The Joy of Christmas

by Amy Newmark

  Many results cranked forth. Ceramic elves, plastic elves, modern elves, gnomes and pixies. None of them holding any letters whatsoever. My eyes blurred from scanning through them.

  Suddenly, one line jumped out: “Ceramic elf, vintage. Holding letter L.”

  My hand shook. This suddenly felt like something inexplicable was happening. I clicked.

  There he was. A perfect, perky little Christmas elf, holding up the letter L, just as if he had been waiting to offer it to me.

  He looked the same. Could he possibly be from the same set? The size looked right. The color looked right. The letter even had the holly decorating it, just like the others. I knew he’d be right at home with the rest.

  Without further debate, I clicked “Buy.”

  Several weeks later, a tiny carton appeared in my mailbox. Impatiently, I clawed at the packing tape and pulled out the tissue paper packing.

  There he was — saucy and smiling. The elf with the L.

  But when I got out the rest of my set, my heart sank. This guy was just slightly smaller in scale. He didn’t really match.

  So maybe it wasn’t the after-Christmas miracle I’d thought it was. But when I lined them all up the following holiday season, weaving their way through a bed of pine, they looked pretty darn good. “No ‘L’ ” had once again become “NOEL.”

  The set wasn’t perfect. When we lose someone, nobody else can ever really take her place. My mother-in-law went on to have those two boys after Carolyn died, and her life was again complete, but never the same.

  Now she, too, was gone. We’d add other family members, including her great-granddaughter, born on what would have been Ma’s 100th birthday. However, without her, our family would never be as it once was.

  But that was okay. And the elves were okay. I knew Ma would have been delighted with her great-granddaughter. And I knew, with her love of order, she’d have been delighted to see NOEL marching across the mantel again.

  ~Susan Kimmel Wright

  Christmas Glow

  The words light and Christmas are close together in the dictionary of our hearts.

  ~Author Unknown

  I blame National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation for my husband Derek’s reluctance to attempt outdoor lighting and decorations during the holiday season.

  Watching the movie is an annual tradition in our home, but I fear Clark Griswold’s electrical mishaps may have installed a wariness of Christmas lights in my own “Sparky.”

  Each year, the day after Thanksgiving finds me knee-deep in red and green storage bins and tinsel as I deck our halls. My usual décor comes off the walls and is replaced with framed Santa prints and holiday sentiments.

  Glittering candles gleam from every surface. Candy canes fill Christmas mugs. Our fifteen-year-old son Sam constructs a gingerbread house. The nativity set is carefully unpacked and surrounded by a heavenly host of angels I’ve collected over the years. The stockings are hung by the entertainment center with care and our plain white dinnerware is packed away, replaced by elegant holiday-themed dishes.

  Though the inside of our home may seem like a winter wonderland, the only visible evidence of the season outdoors are two dispirited wreaths flanking the front door.

  I’m not alone in my wish to have the outside of our home reflect its indoor cheer. Sam has been hankering for outdoor lights for years. “Please, can we just have a few?” he asks. “I’ll help you hang them. I’ll make sure our house doesn’t look Griswoldy!”

  “We’ll see,” his dad replies. Every child knows “we’ll see” means “no” in dad-talk.

  But this fall, Derek and Sam discovered several boxes of lighted holiday displays while helping my mother-in-law clean out her garage. “What should I do with these?” his mom asked. “We haven’t put them up since your dad died.”

  Sam seized the moment. “We’ll take them!”

  “But…” Derek started to say.

  “Of course you can have them! Papa would love to know you’re using them,” said Grandma.

  A father’s objections are no match for a grandma and grandson combo.

  So, this year while I unpacked the bins from the basement, Sam went to the shed and lugged out boxes filled with deer, a star, a nativity set and a Christmas tree.

  He manfully untangled wires and lights and assembled various parts of reindeer anatomy. However, Sam insists they are not reindeer. “The boxes say ‘deer,’ ” he said. But I’m at a loss as to what regular old deer have to do with Christmas, so I’m calling them reindeer.

  In true Griswold fashion, the lights on the middle part of Dancer (yes, I named them) refused to shine. Enter Derek, who spliced some wires and sliced his thumb and soon all was bright.

  Then it was the Christmas tree that kept collapsing and Dasher who tipped sideways like he’d tipped back one too many rum toddies. By this time Derek was sweating and I could see why he’d been reluctant to take the holiday lights plunge.

  Sam, however, had enough enthusiasm for the both of them.

  Finally, they hauled the decorations out to the front yard and departed to the hardware store to buy electrical cords and timers and whatever else they needed before the big reveal.

  I’ve learned much about hardware store trips over the years. Enough to know one trip is never enough. I also surmised that getting hundreds of lights to twinkle may take a lot of time and may involve language I prefer not to hear. So, while they were at the store, I headed out to have dinner with friends.

  The sun set and I prolonged my outing with a few errands, uncertain what I’d find when I returned. Would fuses be blown? Tempers lost? Light bulbs smashed?

  I needn’t have worried. As I rounded the corner to our home, a soft glow beckoned. I followed the light and it led me to a shining star suspended beneath our front window. On the lawn below, the nativity set sparkled with jewel-toned lights, while a pair of mostly-lit reindeer kept watch. The lighted Christmas tree shimmered nearby.

  It was tasteful. It was beautiful. Papa would be proud.

  “Great job, guys!” I said, as I entered the house.

  Derek and Sam grinned. “Yeah, it turned out pretty nice,” my husband said. “But you know, we could add more. Maybe some angels, candy canes, some more deer…”

  Sam joined in the dreaming. “They put all this stuff on sale after Christmas — we could get some great deals!”

  Their voices followed me into the kitchen as I poured a cup of cider. “Trains! Snowmen! Santas!”

  Once again I’m reminded, ’tis the season to be careful what you wish for.

  ~Cindy Hval

  Saving Father Christmas

  If you had duct tape, you were prepared for anything.

  ~Annie Barrows

  The arm twisted free, thumped down to the floor, and slid under the Christmas tree. I wrestled both legs and the lower torso almost back into place. Just as I yanked up the pants, the legs did an acrobatic flip and rolled off the chair. “What else can go wrong?” I muttered.

  Loud tapping on the store window startled me. I jerked and grabbed the head to keep it from joining other fallen body parts. Peering into the darkness outside, I discovered a laughing group of my old high school friends. Where was the Woman’s Christian Temperance Union when I really needed them? They used to make stores cover their windows when there was any dressing or undressing of mannequins.

  I gave an exaggerated bow to my new audience and continued to put Santa back together even though his preference seemed to be falling apart. Turning this store window into a charming Christmas scene had sounded so simple when the store manager suggested it. His only request had been to include a reclining chair, which happened to be on sale, in the display. The tree and decorations practically put themselves together. Even the two mannequin children in their red and green pajamas had cooperated and were peeking into the room.

  Santa, reclining in the chair, was supposed to be taking a little nap, even though his painted-on eyes would remain open. I retr
ieved the wayward arm, reattached it, and added a strip of duct tape just to make sure that arm didn’t escape again. Duct tape — what a wonderful invention to come out of World War II. More of my beloved duct tape secured Santa’s legs. On went the red suit. I was on a roll now. To create a belly that shook like a bowl full of jelly, I rammed bed pillows in the shirt and pants and buckled his belt. Lastly, I used duct tape to anchor the beard and hair. The hair sort of resembled a cheap toupee, but fortunately, the hat covered most of it.

  I stepped back to examine my work. Nice. Another tap on the window made me look out. Five thumbs pointed up.

  ~Sharon Landeen

  Camel Herder

  One camel does not make fun of another camel’s hump.

  ~Ghanaian Proverb

  It was a month before Christmas and I was in my attic surrounded by boxes of holiday decorations. Luckily I had labeled each box with a marker. When I spotted the box labeled “Nativity Scene” my heart skipped a beat. My children and I have always looked forward to unwrapping the delicate figures of Mary, Joseph, Baby Jesus, and the Three Wise Men, along with a stable full of animals. Carrying the box downstairs, I was greeted by applause from four excited children.

  As soon as the box was opened, eight little hands started pulling out its contents. Then I heard my son Scott sobbing. “Look, Mom, my camel has no legs.”

  He was right! The camel that had served us for years by standing watch over Baby Jesus was legless. “I’ll fix him; don’t cry,” I said.

  In the meantime, we set up the nativity scene on the floor, to the right of the fireplace where the cradled baby would be kept warm.

  I carefully glued Mr. Camel’s legs back on. It didn’t work. Scott cried when the legs fell off for the second time, and the third. “Don’t worry, I have an idea,” I said.

  I called and e-mailed my friends about my camel dilemma. I had high hopes that a replacement camel would turn up. Someone just had to have an extra camel they could spare.

  My husband, who is a true believer in Christmas miracles, said, “If you tell one person you are looking for a camel, you’ll probably end up with fifty.”

  The next day a neighbor arrived at my door holding a tan camel in her hands. “I had two camels which fought all the time,” she said, laughing. “It’s time to separate them.”

  Her camel was a bit larger than I hoped for, but how could I refuse this kind gesture? I placed the camel in back of the stable. Then I explained to my children that some camels are big and tall while others may be short and pudgy, like people.

  I was given a chipped beige camel by another neighbor. He was the front-runner so far because of his perfect size, but he was pretty ragged looking, as though he had just walked across the desert following the Star of Bethlehem.

  “He needs a bubble bath,” my daughter suggested. We wiped him down, but it didn’t make any difference.

  A good friend e-mailed me saying she had a purple camel that would be the talk of the town — Bethlehem, of course. I couldn’t wait to pick it up. The camel had a purple shiny lacquer finish, and a gold and red etched seat with a matching harness. This was the one!

  When I brought the statue home, there was no putting it down. It flew in and out of little hands, like a hot potato, and then around again. Yes, the purple camel would watch over Baby Jesus in our crèche.

  In two weeks time I amassed thirteen camels. My nativity scene was surrounded by a caravan of camels that were standing, sitting, sleeping and arching their necks. My kids enjoyed playing with the different sizes, shapes and colors of the camels, marching them up and down the living room floor and around the Christmas tree.

  Next year I plan to label another box of Christmas decorations that will say “Camel Caravan.” Who would have thought a purple camel could bring so much joy into our lives?

  ~Irene Maran

  Barely Decorated

  I love Christmas, not just because of the presents but because of all the decorations and lights and the warmth of the season.

  ~Ashley Tisdale

  I grew up in Ohio, where cold and snow were a big part of the Christmas season. When I struck out on my own as an adult, I moved to Florida. As the holiday season approached that first year on my own, frosted window panes were replaced by Santa in sunglasses and Bermuda shorts and flamingos draped in twinkle lights.

  Growing up, the first Sunday after Thanksgiving was tree-cutting day. We’d pile the entire family into the station wagon and head off to a local tree farm. There, we’d meet up with several other families we knew who collectively called themselves “The Brunch Group.” We’d all tramp out into the fields and each family would select its own version of the perfect tree. Afterward, we’d all head to one family’s home for hot chocolate.

  Christmas in Florida, on my own, was a far different experience. That first year in a new city there were no friends to meet, and no nearby farms to cut my own Christmas tree. Undeterred, I set off to the lot at the corner supermarket and selected a tree like the ones I’d grown up with, a six-foot tall blue spruce. I’d already shopped for a stand and several strands of lights. Even alone, I was excited to get home and decorate.

  It didn’t take long, once I returned to my railroad flat apartment, to get the tree straight in the stand and cover it with strand after strand of colored, blinking lights. I stood back, turned off the lamp, and admired the twinkly glow of my handiwork. For a moment, it looked and smelled just like Christmas.

  That’s when I remembered that there was no attic to go to and no boxes of ornaments to retrieve. I hadn’t even thought about ornaments.

  For the next few days, each time I entered my home, I looked at that bare tree. Yet, I refused to head to the local stores to purchase ornaments. In my family, ornaments were never purchased in bulk. Each ornament was purchased, on its own, during a trip or adventure. Each one had a special memory attached to it. As we hung each ornament we got to relive family trips and personal accomplishments. A dozen store-bought red balls certainly wouldn’t do.

  When I arrived home from work about a week after I’d assembled my first tree, there was a box on the porch. I loved getting packages and mail, and I rushed inside to open the parcel. It was from my mother and it came with a simple note: “I thought you might need these.”

  Inside was a selection of some of the familiar family ornaments I’d grown up with. My mother had selected a few dozen of “my” ornaments, those that held a special meaning for me from my childhood, like the snowman with the frilly collar, the bass playing Santa, a chipped, plaster dog painted brown, and a silver bell with my own smiling second grade face. At the bottom of the box, unwrapped, but with a blue bow, was a small box. Inside was a new “one-of-a-kind” ornament. A shiny key dangled from a little house with the inscription: “My First Home: 1987.”

  One after the other, I hung the few treasures on my very big tree. Those few ornaments didn’t make a dent in all those empty branches. But, for me, it was the most beautiful tree ever. It was my first Christmas tree on my own.

  ~Gregory A. Kompes

  The Barbie Christmas

  Children make you want to start life over.

  ~Muhammad Ali

  My five-year-old granddaughter, Anna Grace, was sitting on a child’s wooden bench in my living room and staring at the decorated Christmas tree. It was most unusual for her to be silent. She hadn’t said a word in an hour and I was wondering if she was okay. Her big blue eyes were larger than ever.

  Finally, she turned to me and said, “GG, why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Because I wanted to surprise you.”

  “Where did you get all the Barbies?” she asks. “And all the pretty dresses?”

  “I was shopping at Goodwill. Someone dropped off fourteen Barbies in pretty dresses. I thought they would be beautiful on a Christmas tree and you would love it. I decided to search for more after that.”

  After discovering the first fourteen dolls, I kept looking for secondhand Barbies in party d
resses for the Christmas tree. At Salvation Army and Southern Thrift, I found more dolls and plastic bags filled with sparkling clothes to dress the Barbies we already had. My plan fell into place. I had a variety of forty Barbies ready for the tree — all dressed beautifully.

  Anna Grace enjoyed the tree throughout the Christmas season. At year’s end she was delighted to take it down. She placed the Barbies in a line on the floor, counting each one. It was time to play with the best Christmas decorations ever.

  Anna Grace played with the Barbies for hours. We dressed and undressed them, cut and styled their hair, named them, and went on imaginary adventures with them. They were swimmers, gymnasts, shoppers, and explorers. They had Ken dolls to escort them to fancy parties or the beach. I don’t know which one of us had more fun playing with our collection of thrift store Barbies.

  Months later, Anna Grace said, “GG, I have beautiful Barbies somewhere at my house, but these thrift store Barbies are the ones we played with the most.”

  It’s been eleven years since the Barbie Tree Christmas. Our family and friends still talk about it. Now, the Barbies wait in their pretty dresses, tucked away in tissue-lined boxes. A few will be selected for a small Christmas tree. It’s a grandmother’s tradition and a story I’ve told over and over and over.

  ~Gloria Hudson Fortner

  The Sad Little Tree

  Never worry about the size of your Christmas tree. In the eyes of children, they are all thirty feet tall.

  ~Larry Wilde

  It was later than I had realized. The sun was beginning to set and the farm would be closing shortly. I bundled up our three daughters quickly as my husband warmed up the van. We arrived at the farm with just fifteen minutes to pick out a tree and cut it down.

  Cutting down our own Christmas tree had been a family tradition from the time my husband and I were newlyweds. As our family grew, so did our excitement for going on our annual adventure to find the perfect tree.