On my own in San Francisco after college, I joined my church’s Greek Orthodox choir as an alto, learning to sing the beautifully arranged hymns that dated back to early Christianity. It was wonderful to engage in harmony with a group who shared my love of singing and, for many years, it would become my form of worship, lending me both roots to honor and wings to fly.
And then that part of my life suddenly grew silent. I’d married a man who seemed perfect for me. Our daughter came along very quickly, and we were delighted. In time, however, I found that many of the things I thought would never matter much to me began to haunt me. I loved to dance, but my husband didn’t. I loved music of many kinds, played piano, played guitar and sang, none of which he felt capable of learning nor appreciated in me. I loved to write, but couldn’t seem to get him to read. I was in love with the idea of flying and traveling; he was a white-knuckled passenger. Other differences in taste and especially temperament became evident as well and, before long, laughter faded for good in our house. No matter how hard I tried, I could not reproduce the kind of joy I had experienced in my childhood home.
Christmastime, which had been one of the most special times of the year for me growing up, became a disappointing guessing game about which gifts might be returned. Gift giving was no longer about sharing in a cacophony of delight, surprise and appreciation. What had always been a wonderful time of the year became one of the most upsetting. And finally, after almost twenty years, it all came to an end.
Soon after settling into this new single phase of my life I received an invitation to a friend’s surprise birthday party from another Greek-American family. In case you haven’t heard, Greeks know how to throw parties. One of the people hosting the party was my friend’s handsome brother George—someone I had seen occasionally throughout my married years at Greek festivals, weddings and picnics. I would dive into the long dance lines next to him because of his smooth dancing style and his knowledge of the dance steps for each type of Greek tune. My husband stood on the sidelines, watching, but never seemed to want to join in the fun.
I knew George, a San Francisco firefighter, merely as my friend’s brother—a jovial, well-mannered man everyone seemed to love. Good-looking as he was, he had never married, and no amount of interrogating his sister about why he had remained single seemed to produce much of an answer. Now that we were in a more intimate social situation, however, I was able to observe him in a different way. Once the surprise part of the party was over, I looked on as he and his sisters joked and howled as they recounted childhood stories. They recalled lines from movies they had loved, talked about their parents and reminisced about the different places they had lived. Soon I heard two of the sisters harmonizing as they sang a song. It was magic. It felt as if a piece of home had surfaced in someone else’s family, and I was just plain happy to be there.
By the end of the party, George was paying special attention to me, but I tried to shrug it off. The ink on my divorce filing was not yet dry, and I had been told by all my well-meaning friends to go it alone for a while. “Get to know yourself,” they advised, “apart from being a wife and mother.” Yet I was flattered to be getting a new kind of attention from someone I had always been curious about. George walked me to my car and asked if he could call me soon. Without a hint of hesitation, I said yes.
Once he picked me up to take me to coffee a few days later, George wasted no time in letting me know that he had always had a secret crush on me—that his gentlemanly ways, while proper, had merely masked an interest that went back to before my marriage some twenty years earlier. I was taken aback by his honesty and surprised that he would make himself so vulnerable. But I was also interested. And no advice from friends or family was going to stop me from exploring the possibilities of at least having a closer friendship with this man.
Apart from our Greek-American ethnic background, George and I had much more in common than I could ever have imagined. At the time, we (and our siblings) were both caring for aging, increasingly disabled parents who needed 24/7 care. George’s mother suffered from dementia, diabetes and heart problems, while my father was failing fast with prostate cancer, abandoning his lifelong love of food and laughter after having lost Mom seven years earlier. Dad passed on shortly before my divorce became final, while George’s mom continued needing care for the unforeseeable future. I understood from early on that I would have to share George with his commitment to care for his mother before he and I could truly be together. But apart from the challenges we faced, I was to find that this special man loved to sing and dance; had a private pilot’s license; shared my love of travel, art and literature; and had a sense of humor that kept me in smiles nearly all the time we were together. It was an unbeatable list of made-to-order traits I could not easily resist.
Once the divorce was properly final, George began attending church with me, rejoining the choir after more than fifteen years of being away from it. To look over at the tenor section and see George’s face as he blew secret kisses my way between Byzantine lyrics made me fall fast for this amazing man. After a year and a half of being together, we announced our engagement and set a date, knowing George would have to commute back and forth to care for his mom after we moved in together.
The wedding was divine. As the church filled with voices singing the ancient music of the betrothal and the wedding sacrament, George and I circled an altar table three times in what is called the “Dance of Isaiah”—signaling the first journey we would take as a couple. The sweetness of having discovered one another in midlife was special enough, but because George was pushing fifty and had never been married before, his relatives surfaced from all over the country to wish him well.
More than twelve years have gone by since that fateful surprise party where we met. George’s mom passed away a year after our wedding and, not long after, we bought our first home together. The first Christmas in our new home George retrieved some carefully wrapped and taped storage boxes. Inside was a beautiful assortment of oversized glass Christmas ornaments, most of which were mini-Santa figures he had collected over his bachelor years. Really? Honestly, a single man who collects Christmas ornaments? How adorable is that? I knew no small Christmas tree would do to display these lovely decorations, and each year I use a different combination of them.
But nothing would prepare me for the first Christmas we would sing onstage together. After having seen me sing in a large, well-organized choral group, George auditioned for it as well and got a place in the tenor section. Each year the group puts on a show of amazing Christmas music, both traditional and pop arrangements. For months we prepared for these musical extravaganzas, and we had to learn and memorize the music at different rates and in entirely different styles. And for months we sing and allow the Christmas feeling to envelop us, far longer than most folks get to enjoy it.
So here I am for the first time, gazing at my tuxedoed, dapper husband in the men’s section. But it’s always the same little ritual taking place. He catches my glance and, soon, a secret kiss gets blown my way. No matter what comes next in the song of life, I know I am with the right partner at last.
ANOTHER CHRISTMAS AT UNCLE JOE’S
JERRY WHITE
“Jerry,” said Marie, “I have a niece you should meet.” Marie was a hostess at a nightclub I frequented in Fresno. “You two would make a great couple,” she continued.
Well, what could I say? “Sure, I would be delighted to meet your niece.”
Marie smiled and said, “Donna. Her name is Donna; I will ask her to come by on Saturday night.”
Donna arrived at the club Saturday night with two of her girlfriends in tow—safety in numbers, I guess. As advertised, Donna was indeed a beautiful and charming young lady. I asked her on a date; she accepted. By the end of the first date I had proposed to her. There was no question about it—she was the one for me. It was the long dark hair, the soft voice, the warm smile and the eyes that sparkled with a mischievous glint.
“Y
ou can’t be serious,” she said when I proposed. I was very serious, but I figured it would take at least one more date to convince her. I knew what I wanted right away, but apparently she needed more time to reach the same conclusion. In fact, it would take years.
Donna’s sister, Carolyn, was getting married soon after I met Donna. At the wedding I got to meet the entire family—and what a family it was. Dena, Donna’s mother, was one of nine children, all of whom still lived in Fresno. Their yearly tradition was to gather at Uncle Joe and Aunt Norma’s home for a Christmas Eve celebration, and then attend Christmas Eve mass at midnight. Christmas Eve at Uncle Joe’s became a tradition for us, even though we were sometimes only dating on and off. Families with Italian heritage know how to celebrate religious holidays—lots of great food, laughter and hugs.
Four years after we met, Donna was working as a nurse in San Francisco and I was on orders for duty in Vietnam as a captain of infantry. We spent Christmas Eve at Uncle Joe’s for the fourth time in a row that year, knowing that soon the tradition would be broken. Next Christmas I would be overseas.
After a few months in Vietnam I was reasonably sure I would not survive the one-year tour. I often thought that dying would be acceptable if only I could see Donna’s smile, hear her voice and hold her hand one more time. Just one more time, that was all I asked from the war.
Soldiers who had served several months in Vietnam were entitled to a seven-day Rest and Recreation period outside the country. Married soldiers would travel to Hawaii to meet their loved ones. A few days before Christmas I saw a fellow officer and good friend, Lieutenant Chuck Boyle. He didn’t look too happy.
“Why so glum, Chuck?” I asked.
“I was going to meet my wife in Hawaii for Christmas, but now she can’t make it.” He looked at me with a gleam in his eye. “Hey, Jerry, why don’t you take my R & R space? You’re always going on about that nurse in San Francisco. Go visit her for Christmas.”
“Great idea,” I said. “But soldiers on R & R in Hawaii can’t travel to the mainland, you know that.”
Chuck thought about that for a moment before pointing out the obvious. “OK, so you get caught being AWOL. What’s the worst thing the Army can do to you—send you to Vietnam?” He had a good point there.
Another Christmas with Donna at Uncle Joe’s—the tradition won’t be broken! I thought to myself. I immediately accepted his ticket. Hawaii, here I come! And after that…I sure hoped the Army wouldn’t notice…
Arriving in Hawaii, I sat through an orientation at the military recreation center in downtown Honolulu. The presenter warned us all about the serious consequences for any soldier who tried to go to the mainland. I listened closely, and then caught a cab back to the airport and approached the Pan Am ticket counter. The agent was a young man about my age.
“A round-trip ticket at the military discount rate to San Francisco, please,” I said.
“Can I please see your military orders, sir?” he replied.
Since I didn’t have enough money to purchase a civilian rate ticket, I began with the story I had invented on the long flight from Vietnam.
“I understand the policy,” I said, “but I have a wife and four kids in San Francisco, and I can’t afford to bring them to Hawaii. I was hoping to be home for Christmas. It would mean so much to the children.”
The agent paused, looked at the decorations I was wearing, and silently printed the ticket. He handed me the ticket, smiled, and said, “Enjoy Christmas with your family, Captain.”
“Hi, Donna.”
“Jerry?”
“Yes.”
“Where are you?”
“At the San Francisco airport.”
“What? San Francisco? How? I thought you weren’t coming home until April.”
“I wanted to see you and to keep the Christmas tradition of going to Uncle Joe’s unbroken, so I went AWOL. I thought I would surprise you.” Yes, she certainly was surprised.
We arrived in Fresno on Christmas Eve day. My family and friends and Donna’s family were, of course, surprised and happy to see me. Being at Uncle Joe’s for the family gathering was especially joyous for me. My three days at home were a blur of invitations, parties and holiday meals that I will always remember.
Joy, even Christmas joy, does not last long. After three days of festivities, the return to war was approaching quickly. Donna had to go back to work in San Francisco and I had to catch a flight to Hawaii without the authorities becoming aware of my unauthorized trip to California. Thankfully, I managed to once again slip onto a Hawaii-bound plane without incident, and from there headed back to Southeast Asia.
As I settled into my seat for the flight from Hawaii to Vietnam, I reflected on reaching the goal I had set for myself before I died. I had seen her smile, heard her voice and held her hand. Even better, I began to detect hints that Donna had, five years after my proposal, made up her mind to accept. As she dropped me at the airport, I noticed a tear slowly moving down her cheek as we said goodbye.
I managed to survive my final months in Vietnam. Donna and I were married soon after I returned home, and after forty-two years together, she remains the young lady whose long dark hair, soft voice, warm smile and mischievously sparkling eyes inspired a young soldier’s secret Christmas journey home.
THE QUIET MAN
MARGARET H. SCANLON
I was facing Christmas alone for the third time. It had now been three years since my beloved husband, Dan, passed away. He and I loved the holidays and I had tried hard on my own to continue our traditions. I put up a real tree, built the miniature village underneath it and put the tiny train together. I baked all the family specialties and invited the children over for dinner—but it wasn’t the same. It never will be.
We raised a large family together—three girls and five boys. And those eight children have now given me fifteen grandchildren. So a large crowd gathers at my house every year for the holidays and they all miss their “Papa’s” presence just as much as I do.
That year, as usual, I attended the midnight mass at our parish church. The mass was, in fact, dedicated to my late husband, a bittersweet tribute and one that made me feel his absence all the more. Sitting in the smooth, wooden pew, I felt the music of the carols and the words of the sermon wash over me as my thoughts roamed back over my years with Dan.
We always called him the Quiet Man, a man more given to gestures than words. And his gestures over the years had been memorable—a bouquet of flowers for no particular reason; small gifts that would quietly appear at the breakfast table. My favorite surprise was the evening he came up behind me and slipped a small diamond necklace around my neck. “Just a little something to make up for the bad times,” he said as he fastened it in place. Oh, he could make me smile, that husband of mine.
Even after his death, it sometimes seemed that he was still with me. The first Christmas without him was the hardest. At least it was until he made me smile. How did he do it? As I drove home from church that day, consumed by my new loss, I decided that a little Christmas music might distract me. I punched the button on the radio and settled back, expecting to hear “Silent Night” or “Angels We Have Heard on High,” the typical Christmas Day fare. What came softly over the airwaves was Andy Williams’s rendition of “Danny Boy,” a strange selection for Christmas Day. It was a cheer-up gesture from Dan, I’m certain of it. And it made me smile.
Sensing my sadness after the special midnight mass ended, one of my grandsons offered to come home and spend the night with me. I thanked him but decided instead to spend Christmas Eve alone with my thoughts. I went home to my gaily decorated–but–empty house and settled in comfortably by a cozy fire. One by one I read the lovely holiday cards and messages I had received. Instead of the sadness I’d felt on earlier Christmases, I had a feeling of peace. Before turning in that night, I quietly thanked God for all forty-six years that Dan and I had together.
Christmas morning dawned, and I set about preparing the hous
e for the arrival of my family. My first task was to clean out the fireplace and lay a fresh fire. This had always been Dan’s favorite job; he took particular care to build a long-lasting fire, with the logs and kindling placed just so. I tried to take the same care, scraping out the burned chunk of wood from my fire the night before and sweeping out the ashes before setting the wood and kindling inside. I would wait to light it until the children and grandchildren began to arrive.
My daughter Ginny was the first to appear. She cooked up a sumptuous breakfast of scrambled eggs, bacon, toast, rolls and freshly ground coffee. I put our holiday ham in the oven and sat down to enjoy this early-morning feast with her.
As we began to eat, Ginny said, “Gee, Ma, that’s a great fire you built.”
“Fire?” I asked. “What fire? I haven’t started it yet. It’s for later this afternoon.”
“Well, turn around and look,” Ginny urged. And turn around I did. There was the most beautiful fire blazing away in my fireplace, a fire that I hadn’t struck a match to. It was one of Dan’s fires.
My daughter and I sat together in the kitchen, marveling at the scene before us. Once again, it seemed the Quiet Man was watching out for us, showing us with one of his small gestures that he was nearby and thinking of us. The warmth of the fire that year helped me melt away more of the sadness that my family still felt about the loss of their father. For now we knew that as lonely as we were without him, he was trying to let us know that we were still in his heart.
THE CHRISTMAS THAT ALMOST WASN’T
A Kiss Under the Mistletoe Page 7