by Billy Romp
This sense of connectedness with my family extended to everyone I encountered, people I spoke with and those I saw, like the pedestrians rushing up and down Eighth Avenue, their large shopping bags overflowing with tubes of wrapping paper, gifts, and Christmas greenery. I cast this warm, protective beam of love on my daughter, who was busy helping customers. Gone was the separation between Ellie and me. We were back together again, working as a team, for the family good.
The camper was filling with gifts delivered by the good folks of Jane Street who’d left them along with their farewells. Because space was so limited, Patti would graciously accept their offerings, place the presents in shopping bags, then make regular runs to Laura’s apartment across the street to store them till departure. That cleared the floor for visitors and family and kept the presents safely out of the boys’ reach. Timmy and Henry’s excitement was already so great that they could barely contain themselves.
Because people knew that our day was so hectic—and that we were leaving—Patti never had to cook on Christmas Eve. We were always showered with food, including a complete Christmas dinner “to go” from Bonsignour, wrapped in tin foil and delivered to our camper door by Philippe himself. Mike and Horton from the Jane Street Tavern provided sandwiches for the drive. Angela dropped off homemade cookies. Renato, the owner of Piccolo Angelo restaurant, came bearing chicken, pasta, Italian bread, and cheesecake. Our little camper overflowed with edibles—enough to feed all our visitors.
When I stepped in, Richard and Debbie, a caring couple who lived adjacent to the community garden, were sitting at the table talking with Patti. They’d brought a picnic basket from Balducci’s overflowing with bread, cheese, fruit, juice, pastries, and muffins.
“I can’t believe you’re leaving us,” said Debbie, who was handing Timmy cheese in pieces the size of almonds. “You’re a fixture here on Jane Street.”
“We love being here,” I said.
“When you’re here, somehow, I feel like all’s right with the world.”
What Debbie said was touching. It brought home a belief I’ve long held—that each person has a tremendous impact not only on those with whom he or she comes into contact, but on everyone with whom those people come into contact. Ultimately, even the smallest of actions are far-reaching; ripples travel the world. I didn’t know how to respond.
She continued: “We can count on your coming back next year.” There was a note of doubt in her voice, which made me wonder how she happened to ask that question on this of all years. Ever since the party, my notion to stop coming to Jane Street had vanished; in its place was a longing to return, even before we had left.
“As far as I know, yes, we’ll be back.”
“With bells on,” Patti chimed in.
“Bless you,” Debbie said. Before leaving, she pecked Patti and me on both cheeks, European-style. After she and Richard had stepped outside the camper, she poked her head back in and took one more wistful look around our modest abode.
Buoyed by Patti’s blessing to give away any wreath and every tree I wanted, I found Ellie outside. “How would you feel about going around on a mission of great importance?” I asked.
Ellie looked puzzled. “You mean, leaving the stand?”
“Pick out the prettiest of the wreaths, add some extra ribbon and pinecones, and let’s hit the trail.”
It took her maybe three seconds to decide to accompany me. “Did you get an order?”
I smiled mysteriously, transferring a hammer and nails from my toolbox into my jacket pocket. “You could call it that, but not from a paying customer,” I said.
She looked puzzled but intrigued. The old Ellie once again, she tugged on her braid, considering the larger picture. “But who’s going to mind the stand?”
I found a big cardboard sign, a red Magic Marker, and wrote out, “CHRISTMAS TREES—FREE TO GOOD HOMES!”
She read the sign then looked at me, incredulous. “Dad?”
Just as I was scanning the stand for a prominent position in which to place the sign, along came Louie, our homeless friend. Louie usually arrived at the camper between ten and twelve to see if there were any leftover biscuits or muffins from our breakfast. At that moment it dawned on me-—here was an opportunity for him. “Louie, would you like to sell trees?” I asked.
“Anything to help you out,” he said. He removed his cap and scratched his balding head. “How much would I make?”
“Whatever you charge,” I said.
He didn’t get my gist. “Just tell me what you’ll pay,” he said, “after you take your cut.”
I repeated myself: “Whatever you charge belongs to you. Every dime.”
“Good deal,” he said, but still looked puzzled. But when a customer approached, Louie went right to work. Maybe he thought he’d work out the details later.
“Dad, is it okay if I bring some candles along?” Ellie asked. I could tell she was entering into the spirit of our scheme, our conspiracy of kindness. When I agreed, she loaded her candles into a heavy-duty canvas carrying bag.
Henry saw that we were up to something and charged out of the camper.
“Henry,” Ellie jumped in, “if you sell my candles, you’ll make whatever you charge!”
“How much do I have to give you?”
She repeated the magic words: “Whatever you charge belongs to you.”
We started on Jane Street, west of Eighth Avenue, my favorite section in the West Village. A series of lovely old brownstone town houses flanked cobblestone streets. The brownstones had large stoops and small yards defined by wrought-iron fences. Some of the yards boasted in-ground trees, majestic and delicate, old and young. Christmas lights had been strung onto some, including the now-leafless deciduous varieties.
When we found a brownstone that lacked a wreath—there weren’t many—we climbed the deep granite steps and sprang into action. Working quickly to avoid detection, Ellie would hold up the wreath as I tacked it to the door. If there was a brass knocker, we’d position it in the center of the wreath. On the top step, to the side of the doormat, Ellie would place one of her candles. We left no note, no message, not even our familiar hand-lettered “Romp Family Christmas Trees” card that we used to tag trees that had been sold or were waiting to be delivered. On one brownstone we passed, the wreath had fallen and lay on the mat. Without saying a word to each other, we climbed the stairs and restored it to its rightful place on the door.
As Ellie and I walked along the neighborhood, carrying wreaths and candles, people smiled and waved, mistakenly assuming that we were delivering wreaths that had been ordered. Full of the Christmas spirit, some stopped to talk.
We bumped into the happy new father who’d bought a Christmas tree from us the night that Ellie had gone to The Nutcracker. He was carrying a turkey and other fixings for a big holiday meal. Holding his hand, his stepdaughter was carrying a poinsettia, decorated with green foil that pointed up around the rim of the pot like leaves. Usually I can remember a face and have trouble attaching a name, but that little girl had made an impression and her name stuck—Erica, the angel. Seeing the wreaths dangling from my arm, her stepfather asked to buy one.
“Not for sale,” I told him. He looked disappointed, then quickly recovered his good cheer. “That’s all right; I’ll pick one up at the florist around the corner.” He was surprised when I handed him a wreath.
“I thought you said they were all spoken for,” he said.
“They are, but not for sale. This is our gift to you and Erica, on your first Christmas together.” He gave me a look as if I were amazing to have remembered something so significant to him.
As Ellie and I traipsed around the neighborhood, we both got more and more consumed by the Christmas spirit. We became giddy with giving. Our heads became light, and we seemed to float down the street. Looking back on it now, I have to admit I’d never had more fun with my daughter before or since. Somehow on that very day I’d shed the heavy mantle of merchant, the responsibi
lity of having to come out ahead in every exchange, and had replaced it with the pleasure of giving for giving’s sake. I made a discovery: Christmas was not about getting and spending or, in my case, about exceeding my previous year’s sales figures. This is what the cynics would have you believe, what I myself had thought in the past. But it exists in your spirit, your mind, and your heart. You make it happen by giving to those you encounter—those you love and those who are hard to love. You make it happen by loving unconditionally.
During our “stealth mission” I gazed into the windows of the first-floor apartments, trying not to be too obvious. Many of the tastefully decorated Christmas trees I recognized as my former charges, trees that I’d brought to Jane Street and sold off the stand. Under most trees, brightly wrapped gifts had already started to accumulate. In one home, a woman clad in an evergreen-colored cardigan sweater with gold buttons shaped like trees was stringing red yarn through cookies. Once they were firmly anchored on sugar-cookie wreaths and strapped along the chests of gingerbread men, she’d dangle these treasures from the branches of her Fraser fir. In another window, I saw a man nailing stockings to an intricately carved mahogany mantelpiece, while his wife hung pine boughs all around. Three young children, two girls and a boy, played a board game on the floor.
Ellie followed my gaze into the worlds behind the windows, and I sensed the longing in her eyes. During our mission together, I’d become more attuned to my daughter’s thoughts and desires. In the past, I had always assumed that what I wanted would satisfy her, as well. But when I glanced at her that time and found her transfixed by these homey scenes, I began to wonder. Could she have tired of the commerce of the season and be wishing we could just be a family, like other families, celebrating Christmas Eve together? She had said as much earlier, the first time she brought up the subject of The Nutcracker. Could it be that her attraction to the ballet was based on the mystery and magic of the story line itself—something that was lacking in our practical, workaday lives?
For the past ten years, we’d always left the stand around midnight on Christmas Eve after a full and busy day. The drive to Vermont took five to seven hours, depending on the weather; we generally drove through the night, arriving at our home before dawn. But just because that was the way it always had been didn’t mean that was the way it always had to be. I hatched an idea—something different, a kind of extension of Ellie’s and my Jane Street “romp.” But this particular “conspiracy” was aimed at my own family’s happiness, especially Ellie’s. This idea, coupled with the gift for her that I’d been working on furiously, I hoped would make this Christmas stand out in her mind the rest of her life.
We would leave early this year. We would spend a special Christmas at home in Vermont. If we left in an hour or two—that very afternoon—we could enjoy Christmas Eve at home. Maybe some hot cider and carols in front of a blazing fire. Then we could all sleep through the night in our very own beds, wake up on Christmas morning, and take baths or showers in our very own tub, and not drag ourselves into the living room sleep-deprived and weary from a long night’s drive. The only loose end was to finish Ellie’s Christmas present. The moment of its unveiling was fast approaching, just hours away. I had my work cut out for me.
When we’d given out the last wreath and candle, I said: “Let’s go home, Ellie.”
“To get more wreaths?”
“No,” I said. “Home—home to Vermont.”
When we got back to the stand, Louie was gone and Henry was dickering with a man who wanted to buy the corner tree, the one that Henry had picked out so excitedly just four weeks earlier. Henry was telling his customer that he’d have to charge extra because it had ornaments on it. He scratched his head and named a figure. “Maybe thirty-five dollars.”
I took Henry aside and explained the new order of things. He went back to the customer and told him that we’d closed up shop. “We’re not selling anything anymore, just giving stuff away.”
“You mean for free?” the man asked, incredulously, as if such a thing were almost un-American.
“Well, he didn’t say anything against tips,” Henry added.
Even though it was a bit peculiar, given that it wasn’t even five o’clock, the kids settled into the backseat of the truck wearing their pajamas, just like always. They loaded in pillows, blankets, and snacks for the long ride home. Timmy tied a red bandana around Santos’s neck. Henry was still counting his money. Clutching Zippy, Ellie listened raptly for the first sign that our wheels were rolling so she could repeat what she said every year: “So—we’re off!”
Even in the Village, traffic was heavy as we left Jane Street heading toward the West Side Highway. We’d take that road to get out of New York City, then point our truck toward the Hudson River Valley. We’d keep going all the way to Lake George, and make the short jump over to the Champlain Valley in Vermont and then home to Shoreham. Driving for the first time in weeks, I took it slow and easy in Manhattan, careful to avoid potholes and aggressive drivers. After all, the truck was carrying precious cargo: my family and our Douglas fir tree, the one we would set up at home, the one that would be our honored guest for Christmas.
After having disappeared for an hour or two, Louie was there at the stand when we left. Through the rearview mirror, I watched him talking animatedly with a new customer. The last thing he’d told me, after attempting to give me some money for the trees, was that he’d given a price break to some “poor people” who’d come by the stand. Then he smiled a big smile through a mouth short of teeth. “You take care of that family,” he said, tears welling in his eyes. “You got a good one. The best.”
I thanked him for reminding me and told him I would try extra hard and I’d keep trying for the rest of my life. It was a solemn and heartfelt promise, one I vowed then that I would never break.
8
Christmas in Vermont
Patti and I woke up before dawn on Christmas morning in our very own bed in Vermont. The first thing I did—before brushing my teeth or changing out of my pajamas—was to rush down the stairs and throw open the front door. It had been thirty years since I started my Christmas this way, but when I was a kid, I observed this ritual zealously. Every Christmas morning—before checking out the bulges in my stocking or surveying the presents under the tree—I would dash outside to see if it had snowed and whether I could spot any reindeer or runner tracks left by Santa’s sleigh. I don’t know what possessed me that morning to be a kid again, but that’s how it happened.
I should say tried to throw open the front door. The fact is it would not budge. You see, I was pressing against a mound of snow. As we’d pulled into our driveway the night before, light flakes had begun to dot the windshield, but only then—the following morning—did I realize that the flakes had amounted to a storm. I shoved the door open and looked outside. “Patti,” I called. “Come look.”
Patti padded over to me in her house slippers, carrying two steaming cups of tea, a specialty blend from Jane Street friends. We stood at the door, sipping our tea, staring at what lay before us. Snow had draped the evergreens around our house and formed a virgin carpet on the lawn. In the distance, only the Green Mountains and the gray sky of dawn interrupted the great white swath covering miles of fields and farms and homes.
Snow blanketed every barn, fence, and house in sight and acted as a great equalizer. It camouflaged all flaws and unified the landscape into one harmonious whole. It brought people together, too, just like my Christmas trees did in New York City. Unplowed, the road in front of our house was piled with two feet of snow, with higher drifts at the fences. Save for a few power and telephone lines, there were almost no visible signs of civilization in this rural Vermont countryside. You’d half expect to see a horse-drawn sleigh filled with carolers happen along, dragging a tree behind.
Though white Christmases were not unusual in Vermont, a Christmas Eve snowstorm was. “Can you believe this?” Patti said, looking at me incredulously. It was more of a c
omment than a question. She and I were both thinking the same thing—what if? What if we hadn’t left New York City when we did? What if the storm had come earlier, when we were en route? It was a blessing that we’d made it home when we did. If the timing had been different, we might still have been on Jane Street, or, more likely yet, stuck at some welcome center, somewhere, marking time with other stranded travelers.
“I’m so glad we’re home safe and sound. Tomorrow, after the excitement of Christmas wears down, we can shake out the needles from the season and get on with it,” I said, pulling her close. “Shaking out the needles from the season” was our private family expression for this brief period, the aftermath of Jane Street. It was a cozy, lazy time when our family flopped together on the couch, caught up on our reading and mail, talked and giggled a lot, and felt happy and relieved that the season was finally over. It was also a time of readjustment to the country and of letting go of the excitement and energy on Jane Street.
As the children slept, Patti and I prepared our home for the big day ahead. Patti set the few remaining candles from Ellie’s stock on the dining room table and placed one on every windowsill downstairs. I shoveled a narrow path to the camper and, when I stepped inside, saw that our most precious cargo had weathered the journey safely. Before leaving Manhattan, Ellie and Henry had selected a Christmas tree—a lovely, bushy Douglas fir—and wrapped it in a favorite old quilt that had once belonged to their grandmother Gilmartin. They wanted the tree to rest comfortably on the ride home. When I lifted the tree from its protective covering, I saw that it had shed few needles and that all its branches remained intact. I hoisted the trunk, Patti took the midsection, and we carried the tree into the house. On the stoop, I sawed off a thick slice of the tree trunk, knowing it would be the last cut of the season.
