The Joy of Christmas

by Amy Newmark

  Eventually, I became the one to yell up the stairway. “It’s nine. Let’s open presents!” They’d come downstairs in robes and slippers, rubbing their eyes. Christmas became a subdued event. No squeals of delight, just a simple thank you and “I think I’ll go back to bed for a while.”

  One Christmas Eve I had not yet wrapped any of the presents piled in my closet. When the kids had finished watching their movie, my husband Jim and I commandeered the television. (This was in the day when households had only one set.) It was after one by the time Chris and Jennie were asleep. Although exhausted, I still had a job to do.

  I pulled out the presents I had squirreled away, along with paper, tape, scissors, and a bed sheet to cover everything if a child came downstairs before I was finished. I wrapped gifts until three while Jim watched and we reminisced about other Christmases. We laughed as we recalled Jennie’s impatience for Christmas to arrive and the many times we had sent her back to bed.

  Jim said, “I’m tired. I plan on sleeping until noon.”

  “We can’t sleep in. We need to get up at a decent hour to open presents. Then go to my folks for dinner.”

  “Let’s wake the kids and open presents right now,” he suggested. “They’ve awakened us enough in their lifetimes. It’s our turn.”

  I laughed at the idea, but when Jim persisted, I finally agreed that it was “poetic justice.” We went to the bottom of the stairway and between bursts of laughter, called to them, “Wake up, it’s time to open presents.” When there was no response, we yelled louder. Jim thumped on the walls until two sleepy faces appeared from opposite doorways.

  “What’s going on?”

  “It’s time to open presents!”

  “What time is it anyway?”

  “Present opening time. The same time you used to wake us up.”

  They shuffled down the stairs in their pajamas and bare feet, shaking their heads at our antics. “I can’t believe you woke us up this early,” Chris groused, then chuckled. Jennie seconded the complaint with, “This is stupid,” but giggled.

  We took turns tearing open our presents, then drank cups of hot chocolate. When we were ready to call it a night (or a morning,) one of the children said, “Let’s not make a habit of this.” The other repeated with a shake of the head, “I can’t believe this. Don’t you know kids need their sleep?” I wondered if the next day would bring further recriminations.

  The next afternoon, however, when we gathered with extended family, Jennie and Chris boasted to their cousins, “You won’t believe what our parents did. They got us up in the middle of the night to open presents!”

  Years later, when the gifts were long forgotten, the memory of this early awakening lived on. In the re-telling of the tale it became even funnier and now it’s our favorite family Christmas story.

  ~Diana L. Walters

  The Christmas Breeze Box

  If you carry your childhood with you, you never become older.

  ~Abraham Sutzkever

  My brother and I were examining the cardboard shoebox in the back of the hall closet. He took the top of the box off as he explained, “We can use this box to catch a cold Christmas breeze.”

  “A Christmas breeze?”

  My brother and I lived in a small, desert town where the only breezes that blew were hot Santa Ana winds. I didn’t understand what my brother was talking about, but he was eight years older, so I trusted him.

  “Santa left this last Christmas. I asked him for a breeze from the North Pole.” He shrugged his shoulders. “You know. To prove that he’s real.”

  My eyes widened. “Santa gave you a breeze from the North Pole?”

  “Oh, yeah. When I opened it, a cold wind blew out and brushed against my face. It had snowflakes and everything.”

  I was speechless as I envisioned my brother surrounded by a frosty magical swirl of snowflakes and Christmas glitter.

  He nodded. “And, next weekend, Mama and Daddy are taking us to the mountains for the day. Surely there will be snow there. I’ll use this box to capture a breeze. Then, I’ll have it in case I need it.”

  “Why would you need it?”

  “For a day in July when it’s hot and sweaty and the air conditioner is broken. I’ll pull out my captured breeze and use it to cool down. But, don’t tell anyone else.”

  “Why not?”

  He leaned in my direction. “They’ll want to steal it from us.”

  I immediately became my brother’s accomplice in this breeze capturing endeavor. I searched the house over for another cardboard box.

  The next weekend our family went to the mountains and my brother and I ran back and forth with our boxes, attempting to trap the wind. After our boxes were full, we quickly closed the lids. When we arrived home, my brother stored our boxes in the garage refrigerator.

  “We don’t want the cold breeze to spoil,” he winked.

  “Mikey, could we save mine for Christmas?” I asked

  “Christmas? Don’t you want it to cool off on a hot day?”

  He went on to paint the scene for me: He and I on the front porch, waving our snowy breezes, the envy of the neighborhood.

  “But, I would love a snowy breeze Christmas morning. We never get snow here on Christmas. This way we could.”

  “Well, okay.” It was agreed.

  From that moment on, I kept an eye on our breeze boxes. My greatest worry was that they would be thrown out accidentally.

  Sure enough, we had a sizzling day in July when the temperature soared past 100 degrees. My brother and I sat on the front porch, attempting to cool off.

  “I think it’s time for a snowy breeze,” I said.

  My brother slowly nodded his head and then led me to the garage. He opened the refrigerator and dug out one of the breeze boxes.

  “Now,” he warned, “once it is released, there’s no getting it back in the box. We’ll have to wait until next winter to get another one.”

  I eyed him seriously. “Do you think we should save it?”

  “Maybe. There might be a day even hotter than this. And, our AC might break.”

  “Better put it back just in case.”

  And, there it stayed for I don’t know how long.

  But, one summer day, years later, when it was warmer than expected, I told my own two young daughters the story of Uncle Mike’s breeze box.

  When I was finished my older daughter had an idea. “Maybe we should have a warm breeze box.” She shrugged. “You know. To help keep warm on a cold, snowy day. We do live in snow country, after all. A warm breeze box makes more sense.”

  She found an old shoebox, laid it out on the grass to trap sunbeams, I suppose, and went off to dance in a sprinkler.

  That next December, the first item on my girls’ Christmas list was a wish for a captured North Pole breeze. Uncle Mike explained that due to the population increase since the 1970’s, Santa isn’t able to send out snowy breezes to every family. There’s only so much snow up there.

  But, that Christmas, a certain little girl decided that she should give a gift to Santa instead — a warm breeze box. She left it under the tree for him, with “To: Santa” carefully written on the lid. She hoped he would notice it and take it with him.

  And, by all accounts, he did.

  ~Michele Boom

  Best House Ever

  There are no seven wonders of the world in the eyes of a child. There are seven million.

  ~Walt Streightiff

  Even though I was a single parent on a limited budget, my son Ryan and I always had a special Christmas. I bought decorations for our tree at yard sales and purchased our Christmas gifts throughout the year when I saw a good deal. We put up our tree in late November and took our time decorating it. We always made some decorations ourselves, as our little fake tree needed all the help it could get.

  The year Ryan turned six years old I decided we would make our own gingerbread house. While I am a good cook, I am a notoriously bad baker. However, I convinced
myself that making gingerbread from scratch would be even easier than making cake from a box.

  Although I was always on a budget, I dropped my inhibitions for our fantasy gingerbread house. Ryan and I had a grand time selecting lots of candies to decorate our edible house.

  The plan was to bake the gingerbread one evening and assemble the house, then decorate it the following evening. Ryan was so excited that he told his friends, teachers and anyone else who would listen.

  I picked Ryan up early from daycare on that first Monday in December. We measured and mixed and rolled out our gingerbread. Then, with ruler in hand, I carefully cut the four walls and two roof parts that we needed. I had a picture from a magazine that I used as my guide. We ate dinner while the gingerbread baked, and while it cooled we prepared our work area on the dining room table. Ryan sorted the candies onto separate plates while I mixed up a bowl of stiff icing to use as the glue for the walls and roof.

  My first indication that we had a problem was when I realized that my gingerbread pieces were as heavy as bricks. There was no way our icing would hold the pieces in place. We tried everything from thickening the icing to using books to hold the four walls together, but nothing worked.

  Our fun project had turned into an exercise in frustration as the four walls of the house imploded over and over again. Ryan was relieved when I told him we were going to stop working on our house for the evening. After his bath and bedtime story he quickly fell into a deep sleep.

  I went back to the dining room table and studied my poor excuse for a gingerbread house. I realized that no one would ever be able to eat these rock pieces of gingerbread so there was no sense continuing the process with edible icing. Out came the real glue.

  And then I had a great idea. I found cardboard and some duct tape, and I made a model of our gingerbread house. When that was as sturdy as possible, I glued the gingerbread pieces to the cardboard interior. Done! By 1:00 a.m. I had a gingerbread house that was ready to be decorated.

  Ryan was so excited when he found our sturdy gingerbread house the next morning.

  That evening I sat back, listened to Christmas songs on the radio and watched my six-year-old have a great time gluing candy to his house and its cardboard base. The next day we put it out for display on the coffee table beside our tree. A few days later one of his friends came for a visit and, as they looked at the oddly decorated house, I heard Ryan proudly explain that NOTHING on his gingerbread house could be eaten because it was held together with REAL GLUE.

  I loved Ryan’s view of our world as a child, especially during Christmas. Through his eyes I could see that we did indeed own the most special Christmas tree in the world and that standing beside it was the best gingerbread house ever to grace a table.

  The best Christmas gift Ryan ever gave me was when, as an adult, he told me that he never knew we didn’t have a lot of money. In his mind we’d been wealthy because we so frequently had the most special things in the entire world — like our Christmas tree and that little, glued-together gingerbread house.

  ~Laura Snell

  Home

  Christmas is, of course, the time to be home — in heart as well as body.

  ~Garry Moore

  It was my first year away at college, and I had not planned on going home for the holidays. I wasn’t alone — I was actually staying with different friends on the East Coast. Home for me was Indiana, but instead I was jumping between New York, Connecticut, and Vermont.

  Traveling over the holidays was actually quite nice. My friends were all warm and comforting. Their families also were immensely gracious, offering me kind hugs and genuine smiles as though I were of their own blood. However, the warmth I saw in these households made me miss my own mother even more. She was back in Indiana with my three younger brothers spending her first Christmas and New Year’s without her only daughter.

  It was Christmas Day when I decided I would go back.

  I purchased a round-trip ticket to Indianapolis, with a return to New York before my classes would start up again. My friend Casey and her father drove me to Westchester Airport a few days after Christmas.

  On the way, Casey turned to look at me in the back seat and asked, “So, is your mom excited?”

  “She doesn’t know I’m coming,” I said, feeling a tinge of excitement at the prospect of surprising her. I had missed my opportunity to do so on Christmas, but at least I would be able to surprise her for New Year’s.

  Casey’s grin widened, clearly thrilled at the idea of my surprising my mother as well. “Oh my gosh, she’s going to love that!”

  The flight to Indianapolis was fairly short, and I arrived in the evening. I collected my bag and went outside to wait for my ride. I had called a family friend, Sabrina, to pick me up. After explaining my intent to surprise everyone, she had been more than happy to help me by sneaking me into my house. Sabrina had spoken with my family earlier that day, so she knew my mother and brothers were out at the moment.

  As we drove back, I answered Sabrina’s daughter Abby’s questions about what my life in New York was like. I stopped suddenly as I noticed a car driving behind us. We were about to pull into the driveway of my family’s house, and on impulse I ducked down. Sabrina looked at me confused.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “I’m pretty sure it’s my mom and brothers driving behind us.”

  “Oh dang,” she said, before turning back to Abby. “Abby, sweetie. When we get out we can’t say Layla’s here. Layla needs to be invisible.”

  Abby nodded, eager to be a part of our “game.”

  Before getting out, Sabrina glanced at me. “Wait here. I’ll text you when I’m inside and you can come in and surprise her.”

  I remained hidden as Sabrina and Abby got out of the car. Outside, I could hear my mother and brothers greet them. It was only a moment before the voices faded and I knew they had all gone inside.

  Five minutes later, Sabrina texted me that it was time. I felt a rush of adrenaline as I got out of the car and made my way to the front door. Quietly, I opened it, sneaking in and shutting the door as quietly as possible. I could hear voices in the kitchen as I crept to the doorway.

  “Hello!” I exclaimed, my voice light and an octave higher than normal.

  My mother gasped. As soon as she realized I was really there, her blue eyes got watery. She gave me a tight hug.

  “Oh, Mom, don’t cry,” I said, not expecting the reaction I got.

  But as my mom parted from me, I could hear the crack in her voice as she tried to speak. “I didn’t know you were coming home.”

  I smiled, feeling a strange and almost overwhelming sense of emotion myself. “I wanted to surprise you.”

  My mom, still almost sobbing, asked how I got there, and if anyone knew. Sabrina chimed in that no one else knew as she filmed the whole interaction with her phone. I had almost forgotten she was there.

  The truth was, it hadn’t felt like the holidays until I went home. Now that I was there, I felt like I was starting Christmas all over again — my real Christmas.

  ~Layla Tavassoli

  Pajama Joyride

  In childhood, we press our nose to the pane, looking out. In memories of childhood, we press our nose to the pane, looking in.

  ~Robert Brault

  “Wake up, Sweet Pea!” Momma leaned over my bed. Confused, I sat up and looked around. The moon still glowed high in the sky through my curtains. It couldn’t be time to get up. My eight-year-old eyes were still clouded with sleep. I walked over to my closet to get dressed, but Momma stepped in my way.

  “We’re going on an adventure!” She grabbed my hand and picked up my slippers from the floor of my closet. I reached behind me to get my Christmas angel doll from my bed and smoothed her pink silk dress as we descended the staircase hand in hand.

  Momma’s eyes danced with excitement, and she looked up at my daddy, who led the twins down the staircase behind us. Each of them clutched a stuffed toy soldier in hi
s arms. We walked single-file past our twinkling Christmas tree and out the front door into the cold Chicago wind.

  Our trusty red station wagon waited for us in the driveway. Ruby had traveled many miles with us, and another adventure was in the making. Jonathan and Benjamin curled up on either side of me in the back seat. The soft wool blanket surrounded our legs, and we sat wide-eyed, hugging our Christmas dolls.

  “We’re going on a pajama joyride!” Momma exclaimed. Handing me a stack of Christmas books on tapes, she said, “Pick one!”

  Ruby took us all around the western Chicago suburbs that night. We saw Christmas lights of all colors: classy white, neon, and colored. There were decorations in all shapes and sizes: light-up reindeer, blowup Santa Clauses, and nativity scenes.

  The warmth from Ruby’s heater could not compare to the warmth in my little heart.

  Giggles of joy quickly turned into squeals of excitement as our joyride ended in the parking lot of Krispy Kreme Doughnuts. The “hot n’ ready” sign glowed like a beacon in the night. We scrambled out of the car and into the shop.

  Our noses left tiny prints on the glass. We gaped in amazement at the machinery that made the glorious glazed doughnuts. Our three little bodies squeezed into one side of a small booth.

  We devoured doughnuts as the five of us critiqued the lit-up houses we had seen on our joyride. We walked out of the store, sticky hand in sticky hand, and cuddled up in Ruby’s back seat for the ride home. We went back to bed that night with smiles on our doughnut-glazed faces.

  We’re in our early twenties now. Beloved Ruby has been replaced more than once. Our legs are longer and our pajamas no longer have attached feet. The books on tape have been replaced by iPods blasting Christmas songs. We moved five times, too. Yet, every year, we’re still surprised when Mom announces we’re going on a pajama joyride.

  ~Emily Morgan

  All Grown Up