by Dan Walsh
“Stan wrote that. That’s what he likes to call them.”
“Why are they ugly? And if they are, why do you keep them?”
Judith lifted the top box off the stack and set it on the table. “Open it. See for yourself.” Betty opened the box, revealing a number of small packages wrapped in newspaper.
“Are they fragile?” Betty asked. “I don’t want to break any of them.”
“Some are. But you should be all right if you just use a little care. I mostly wrapped them to keep them from getting tangled, and to keep the paint from scratching off.”
Betty lifted two of them out. “Oh my.” She was unwrapping the first one. “Now that’s ugly.”
Judith smiled. Betty was holding up one that Brandon had made. If Judith remembered right, when he was eight years old.
“It looks like a shrunken head,” Betty said. “Is that what it’s supposed to be?”
Judith laughed. “No. Why would we ever make shrunken heads as Christmas ornaments?”
“What’s it supposed to be then?” She spun it slowly around with her fingers as it dangled from a hook.
“It’s supposed to be a Christmas elf.”
“Where’s its body?”
“It’s just supposed to be his head. But he’s supposed to have a little green hat on. It must’ve fallen off in the box.”
“Did it ever look like a Christmas elf? Maybe when you first made it?” Betty handed it to her as she opened up the next one.
“I think it’s always looked like a shrunken head,” Judith said. “And I didn’t make it. Brandon did. The kids made all of these when they were little. I helped them. I came up with most of the ideas, bought all the little craft supplies. But the kids put them all together.” She spun the shrunken elf head around. “Of course, none of them turned out like they were supposed to.”
Betty opened the second one. “What is this supposed to be?”
“Aww,” Judith said softly. She gently set the elf down on the table and reached for the ornament Betty was holding now. “Suzanne made that when she was six. There should be another one in there nearby. Anna made one too. Hers was a little nicer. She was three years older.”
“Okay, but what is it? I know it’s not what I think it is.”
“What does it look like to you?”
“It looks like . . . a shrieking ghost . . . with jaundice and a bad complexion.”
Judith laughed and tried to see what Betty was seeing. “It’s supposed to be a Christmas caroler singing with her eyes closed. Like in Dickens’s time. See the lacy collar? We made the heads by hollowing out eggs and spraying them with some kind of finish. I don’t remember now what it was called. Then the kids painted them, trying to make it look like skin. Suzanne didn’t like how hers turned out, so she kept adding more coats with different colors.”
“There’s another one in here?” Betty said, looking in the box.
“Another girl is in there somewhere. The one Anna made. It came out much better. Well, a little better. But I think we lost the one Brandon made, or else it broke a few years ago. Believe it or not, it looked even worse than the one you’re holding. Stan thought it looked like a vampire.”
Betty handed the Christmas caroler to Judith and reached for another. As she unwrapped it, she laughed out loud. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to make fun. But this one . . .” She held it up for Judith to see. “You don’t want to know what I think this looks like.”
Judith could guess. It was probably the same thing Stan had said about it whenever they’d put it on the tree. He even had a nickname for it. Brandon had made the ornament when he was nine. When he was younger, he used to get upset whenever Stan made fun of it. But the last few Christmases, Brandon had laughed just as hard when he saw it hanging on the tree. “I think I know what you think it looks like. Just go ahead and say it.”
“It looks like . . . dog poop.”
They both laughed. It really did. “It’s supposed to be a little Christmas tree.”
“I’m not seeing a Christmas tree . . . anywhere,” Betty said.
“It used to be more green years ago. And all the colorful little ornament thingies Brandon glued on have fallen off.”
“I see,” Betty said.
“Stan always called it the poop ornament.” Looking at it now, Judith wondered if it ever really looked like anything else.
Betty unwrapped another one. “Well, this one’s kind of cute.”
Judith looked. Betty was holding a little larger ornament made of pipe cleaners mostly, spray painted pink.
“It’s the Pink Panther, right?” Betty said.
“A flamingo.”
“Oh.” Betty looked at it again. “Okay, a flamingo then.”
“Stan surprised us and took us to Sea World that year. The kids loved the flamingos.”
Betty unwrapped another and held up two longish, green ornaments. “Caterpillars?” she said.
“Pickles,” Judith said. “We made them by cutting green socks in half and stuffing them with cotton balls.”
Betty smiled. “Nice. Christmas pickles.” She set them down next to the others on the coffee table. “Is the whole box full of . . . ornaments just like these?”
“Pretty much,” Judith said. “They started getting a little better as the kids got older. I’m not sure what year we started, though. I don’t think Suzanne was even in kindergarten yet. But it became a fun tradition. Every year we’d make three of them, one for each child. And they’d proudly hang them on the tree. Then we’d carefully wrap them back up after the holiday until the next Christmas. As the years went by, we created quite a collection.”
“When did you stop making them?”
“Before you and I even met. When the kids became teenagers, we did it for a few more years, but I could tell they had lost interest. They still loved hanging them on the tree, even more than all the fancy store-bought ornaments. And each time they unwrapped one of the ornaments they had made, they’d hang it on the tree and I’d ask them what they remembered about the day we made them. We’d have the best time recalling all the fun we had when they were little.”
Judith looked down at the table. They had continued that tradition every year until . . . now. This would be the first year the kids weren’t here to hang the ugly ornaments on the tree. This would be the year the tradition died. The thought of that brought tears to her eyes. She quickly blinked them away and began wrapping the ornaments back up in the paper and setting them back inside the box.
“Don’t you want to put them on the tree?” Betty said. “They already have hooks.”
“No. I don’t. All these years, I’ve never hung a single one of these ornaments. The kids did. I don’t think I can start doing it now.”
7
About an hour after Betty arrived, Judith could tell she was getting ready to leave. She was sitting on the edge of the cushion, glancing at the clock on the wall, talking about all the things she had to accomplish before the afternoon was over. Meanwhile, the Christmas decorations still sat in their containers on the dining room table. The bare Christmas tree still stood in the corner. And the ornaments still sat in the three boxes on the coffee table.
About twenty minutes ago, Betty had asked if she could turn on that FM radio station, let some Christmas music into the room. Judith said sure. She’d be moving into Scrooge territory if she said no. But listening to it had the opposite effect on Judith than Betty probably intended.
“Do you realize that’s the second time that station has played ‘Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree’ since you turned it on?” Judith said. “That’s the only thing I don’t like about this station. Every year they play the same stupid songs, over and over again. Just wait, they’ve already played ‘Jingle Bell Rock’ once. A few minutes from now, they’ll play it again. Twenty minutes later, they’ll play it again.”
Betty joined in. “They’ll probably play ‘The Little Drummer Boy’ again too. They play that one all the time. Now
, that’s got to be the dumbest Christmas song ever. ‘Shall I play for you?’ Uh, no, I just got the baby Jesus asleep. The last thing we need in this stable is some kid banging on a drum.”
Judith laughed. “I don’t recall ever seeing a little drummer boy on a nativity set.”
“Or reading about one showing up that night in the Bible,” Betty added.
As soon as she’d said that, “Santa Baby” began playing on the radio. Judith nodded her head to the intro, then mouthed the words along with Eartha Kitt.
Betty stood up and turned the radio off. “This isn’t helping the cause. Who puts these song lists together anyway? They need to let people like you and me do it.”
Judith wondered why she’d ever liked listening to that station in past years. She noticed Betty remained standing.
“I’m sorry you’re having such a bad day,” Betty said. “I don’t know if me coming over here helped anything or made matters worse.”
“Oh, it’s definitely helped. I appreciate you trying, Betty. I’m sure I’ll get over this after a while.” Judith said this without an ounce of confidence.
“I think I know something that’ll help for sure. Why don’t you come downtown with me tomorrow afternoon to do some shopping? You know how pretty they make the downtown area the Saturday after Thanksgiving. They pull out all the stops. I was driving through there this morning. Things are already getting set up for it. We can go shopping for a couple hours, maybe start at two thirty or so. Then have the boys join us for a quick bite to eat around five. Right after that, they have the big Light Up ceremony at Donnelly Park.”
Judith remembered. When the kids and grandkids were here, they never missed it. The whole town gathered together in the downtown area, and just when it got dark, they’d flip the switch and over two million lights would spring to life. Mount Dora might be a small town, but they really knew how to do Christmas right. Judith had never visited a single big-city Christmas display that impressed her more. “That might be nice,” she said.
“Can I come by and pick you up?” Betty said. “About two fifteen?”
“Sure.”
“Stan better let you have some money to spend.”
He would, but how much was another question.
“Tell you what,” Betty continued, “get him to show you that receipt he brings home from the Bass Pro Shop today. And you tell him I said you get to spend at least that much with me tomorrow.” Betty moved toward the front door.
“I will,” Judith said.
“Thanks again for the coffee and pie. Wish I could say I was going to go work it off, but that ain’t happening.”
They hugged and Betty headed for her car.
It was just a little before five when Stan arrived home. There was no doubt about it, it had been a very fun day. Perfect weather in the morning for fishing, skunked Barney three bass to zero, had the most amazing time at the Bass Pro Shop. Some killer deals on tackle and other outdoor supplies, not to mention all the fun with the Lionel trains and the shooting gallery.
He’d convinced Barney they should hold off buying that fancy trolling motor until after they’d actually sold their fishing boat. But he had agreed with Barney that it was the finest trolling motor he’d ever seen and definitely deserved a rightful place on their dream rig.
Stan paused in front of their little house. Barney had been in a bit of a hurry, so he’d dropped Stan off on the street rather than pulling in the driveway. Stan thought about some of the fancier homes he’d seen out on the water this morning and decided he liked their place just fine. It was all they really needed at this point. And it was fixed up just the way they liked it, which meant less time for chores and more time for fishing.
The house had a nice picket fence across the front made of pressure-treated wood, so it didn’t need painting. All the plants they had picked out, both along the fence and closer to the house, were low-maintenance types. Ones that could withstand the occasional winter freeze, which towns in central Florida were known to have once in a while. They lived on an oversized lot with an abundance of trees, providing plenty of shade and privacy. The shady trees did a number on the lawn, though, since most kinds of grass needed plenty of sunshine to thrive. That didn’t bother Stan any; it meant he had less grass to mow.
He walked around the picket fence and came into the driveway, intending to go in the side door, through the kitchen. This was the angle of the house he enjoyed the most. The late afternoon sun came through the trees in such a way that it really brightened up the burnt-red clapboard siding and the stand-alone garage at the end of the driveway. It dawned on him . . . with the redness of the house and all the green trees and shrubs surrounding it, he really didn’t need to decorate the outside much for Christmas. The house was already decorated in Christmas colors year-round.
In previous years, he couldn’t get that argument to fly with Judith, or with his kids.
They’d decorate the inside of the house so much, they’d want the outside to match. It wasn’t so bad when his son Brandon still lived at home. He could do most of the ladder work and heavy lifting. Even with his help, it still took the better part of an afternoon.
As Stan made his way down the driveway, he realized . . . this year he might catch a break after all. None of the kids were coming home. He did it for them mostly. He never put up enough lights to compete with the fanatics.
He opened the door and stepped into the kitchen. When he smelled the turkey leftovers heating up, it brought back a fond memory. But then he noticed that the other half of that memory was missing.
There was no Christmas music playing. No Christmas decorations lining the shelves and countertops. He walked through the kitchen, saw the two containers on the dining room table, right where he’d left them. Looked into the living room. No Christmas decorations in there either. No ornaments on the tree. The three boxes still sat there on the coffee table.
And no Judith.
“Judith?” he yelled. No answer. He walked into the living room. “Judith?”
8
I’m out here, Stan.”
Stan walked through the French doors he’d installed when they’d added on the Florida room nine years ago. Typically people built these rooms onto the back of the house, but Stan had to build his on the side, due to the way the house was laid out. On the upside, lots of windows faced a well-shaded and private side yard. Judith sat in an upholstered chair staring out one of those windows. “You gave me a little scare there.”
Without shifting her gaze, she said, “Did you think I ran off?”
“No. Well . . . I didn’t know what to think.” He took a few steps toward her. “Just getting back from Orlando.”
She didn’t reply. Just kept looking out the window.
“Smells good, what you’re heating up in the kitchen.”
“It should be ready to eat. Help yourself. You know where the plates and silverware are.”
“Aren’t you going to join me?”
“I had two slices of pumpkin pie this afternoon. Guess I spoiled my dinner. But you go ahead.”
“You mean . . . eat alone?”
“Well, I guess I do. You’ve been out all afternoon. I’m sure you worked up an appetite. I’m just not hungry.” She still hadn’t looked at him.
He stood there a few more moments, not sure what to say. “Did Betty call you?”
“She did. Even came over for a while.”
He wanted to say, “Did it help any?” But it was clear Betty’s visit hadn’t helped. He stood there a few moments more. “Can I get you anything?”
“No, thank you.”
So formal. If anything, she seemed worse than when he’d left her this afternoon. With nothing left to do, Stan turned and headed back to the kitchen. He was hungry, after all, and the food was ready. He fixed a plate that pretty much resembled what he’d eaten yesterday and sat alone at the dining room table. Thanksgiving dinner tasted even better the next day.
As much as he enjoyed
the food, he didn’t enjoy eating alone. Was she mad at him? Had he done something wrong? He’d only done what he did every other day-after-Thanksgiving for as many years as he could remember. This was his tradition.
But Judith hadn’t followed through with hers. Not one bit of it.
Stan finished his meal, still puzzling over the situation, still sitting at the dining room table. He tried to remember what the house should look like about now. Though he rarely participated in the actual decorating, he’d always been impressed with how wonderful their home looked when Judith and the kids were done. They’d really go all out. Every flat surface in every room would reflect some kind of Christmas cheer. He didn’t know how many Christmas decorations she would set out. At least dozens.
They had been married for forty years, and they’d lived all that time in Mount Dora, a town known for extravagant holiday traditions. Every year, Judith would go shopping downtown a few days after Christmas, when the stores would slash prices, and add a few new items to her collection. When Judith and the kids would finish decorating their home, it would be on par with the kind of Christmas spirit you’d see on display throughout the town.
Well, that was how the house usually looked. Today it looked just like it did every other day.
Stan stood and walked his plate, silverware, and glass to the counter by the sink. That was usually as far as he went with it. Today, he rinsed things off and actually set them in the dishwasher. He looked at the rest of the food still sitting out. They weren’t expecting any company. “Hey, Judith,” he yelled, “sure you don’t want to fix yourself a plate?” He hoped she’d say yes. He really didn’t want to have to put everything away.
She didn’t answer.
He walked back toward the doorway leading into the Florida room. “Are you hungry yet?”
She was back to staring out the window, but she looked up and released a sigh. “Still not hungry. But don’t worry about it. I’ll get up in a little while and put everything away.”
