The Joy of Christmas

by Amy Newmark

  Larry read his note first. It was from Christina. “Poppy, thanks for having Daddy because otherwise I wouldn’t be here. Ha ha.”

  My note made me tear up as I read Annie’s childish scrawl, “Thank you for giving us Mommy and Daddy for Christmas.”

  All the notes were heartwarming, but the best one came in the mail a few days later. It was from Ashley and read:

  Thank you for showing us the true meaning of Christmas. Your warmth and kindness made us appreciate that there’s nothing more important than family. I realized that a temporary setback is no reason to quit. We have decided that we love each other too much to separate.

  P.S. Joe landed a great job. Maybe washing hands in money really works.

  I wasn’t sure about the last part but who knows?

  Ten years and another child later, Joe and Ashley have a solid marriage.

  Side note: After dinner as I rinsed the bowl of coins in which we had washed our hands, what should I find but the diamond that had fallen out of my ring a year ago? It had been in Larry’s change dish all year. It was just a material thing but finding it added a certain radiance to an already meaningful Christmas.

  ~Eva Carter

  The Dad Club

  I once bought my kids a set of batteries for Christmas with a note on it saying, toys not included.

  ~Bernard Manning

  The countdown is on. Soon, garages across the continent will be hosting frustrated dads who are trying to assemble every manner of contraption the toy company geniuses can conceive.

  Christmas Eve is unique in its power to create an experience shared by so many dads at the same time. Since the dawn of time, dads have been waiting for the kids to fall asleep so they can open boxes, spread out parts, and read vague directions in dim light.

  Screws are turned. Fingers are pinched. Pieces are lost. Beer and blood are spilled. This is how it goes every year in countless man caves from coast to coast.

  Christmas morning will come and the kids will be excited. Dads will be appreciated by moms. The swearing and smiling and sweating and searching for that single, yet vital, little nut that rolled away someplace will all be worth it come Christmas morning.

  I remember my own initiation into the club several years ago. It involved a complicated battery-powered tractor and a tricycle. I spent several hours on raw knees constructing those treasures, which now lie broken and rusty from being abused and left outside in the rain.

  I had help that first night from the other members of the club, the heroes who came before me: my dad and grandpa and uncles. The men I loved and admired most helped me. They operated those screwdrivers alongside me and they got out the “magnet on a stick” to retrieve the lost screw from under the workbench.

  I finally understood things about my own dad I had never known before. I am glad I understand now. My life would be less without appreciating his sacrifice and efforts to bring a smile to my face on Christmas morning.

  So, this Christmas Eve I will renew my membership in the club. I will follow the directions step by onerous step. I will peel off layers as I heat up and I will stretch my sore back. I will say, “No, thanks” when my wife asks if I need any help. She will close the door and walk away relieved, as the ream of paper from the instructions and the too-many-to-count pieces sprawled across the concrete floor can be overwhelming.

  I won’t mind. This will be my time to be a good dad. I will be at my absolute best in those pre-dawn hours when the final bolt is tightened and the last decal goes on.

  In the morning, I will sit red-eyed and oily, smelling like antifreeze and lawn fertilizer. I will have a cup of coffee in my hand and a grin on my face. When my seven-year-old daughter asks why I have Band-Aids on three fingers, I will say a beautiful little lie to her pretty little face. And when she follows up with, “Does it hurt?” I will reply, “Not much, sweetheart, not much.” And this won’t be a lie. I’ll be too happy to hurt.

  ~Dave Markwell

  The Gift of Time

  Children make your life important.

  ~Erma Bombeck

  The M&Ms were sorted by color in individual bowls. They sat next to a tray of red licorice sticks and candy canes. Six tubes of decorator icing, each one a different color with its own uniquely shaped tip, lay scattered on the kitchen table.

  I looked in from the dining room doorway. “We need a bigger table.” The room reminded me of what Mrs. Claus’s kitchen might look like. The rich aroma of cinnamon and ginger filled the air. Even with the leaf inserted, the table overflowed with foil trays. Each tray contained an undecorated gingerbread house, twenty-one in all. They were ready for the friends who would be visiting us over the next few days.

  For several years, my husband and I had offered the gift of time to various families each Christmas season. Couples would leave their young children with us, usually on a Saturday morning. Then they would gratefully slip out to spend the day Christmas shopping without the pressure of prying eyes.

  The grandfather clock in the living room struck ten. Even though the morning sun streamed through the windows, I turned on the lights of our Christmas tree. Then I hit the play button and Christmas music filled the room. Right on time, a car pulled into the driveway and moments later the doorbell rang.

  Four children rushed through the door and immediately began to peel off their coats, gloves, and boots. Their parents trailed behind them. After hugs and kisses all around, Ken and Roz waved goodbye and stepped back toward the door. The kids barely noticed the departure as they took their seats at the table. They remembered the drill, even though it happened only once a year.

  “I’m ready!”

  “Can we start now?”

  “Can we, please?”

  “Pretty please?”

  Four upturned faces pleaded to begin. While they talked about their planned masterpieces, I set an assembled but undecorated gingerbread house in front of each child. Organized chaos soon reigned.

  “I need the white tube!”

  “Wait — I’m using it first.”

  “But I need it now!”

  I picked up an errant M&M from the floor, and walked over to the kitchen table. “Remember the rules. We share the different colored icings and take turns.”

  “But she’ll use up all the white and I need it for the snow on my roof.”

  “You already have snow! It’s my turn!”

  I opened another tube of white icing and screwed on a decorating tip. “There’s enough for everyone.” Actually, there was more than enough. The looks of pitiful disappointment when I ran out of one color the previous year were enough to teach me to stock up.

  For an hour or two, the kids plastered the unadorned gingerbread houses with gobs of icing: white, red, blue, and green. Then they covered the icing with handfuls of candy. There was an unspoken rivalry to see who could attach the most candy to their house without it falling off. Their creativity was fun, intensely focused, and fiercely competitive. Once they found their rhythm, silence prevailed for a brief time, occasionally punctuated by bursts of satisfied giggles as they surveyed their progress.

  With each Christmas, the children grew more creative. In the beginning, they simply covered every inch of the gingerbread with icing and candy. But they quickly became proficient in handling the tubes and identifying the various tips available for each color. Within a few years they were decorating their houses with intricate icing patterns as they sought to have their handiwork match their vision. The older children even learned to use the icing and candy to add chimneys, shrubs, fences, and snowmen to the basic gingerbread structure.

  When they were finally satisfied with their achievements — or when the candy ran out, whichever came first — we photographed the children with their architectural creations. Then we cleared the table and moved the houses out of reach to allow the icing to harden. Next, we ate lunch, although they weren’t usually hungry, probably because much of the candy never made it onto the houses!

  When lunch was d
one we shifted the activity from the kitchen to the living room.

  “Can we watch Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer?”

  “No! March of the Wooden Soldiers.”

  “I want A Christmas Carol.”

  “We watched that last year.”

  That last comment always surprised me. They even remembered which movie they had watched the previous year!

  After the movie, we played games and later examined their houses to make any necessary “repairs.” Depending on the time, we watched another Christmas special. We could only stall so long before our guests wandered over to the Christmas tree. With an impressive nonchalance, they surreptitiously checked out the wrapped gifts, examining the gift tags. With a bit of approved snooping, they quickly spotted their names and the presents were distributed. Soon the only sounds we heard were the tearing of paper and laughter… lots of laughter.

  By the time their parents returned, we were all worn-out… but it was a happy exhaustion for all. The children had a full day and their parents returned with a trunk full of presents, but of course, the kids didn’t know that. The day’s highlight occurred when the children proudly displayed their masterpieces to Mom and Dad. As they piled into the cars, holding their creations on their laps, we would realize, once again, that we had as much fun as they did.

  The best part of all? Decades later, we still hear from many of the families. The children have grown and now have children of their own. And they are carrying on the tradition with their own families. Through letters, Christmas cards, and social media, each year they send us photos of a new generation of budding architects displaying their sweet masterpieces.

  Funny thing is, all those years ago we thought we were giving the parents the gift of time. Now I realize we were creating lifelong memories… for the parents, the children, and for us.

  ~Ava Pennington

  Messages in a Bottle

  The flame never dies because the commitment never ends.

  ~Author Unknown

  It was 1940 in the small town of Cleburne, Texas. It didn’t take long to spot new people there, and it was my mother who spotted the new milkman making a delivery to the house across the street.

  When she told me the story, she explained that the milk bottles rattling in their metal cages sounded like music when he carried them, causing her heart to pound like that of a schoolgirl.

  She knew this young man in the crisp, white uniform was the man for her. So she waved the sturdy young man to the porch, introduced herself, and made the proper arrangements.

  On the occasion of his first delivery, Dad left an empty bottle along with Mom’s two-quart order. A piece of paper curled out of its opening. Mother recalls how her heart beat wildly as she read the note: “Would you consider going out with your milkman?”

  Would she!

  Exactly six months from the day my father delivered the milk along with its bold message, it was my mother who was dressed in white. The man of her dreams waited at the altar as she made her grand entrance into the town’s oldest Christian church to marry him.

  As a result of my father’s first request, my parents had gotten their wish — each other. The tradition of writing down what you wanted for Christmas and dropping it into that same empty milk bottle began during their first year of marriage. My mother decorated the bottle with a wreath and hand-painted sprigs of holly and mistletoe on its outer surface. The bottle was then displayed at the Thanksgiving table, allowing them both a full month to ponder over whatever the other had asked for.

  During my parents’ second year of marriage, Mom’s note had an unusual Christmas request. She asked my father for a child. She asked him the same thing for three years running, the result being the birth of a girl, a boy, and then in the fourth year, another boy — me.

  My siblings and I looked forward to Thanksgiving almost as much as Christmas, for that’s when the milk bottle would be brought out and the sugarplums would begin to dance in our heads. We were encouraged to ask for something that would be useful to all of us. That didn’t seem like much fun to us kids, but we knew our Christmas goodies weren’t restricted to our milk jar requests.

  Our house was the center of activity for the whole extended family at Thanksgiving. A wave of hungry relatives always materialized to share in our feast, and then to write their Christmas desires on a small note and drop it into the bottle’s glass tummy.

  As I grew older, I realized that the reason our relatives loved to come to our house for Thanksgiving was as much about putting their notes in the milk jar as it was about the food and giving thanks. An aunt once told me that my parents’ unusual custom represented the milk of human kindness rather than the actual giving of gifts. Judging by the family closeness that has continued all these years, and how my own children took to the custom like little tadpoles in a warm pond, I guess my aunt was right.

  Some of my older relatives had suffered greatly during the Depression and the war that followed. My mom and dad became a kind of rallying cry for family unity and my mom’s tradition seemed to represent the idea that hopes and dreams were still possible and good will and the spirit of giving were never out of style.

  After my dad passed away, my elderly mother seemed to treasure the oft-repeated ceremony all the more. It bridged any generation gap we might have experienced over the years and the tradition has now entered into its fourth generation.

  Then one day, Mother chose me to be the guardian of the Christmas bottle and its messages. I assured her I would not let the custom die, no matter how silly it might seem to some.

  “Our tradition has brought all of us many wonderful gifts,” she reminded me. “The best of them has been those from the heart. The ones in which people ask for no more than love and goodwill.”

  I vowed that her descendants would not let her down and so we haven’t.

  Much of the original enamel green and red color my mother painted on the milk jar that first Christmas has now peeled away, but every Thanksgiving through Christmas it still occupies a place of honor in my house. The simple quart jar, representative of my parents’ love for family and each other, now sits on a bright Christmas doily with a small wreath around its stubby neck.

  The little hands of my grandchildren still drop their thoughtful notes into its mouth in hopes that this magical container will make their Christmas dreams come true. And, on behalf of my parents, I see to it that they do.

  ~Jay Seate

  A Face Good Enough to Eat

  The best angle from which to approach any problem is the try-angle.

  ~Author Unknown

  When I was in elementary school in Saginaw, Michigan, back in the 1950’s, I had a neighbor and classmate named Paul Davis. His birthday was December 16th and every year for his birthday treat he would bring wonderful cookies to school. They looked like Santa’s face, complete with raisin eyes and coconut beards.

  I would always make sure to walk home with Paul on those days, just in case someone had been absent and he had an extra cookie or two. Somehow, one year, one cookie survived long enough for me to show my mother. She got the recipe from Paul’s mother and bought the special cookie cutter at Morley Brothers, our wonderful all-purpose department store.

  Over the years, my mother and I continued to make these cookies. After I got married I bought my own cookie cutter. We had three daughters and the cookies remained a must at Christmastime. I was a stay-at-home mother in those days and would make the Santa cookies for my daughters’ class parties. Some special teachers would get a plate of them years after they taught our daughters. Eventually, my mother gave me her Santa cookie cutter and I guarded both of them because Morley’s had closed years before and we never saw anything even resembling these wonderful Santa faces at any other store.

  Several years ago in late December, I had made multiple batches and the two plastic cutters were sitting out waiting to be hand washed and put away for another year. My oldest daughter decided to help out by loading the dishwasher and sh
e put them in there! They both melted a bit and came out totally unusable.

  For some reason, I had kept the original paper insert from the cookie cutter box. So, I knew that they were from Aunt Chick’s in Tulsa, Oklahoma. Now, it was time to see if that company was still in business. Honestly, I wasn’t optimistic but if I couldn’t replace them, then a long-standing tradition would come to an abrupt halt.

  I wrote to the Tulsa Chamber of Commerce and inquired about Aunt Chick’s cookie cutters. I enclosed a copy of the insert that I’d kept for so many years. Within days I received a reply. They even sent me newspaper clippings about Aunt Chick (she had died in 1982) and they told me that the cookie cutters were still available at The Final Touch in Tulsa. They also told me that Aunt Chick’s granddaughter, Pat Kimbrel, had taken over the business and it was now called Chickadees Cookery Company, based in Irving, Texas.

  I was elated! I phoned The Final Touch and explained what had happened and said that I wanted to buy ten Santa cookie cutters. The woman told me that they were only available in sets (Santa’s face, a star, a tree, and a stocking). But I didn’t want the other designs.

  So, I decided to call Chickadees Cookery Company. I was able to talk with Pat Kimbrel and tell her about the happy memories connected with her grandmother’s cookie cutters. She said that she hoped to get them back into distribution once again. Through Pat I was able to buy four Santa cutters. Then, several weeks later, I received a note from The Final Touch saying that they found six Santa cutters and asked if I still wanted them.

  I phoned to say “Yes!” and sent a check. So, within a few months I went from having no Santa cutters to having ten of them!

  It was wonderful to be able to do business with two women who went out of their way to satisfy a customer. And, now the family tradition of the Santa face cookie cutters continues not only in our house but also in the home of our oldest daughter, who has since married. At this point, it’s three generations strong.