It was the first major snowfall of the season, so naturally Alex decided it was a perfect opportunity to fire up the grill and barbecue some burgers. We agreed to meet up later that afternoon and cook a stack of hamburgers to take as our contribution.
The snow fell all day long, and we both got tied up running holiday errands on the snowy roads, so ultimately we had to scrap the burgers-cooked-outdoors idea. “So…we could make some punch instead,” Alex suggested before leading me up and down the grocery store aisle grabbing 7-Up, cranberry juice and a bunch of fruit. “Do these folks even have a punch bowl?” I asked as we stood in line. He shrugged. “We’ll find out soon enough.”
Punch ingredients in the bag, we were on our way to arriving at the party on time. But to my surprise Alex soon pulled off to the side of the road and parked. “Are we there yet?” I asked, looking out the window at a snowy park.
Every December, the city put up an elaborate display of lights in the park along a major street near campus. It was impressive: huge letters that spelled out “Happy Holidays,” Santa with his reindeer and sleigh, elves, skiers, snowmen, gingerbread houses and giant candy canes. I smiled. “Oh Alex, you remembered!”
A few days earlier I’d mentioned how much I loved that massive spectacle of festive decorations and looked forward to it each year.
He nodded. “I remembered. And I thought we could play a little Frisbee,” he said, turning off the car and opening his door. Yes, I was touched by his thoughtfulness, but… “Um, it’s really cold out there. And I am so not dressed for this.”
“No problem! I have noticed that you seem to run on the cold side, so look at this…” Reluctantly I got out of the car. Shivering in the dark I peered into his open trunk. “I brought everything I had in the closet—something will fit you.” Yes, he had an entire selection of extra coats, hats, scarves and gloves. “So, Frisbee then?” Yes, Frisbee. Why not?
Bundled up against the cold, we ran through the pristine drifts toward the display towering above us, casting its colorful lights onto the shimmering snow. We flung the Frisbee back and forth in front of the elves and candy canes while car after car drove by, on their way to dinner or the shopping mall or their own holiday party.
Soon enough our Frisbee game morphed into a snowball fight. I forgot all about being cold and just gave in to the fun. We laughed and ran around until the snow soaked through our shoes and our fingers grew numb and even Alex didn’t want to be cold any longer. Then we packed it up and headed over to our friends’ house with the heater blasting. We arrived at the party an hour late, out of breath, our clothes still damp from the snow. Punch bowl? No, but another guest did manage to find a big bowl that we could use to mix our ingredients.
Alex took me home after the party. “Tonight was great, Alex. Frisbee in the snow, amazing.” He looked at me closely. “Do you like doing crazy stuff like that?” he asked me. I told him I did. Not fully convinced, or maybe fishing to see if I wanted to go out on a “real” date, he continued: “You know, if you ever want to do something normal, like go to a movie or something, we could.”
Really, I didn’t. And so our “hanging out” turned into dating, then to engagement and finally marriage. Through it all we carried on with our adventures. Spur-of-the-moment scavenger hunts, an impromptu run through the sprinklers and, one summer evening, we had a romantic picnic in the median of the busiest street in town, until an emergency response team showed up, thinking we had been in an accident.
Perhaps it was inevitable that over the next several years our lives—and our dates—gradually became more conventional. We worked, raised babies, cleaned the house, paid the bills and we got tired. Too tired to play Frisbee in the snow or prepare meals at the park. Too worn out to come up with creative new ideas for the rare date night without the kids. We usually just went out to dinner. Every once in a while, we caught a movie.
Year after year at Christmastime, we decorated the tree, hung the stockings, wrapped presents, played holiday music and tried in vain to get all three kids to smile at once for the Christmas card photo. Life was good, but it was pretty darn conventional.
Sure, we’ve both changed since college, but some things remain the same. He’s still thoughtful; I’m still cold all the time. And one common trait we share has remained the same: we’re still drawn to the unconventional. We’d rather do something new than something safe. But normal is exactly what we had become.
Seventeen years after we played Frisbee in the snow among the twinkling Christmas lights, we decided to reject normal once and for all. Our kids were older and we weren’t as physically tired, but we were still tired. Tired of the rat race, tired of playing it safe for the benefit of some unknown future while we missed out on the present. So we stopped. “Do you like doing crazy stuff?” he’d asked me seventeen years ago.
We gave away most of our belongings—everything that wouldn’t fit in a fourteen-foot U-Haul. Alex resigned from his job, and we moved to a small mountain town in Colorado, a place where we had always wanted to live but had discounted as being too impractical. Immediately it felt like home. It’s cold, of course, but with enough extra layers of clothing I think I can handle it. I started my own free-lance business, and Alex now has a new job—with regular hours, no travel and no work to take home. We’re living life on our own terms again, leaving some space for creativity, fun and whatever offbeat stuff might come to mind.
So now it is Christmastime in our new hometown, and all the surrounding towns are lit up with extravagant holiday light displays. I’ve been scoping out each one and think I have found the perfect place. I’ve put the Frisbee in the trunk, along with some extra gloves and hats. I’m just waiting for the right night. This time, maybe we’ll even let the kids play with us.
THE CHRISTMAS VISITOR
DAWN ARMSTRONG
Sitting on the final suitcase, shifting my weight in all manner of awkward gyrations, arms and legs flailing, I slipped to the floor with a thud. “Crikey, packing for an international trip is never easy, especially with all these Christmas presents to manage.” Three gray cats wound themselves wistfully around my legs and the bags, the subtly skillful weave of their scent hiding a secret message for me to come home soon. They took turns sprawling across the clothes in the now-open bag and swatting my hands as I tried to close it again. Realizing that their efforts to abort this latest mission weren’t working, they resorted to one of their more successful ploys, looking up at me in pitiful, sad-eyed unison.
Like the craggy teeth of a crotchety crocodile, the zipper slid into place. The cats had lost their battle. For the past two weeks, Silly, Willy and Billy had slept in, climbed over and loudly voiced their catlike objections to the luggage, intuitively understanding that two big bags meant a longer-than-normal absence. I ran my hands over each of the rescued siblings, kneading and tickling them in reassurance. “Clever kitties, don’t worry. Mary Fe will be with you while I’m gone. Now, riddle me this: How am I going to get these bags down the stairs, on the shuttle and through the airport all by myself?”
Muttering to myself, I walked through the house performing a final check before heading for my flight. Glancing at the stove to make sure that it was switched to “off,” I drew a line through another item on my list. Is anything else out of place? Noticing the poinsettia-painted cookie tin sitting precariously near a cabinet ledge, I moved the gift for my house sitter to the middle of the dining room table and readjusted the name tag. “I hope she finds this before my three rascals do!” The most adventurous of the three cats came running into the kitchen as if on cue. “You’ll fit right into this family, Willy. We all love homemade chocolate chip cookies at Christmastime, especially Johnny. Every year we make them with his favorite recipe.”
The aroma of hot cookie dough, warm chocolate chips and walnuts wrapped itself around me, a cloak of memories flooding in. I paused, gazing up at a picture of the handsomest of men. I rememorized the smallest detail of each adored feature to the finest degree
. Plucking the vintage photo from its rightful place among loved ones on the dining room credenza adjacent to the kitchen, I gazed at the young man in uniform. His dark short-cropped hair; heavily fringed, twinkling hazel eyes; strong, yet kind features; clean-shaven face and saucy grin gave comfort even as I accepted the familiar longing that washed over me. “A couple times a year is not enough. I can’t wait to be near you again. When I get to Australia, I’ll bake a special batch just for you.”
A ringing phone jogged me back into the present moment.
“Grandma, I was going to call you from the airport before I got on the plane…Yes, I’m catching the usual flight from San Francisco to Sydney, and then a Regional Express hopper…I’m doing okay, was just thinking of how much I miss Johnny…You were just thinking of him, too? No, I’m not surprised at all…has he visited lately? I can’t wait for your and Auntie’s fresh mangos and vanilla ice cream!”
I hung up the phone with eager thoughts of the delicious food and relaxing holiday that awaited me Down Under. Mouth watering, I floated on visions of homemade succulent roast, flaky meat pie, creamy layered trifle, rich caramel tart and crisp ANZAC cookies. I mentally catalogued the long-awaited events that the next two weeks would hold: sleep in, tend garden, copy family recipes, cuddle a koala and, of course, catch up with scores of relatives at the holiday gathering.
My family is spread all over, and the annual get-togethers always include a thorough review of our ancestry. Every household attending brings a copy of the book compiled to document the intrigue surrounding births, deaths and great events leading back to the roots of our tangled family tree. The chronicles begin with journeys across the great ocean from England, continue with the first settling of long-past rough-and-ready relatives on the wild continent of Australia and end with the newest American additions. Every year we look forward to reliving our history, and particularly remembering those loved ones who bravely paved the way before us.
Australia, at last. The long plane trip had already begun to fade in my mind as I showered and snuggled down into my own special space on the veranda-turned-guestroom. New curtains and bed linens, I noticed. “Grandma Gloria and Auntie Mavis must have been busy,” I said to the empty room. Early afternoon, and the house was warm. I was grateful for the ceiling fan, and anticipating the nighttime breezes the window-lined room would afford. I could hear the quiet sounds of country life in the neighborhood, happily reminding me of my upcoming visit with Uncle Merv to his cattle and cane farm. The voices of my grandma Gloria and her sister Mavis talking softly in the kitchen drifted in.
The two sisters had lived a lifetime of memories since Gloria, as a war bride at age nineteen, first left Australia for America. Separated for over fifty years with only one phone call a week to sustain them, they remained close. Having survived a spouse or two each, the sisters were overjoyed to live together in Australia once again.
My eyelids grew heavy and sleep was near, but I heard my auntie ask my grandmother, “Do you think Johnny will visit? Dawnie will be over the moon if that happens, but gutted if it doesn’t. It will be a shame if he doesn’t. I wouldn’t want anything to put a damper on her visit.”
Grandma Gloria answered quickly. “I’m sure of it. He hasn’t disappointed her yet, and he stopped by last evening to check in on me. I bought him a new ornament this year, a dancing Santa. You know how much he loves Christmas.” I smiled at what I’d overheard, and drifted off to sleep.
Like practiced runners preparing for an event, we three women settled into our starting places the next morning, tea in hand, warming up for a marathon of memories, hopes and dreams, set against a backdrop of communal meals, gardening and housekeeping. As if on cue, a slight, gray cat with weathered fur trotted onto the veranda, curled herself around my legs, gave a squeaky purr and settled down in her own special chair.
The crunch of wheels across a gravel drive heralded the first of many cousins who would be stopping by over the next fortnight.
“We had to use the amphibian to get out here today,” my cousin Danette announced as she and her daughters walked up to the porch. “Creek flooded the bridge, but the girls and I wanted to get a visit in before school starts back up.”
She looked at me and smiled. “So, has Johnny dropped in yet?”
My spirits dropped, though I tried not to let it show. “Not yet, but Grandma bought a special decoration for him. It’s a motion-activated Santa. At night when the house is as quiet and still as can be, right before she goes to bed Grandma hears ‘Jingle Bells’…”
My grandmother and her sister exchanged a look. “Dawnie, we could use your help in the garden for a bit this afternoon. You can see the new bananas and pineapples that are coming in and we can pick some vegetables for dinner.” It was clear that the sisters were trying to change the subject from who had already been by and who had not.
As the sunlight faded, all company departed, and the day came to a close. We three turned to our usual routine of feeding the animals, locking the doors, tidying up and individually preparing to hunker down together for an evening of television, nostalgia and precious moments. Gloria’s urgent tone carried across the quiet evening air as we changed into our pajamas.
“Dawnie, you have a visitor.”
Goose bumps coursed over our skin as we quickly converged in the middle of the house. Auntie Mavis and I looked at my Grandma Gloria expectantly. A cool breeze ruffled our nightgowns. Gloria nodded toward the back door, which stood wide open, porch light spilling in to illuminate the area around us.
“It’s Johnny, isn’t it? Where is he?” Auntie Mavis’s face paled.
Gloria looked at me pointedly. “Apparently, your father opened the door to let the cats in, fixed the broken porch light and left us a gift.”
Eyes widening, I gasped as I looked down at the table in front of me, and saw the family ancestry album opened to the very page chronicling the birth and untimely death of my father, Gloria’s son Johnny. Though we were in the dining room, the sound of “Jingle Bells” drifted out from the sitting room.
Mavis looked at Gloria. “Heidi, the little gray cat, is asleep in my bedroom.”
Gloria looked at Mavis. “And the big ginger kitten is lying on the porch chair outside. I can see him from here.”
I looked at Mavis and Gloria. “It’s Dad!” Running into the vacant sitting room, I barely noticed the wildly dancing Santa twisting and turning on his pedestal. Picking up my grandmother’s matching family picture of my long-lost father in his military uniform, I twirled in a circle around the room. Eyes watering, heart exploding with love for him, I stopped and planted a breathless kiss on his still cheek. “Merry Christmas to you, too, Dad; I’m so glad you made it.”
The sisters stood in the hallway, beaming joyfully. “We knew he would, Darling. Look above you.” I looked up and was not surprised to see I was standing directly below the mistletoe.
FIRST CHRISTMAS KISS
SCOTT “ROBBY” EVANS
By mid-December, fog had hung over the northern California valley like a dripping gray shroud for more than a week. I was missing the clean white snow of Pittsburgh—it just didn’t seem like Christmas without snow—and I was terribly homesick. More than once, I woke up crying, missing my dad and the life we had before my parents divorced. Every afternoon when I came home from school, I found Mom asleep on the sofa. I guess she missed the snow, too.
One night I was at the kitchen table doing my homework for high school. Mother was, as usual, asleep on the sofa. The table sat under the kitchen window and the curtains were open. I glanced up and noticed our downstairs neighbor, Heather, smiling in at me from outside in the hallway. Except for her glasses, I thought she looked just like Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s.
I didn’t want her to see my mother already asleep on the couch so early in the evening, so I hopped up and opened the window before she could get to our front door. Her little daughter, Emily, was, at four, too short to look inside.
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��Hi, Robby. Doing homework?”
“Yeah. A little algebra.”
“Oh. I hated algebra,” she said. The cool, damp air rushed in through the screen, carrying her perfume with it. “I wonder if you could help me.”
“You need me to babysit?” She was a young divorcee, and I’d watched her little girl on a few occasions.
“No, I need your muscles. On my way home from work, Em and I bought a Christmas tree. Can you help me carry it in?”
“I’ll grab a jacket and be right down.”
“You’re an angel.” She looked down at Emily and said, “Robby’s going to help us put up our tree. Isn’t that nice?” Nice for me, too, I thought, as I walked past my mother on my way to get my jacket. This would probably be the only tree I’d help decorate this year, as my own family’s Christmas didn’t seem to be shaping up that way.
On my way back from my room, I leaned over to check my mom. She was facing the back of the couch and her breathing was heavy, so I knew she’d be out for the rest of the night. I draped a faded afghan over her and, buttoning up my jacket, went out to try to grab a little holiday spirit.
The Christmas tree loosely tied to the roof of Heather’s car was actually a shrub about five feet tall, far from the majestic seven-foot silver spruce we’d always had in Pittsburgh. But once I grabbed the trunk, I realized it was a substantial little pine after all. I hoisted the tree up to my shoulder.
“Wow,” Emily gushed. “You’re strong.”
I smiled, realizing that the weight lifting I’d been doing after school was paying off.
Once we got inside Heather’s apartment, I learned the real reason she wanted my help.
“I’d really like to have the tree in front of the window, Robby, but it means moving the couch out of the way. Could you help me move it?”
A Kiss Under the Mistletoe Page 5