming in my stomach. Because of the high cost, phone calls from our daughter on mission in an orphanage in Mexico were rare. Shaking flour from my hands, I took the phone. “Hi, Honey, this is a nice surprise.”
“Hi, Mom, how’s everything in Kansas? Have you ordered snow for Christmas?”
“Well, I’m hoping, but you know Ka
nsas. It might be seventy degrees or it could be seven. But I’m sure you didn’t call to discuss the weather.”
“Well, Mom, I need a huge, Huge, HUGE favor. One of my friends back at college is pregnant, and she can’t let her family know. This is reprehensible in their culture, and she is really afraid of her brothers.”
“And what do you want me to do?” I asked, anticipating the answer.
“Well, could she come and stay with you guys until she has the baby? She plans to place it for adoption.”
Less than a week before Christmas, how could I turn away a pregnant young woman? So, I replied, “Well, I’ll have to talk to your dad, but I know it’ll be okay. Don’t you think you should try to get her to talk with her parents first though? I really don’t like being part of a family deception.”
“Her mom is still in Saudi Arabia, and she hasn’t seen her dad in years. I guess you’ve figured out who it is.”
“After what you just said, it’s obviously Sim,” I replied, visualizing this spirited Middle Eastern beauty. “When is she coming?”
“Her last final is Friday morning, so she should be there Friday night, not long after Pete and I arrive. When will Beth and Thomas get home from college?”
“All of my sweeties are coming in Friday. I can’t wait,” I answered excitedly.
“I can’t wait either,” Becca called over my shoulder.
“Hey, Bec! Can’t wait to see you too. Would talk more, but these calls are going to kill my budget!” Jen called to her sister.
“Does your flight still arrive at noon on Friday?” I asked, trying to cut it short.
“Yes. Pete said to tell you his mouth is watering for your homemade rolls. Thank you so much, Mom. Love you.”
“Tell Pete I don’t know. I’ve got lots to do at school before end of semester. Love you lots, honey,” I answered, smiling at the dough drying on my hands as I hung up. Our “inn” was going to be full for Christmas. Jen would be extra cozy, sharing a room with her two sisters while we transformed her tiny, old room for Sim to have a little more privacy.
Four days later, we were enjoying a house full of noisy fun: wrapping gifts, cooking, and making last minute preparations for Christmas. The phone rang and Thomas answered it and asked, “Hey, Mom, you wanna take a weird collect call?”
When he handed me the receiver, I heard the operator ask, “Will you accept a collect call from the Vernon County jail?” Puzzled but curious, I accepted the call.
“This is Officer Kasteel from the Vernon County Sheriff’s office. Is this the residence of Thomas Garrity?” he asked, as my eyes wandered to my son now lounging on the couch.
“Yes,” I answered. “What’s this about?”
“Well, Ma’am, we have a Christmas release policy for prisoners for good behavior. They must have a place to go, and a responsible adult has to sign them out. Mike Preston asked us to try this name and number.”
“Just a second,” I replied, and quickly shared this information with Thomas. “Why doesn’t Mike call his parents? What’s he in jail for anyway?” I asked.
“They moved to Wyoming. Long story,” came the reply, as Thomas sat up.
After a brief conversation with him and the officer, we were suddenly expecting another guest. My husband Max and Thomas left to fetch Mike as a light snow began to fall, and I went upstairs to see if we had enough blankets and towels for one more person. Glancing into Thomas’s small room, I thought, “It’s going to be crowded, but much cozier than a jail cell.” Thomas, Mike and Pete, our future son-in-law, would just have to flip for the bed or sleeping bags. When I came back down, the girls had already added another place at the dining table and were chatting and laughing as they baked waffles.
Searching through my purse for some cash, I asked, “Will someone run to Walmart before it closes and pick up something for Mike so he can have a gift under the tree? It sounds like he could use everything from deodorant to underwear.”
“Oh, Mom, those aren’t gifts,” Beth replied, taking the cash, and giving me a sweet peck on the cheek. “Come on everybody, get your purses. Let’s go shopping for practical and FUN!”
Amid squeals and laughter, the girls and Pete emptied the house on their Good Samaritan adventure.
Dinner was much later than planned, but the house seemed to burst with fun and joy as we sat around the table for our traditional Christmas Eve supper of sausage, waffles and strawberries. Candlelight reflected in bright, happy eyes and on the tears sneaking down Sim’s cheeks. I squeezed her hand and whispered, “It will all be fine.” Midnight Mass seemed especially holy that night, surrounded by my family, including a young expectant mother and a “lost” wayfarer.
The next morning, Mike slept in, or pretended to sleep, so we could have a “family” Christmas. When the living room floor was covered with wrappings and ribbons, and the girls were trying on their new gifts, Thomas plopped down next to me, and threw a muscular arm over my shoulder. “Mom, would you be hurt if we rewrapped my coat and gave it to Mike?”
“Oh honey, the girls made sure Mike got a couple of nice gifts. You need a new coat so badly. Your high school letter jacket’s popping at the seams.”
“We can get me one from Goodwill or someplace before I go back to school. Mike didn’t even have a sweatshirt to keep himself warm when we picked him up yesterday,” he replied. I gave my son a hug, and went in search of tape to rewrap the coat.
Later, I watched the snow fall outside while listening to the comforting sounds of family in the background. Max joined me, wrapping an arm around my waist and noticed my brimming eyes. “You okay?” he asked.
“Absolutely wonderful. I just feel so covered with blessings and gifts from our kids. They really know the true meaning of Christmas,” I answered with glistening eyes.
~Gerri Wetta-Hilger
Pajama Day
Don’t underestimate the value of Doing Nothing, of just going along, listening to all the things you can’t hear, and not bothering.
~Pooh’s Little Instruction Book, inspired by A.A. Milne
As wonderful as Christmas Day is, for me it takes second place to December 26th—otherwise known around our house as Pajama Day. It’s a tradition that came into being entirely by accident about ten years ago during a particularly hectic holiday season.
That year, Christmas Eve found my husband Steve and me staying up until close to dawn, wrapping presents and preparing for Christmas with our four kids. Just as our heads hit the pillow, the door to our two younger children’s bedroom opened and we heard them sneak out. I took a nap to the sound of their excited whispers.
Christmas Day at our home is one long and joyous celebration that includes a revolving cast of family members from both sides that arrive in shifts. We host a breakfast for eight to twelve people, with a break for clean up and showers, and then begin prepping for dinner for up to twenty-five people.
I was so exhausted I found myself dozing off, head propped in hand, while sitting at the dining room table over shrimp cocktail and artichoke dip at 3:00 in the afternoon. Luckily my chef husband was in charge of dinner because I simply couldn’t do it.
The next day, while poor Steve headed to work, I slept late and then curled up on the couch with the new novel he had given me for Christmas. The kids played quietly with their toys and it was a lovely day all around. When Steve came home, I was still in my pajamas and we had leftovers for dinner. The day ended with me finishing the novel in front of a crackling fire.
Afterwards I realized it was probably the best day I had had all year and declared it a new tradition. It has grown ever since. Now, I build a big fire in the fireplace early in the day and pull out the bed in the sleeper sofa. Everyone brings his or her pillow and favorite blanket. We cuddle, snooze, watch movies, play games and read books. At some point in the middle of the day, I take a shower, but I don’t get dressed. I just put clean pajamas on. Even friends and family know that if they want to stop by, they’d better be in their PJs.
Pajama Day is such a perfect pleasure that after the first few years I encouraged Steve to take the day off and join us. That was a mistake. Even though I patiently explained the rules, he just didn’t get it. I awoke to the smell of coffee already brewed. When I ventured out to the kitchen, he was taking out the garbage. And he kept doing it. He spent the whole day cleaning and organizing. Even worse, his activity spurred our second daughter, who was almost seventeen at the time, to do the same.
They were like the dynamic duo, whose mission was to fight the household crime wave of Christmas chaos. I’m pretty sure I mumbled or maybe screamed, “You’re ruining Pajama Day,” but nothing would stop them.
It was pretty hard to relax and read a book with all that cleaning going on. I resentfully started helping them, hoping that if I helped it would be done sooner and we could all relax. It didn’t happen. Our conflicting missions had set the tone and the day was ruined.
So now there’s a new rule: The only people who can be home for Pajama Day are those who respect the spirit of the holiday. I’m willing to forgive and forget past transgressions only if they aren’t repeated. My husband has tried to mend his ways in the years since, but the truth is he just doesn’t enjoy lounging around the house all day. These days he kisses me goodbye and heads to work, happily donning his pajamas to join us as evening falls.
Even though it began as a day of rest for me, my two younger children embraced this holiday with a gusto that made it more fun for all of us. They understood that all normal rules were suspended and they built their own traditions around the day. They ate candy for breakfast and cookies for lunch. They built tent colonies with blankets in their bedrooms and could play all day without anyone asking them to clean up.