After what seemed like forever, we reached the outskirts of Houston, and my mom bent over double and began to cry. This flat marshland was another world, so different from green Connecticut. The smell of the stockyards gagged us. The belch of the oil refineries made our eyes water. Soon, the inside of the car was a hiccupping, sobbing mess.
Houston then, as now, was a booming town, with oil on its mind. We rented two rooms in the back of a private home. Mom, David, and I slept in the double bed, while Dad slept beside us on a cot. One night, while eating a hurried supper in the closet of our kitchen, we kept cool by sitting in front of the open fridge until the landlord discovered us and threatened to kick us out. In the evening, we wrapped wet washrags around our feet and plastered them on our foreheads just to get a fugitive escape from the unforgiving heat. At that time, there wasn’t any refrigerated air, and only rich folks had attic fans. As the months went on, hard times came upon us. Mom got work, which left David and me totally alone. For the first time in our lives, we had no close family, no aunties, no uncles— nobody except each other. At school, the kids made fun of our Yankee accents. We missed the woods, the green fields, the freedom to run, and the peace that comes from belonging to a family.
The weeks rolled into months. Christmas arrived. There was no money for gifts, but David and I found a pretty, almost empty bottle of cologne in a neighbor’s trash can and revived it by adding water, bay rum, and a few drops of vanilla flavoring. We thought our concoction smelled divine. I cut an overlarge square out of an old underslip, hemmed it on four sides, and embroidered it with a shaky “G” for George. It was a handkerchief for Dad. David scrubbed it clean and wrapped it. On Christmas Eve, ours were the only two presents under the little tree.
“You probably know already that we have no money for presents,” Dad said with a choking voice. “But I am giving this very valuable two-dollar bill to you, Isabel. And David, I’m giving you your grandfather’s pocket watch. Wind it carefully, and on the hour it will play a merry tune.”
Visions of silver-white winter Christmases played in our heads—the huge spruces, all blue and silver, bedecked with candy, standing tall over hoards of presents, and our faraway family we missed unbearably. With an aching heart, I looked at my brother, and we both knew without speaking that it was time to treat our parents as if they had given us the most wonderful things in the world.
“This is a wonderful two-dollar bill,” I said with as much certainty as I could muster. “What a wonderful Christmas!”
David just smiled broadly while he pressed his ear to the chiming watch. We all sat down by the tree, and our parents snuggled us close to them. When Dad opened his gift, it was the only time I ever saw him cry. Mom dabbed her new perfume behind her ears and declared that it smelled like heaven.
She kept that perfume bottle on her dresser for the next forty-eight years, and when I asked her about it years later, she looked at me with a wry twinkle in her eye and stated that it had always kept her in touch with true honesty. We buried Dad with his handkerchief. It was his only request.
Our lives improved. David and I matured, married, and had kids of our own. Many Christmases have come and gone since that one so many years ago, but none has ever matched it in the true spirit of the star in the East—a beacon home to love.
Isabel Bearman Bucher
A Cell-Phone Christmas
A cell phone is not the gift of choice for a woman who hates to talk on the phone. However, one Christmas, my husband, Dan, decided he could not make it through another year without a cell phone, so he thoughtfully bought one for me, too.
I tried to appear enthusiastic, but I’m not one of those people who enjoys phone conversations. As a training specialist at a government agency for twenty-seven years, I often responded to fifty phone calls per day. The last thing I wanted to experience again was the numbing sensation of an earpiece plastered to my ear.
Although my silver cell phone was as sleek and shiny as a new Corvette, it didn’t turn me on. I didn’t turn it on either, so I received very few calls at first, except from Dan. After a month or so, I began to toy with the phone and cautiously began to build a list of contacts and phone numbers. I followed the instruction guide as best I could, but with limited success.
The directions said to type in the phone number, save it, then push the letters to spell out the name. This sounded simple, but since the letters were in groups of three on the numbered key pad, the correct letter did not always appear on the screen. For instance, when I typed in the name of my son, Chuck, the screen read Achuck. I couldn’t figure out how to delete the A, so I left it. Unfortunately, most of the names that ended up in my contact list had similar misspellings.
In the meantime, Dan gave his cell phone more attention than a new puppy. He played with it constantly, investigating every option on the menu. Then he called me to inform me of his latest discovery.
“Brring.”
“Yes?”
“It’s me. What are you doing?”
“I’m downstairs working on my column. What are you doing?”
“Oh, I’m upstairs playing with my new phone.”
One day, Dan asked me for the phone number of my brother, Lester, in San Antonio. I told him to check the list of contacts on my cell phone. I knew I had put in Lester’s name, although I didn’t know what kind of weird spelling it might have.
Dan opened my cell phone, punched the menu button, and scrolled through the list of contacts.
“What kind of gibberish is this?” he said. “These names don’t make any sense. Who is Any?”
“That’s my friend, Amy.”
“What about ‘cellc’?”
“That’s Candie’s cell phone.”
“Don’t tell me you know someone named Faky.”
“No, that was supposed to say Daly, but I couldn’t make the D and L appear.”
“I don’t know how you recognize any of these names.
Who is Frocel?”
“You know. Frolio’s cell phone.”
“Okay, let me guess. Inha must be Inga, and Kathyc is Kathy’s cell phone.”
“You’re catching on now.”
“And Maaahele is Michelle?”
“Right.”
“I still can’t find your brother, Lester. Wait a minute. Is he listed as Ester?”
“Yep. I couldn’t get the L to pop up.”
“This is like reading hieroglyphics. Tell me who mdjjjjj is.”
“Oh, that’s Melissa. At least, I got the M on her name.”
“I give up on the next one. It’s someone called Rally.”
“That’s easy. Rally is Sally.”
Dan shook his head as he handed the cell phone back to me, laughing.
“As long as you can decipher who those names are, I guess it doesn’t matter.”
Since that day, I’ve added numerous other contacts to my phone, some spelled correctly and some spelled creatively.
The cell phone turned out to be a valuable Christmas gift that I’ve grown to depend on, even if I occasionally tire of its ringing.
Oops, it’s ringing right now. Who can it be? Uh huh, I should have known—just another call from my husband Fan.
Judy Lockhart DiGregorio
Reprinted by permission of Off the Mark and Mark Parisi. © 2007 Mark Parisi.
7
INSIGHTS
AND LESSONS
Make it a practice to judge persons
and things in the most favorable
light at all times and under all
circumstances.
Saint Vincent de Paul
The Best Noël
At my company’s holiday luncheon last year, our guest speaker, a pediatric neurosurgeon, presented a customer’s perspective on the medical products our facility manufactures—implants for a neurological condition called hydrocephalus that affects mostly the very young and the elderly. All the employees, from line manufacturing personnel to top management, were able to see t
he impact on the world of the products they build by hand.
The 230 employees attending the luncheon had finished eating when Dr.Mike gave his presentation about the condition, its origin, prognosis, and treatment. He explained that the scientific community has a long way to go to understand and conquer this chronic, lifelong condition. It was very powerful in a way that made you wish you had paid more attention during Geometry and Trig, and that if you had youmight have contributed an important piece to solve this enigmatic puzzle.
Throughout this festive holiday luncheon, the emcee would pull and call raffle-ticket numbers, and the winners would leap up to get their pick of some wrapped gifts on the front table. At these luncheons, winning is a big deal because the organizers don’t skimp. A $100 gift card to Best Buy is not uncommon, and there are no rubber chickens.
Dr. Mike finished his talk by introducing a patient of his, a beautiful nine-year-old girl named Noël with long brown hair, deep brown eyes, and a smile that melted your heart. She had a way about her unlike a child of nine—or nineteen, for that matter—a wisdom of sorts that perhaps came from surviving a multitude of cranial surgeries, nights hooked up in hospitals, and mustering up positive energy for her parents when theirs finally ran out.
Noël’s mother stood up with her and imparted some very poignant words to the audience about their experience and their gratitude for the work put into designing and building this medical device that was working so well in her child. It had been implanted at a time when hope seemed scarce for her and her family. Her teary words of encouragement received a standing ovation.
Toward the end of the holiday program, Noël’s raffle-ticket number got called. She lit up like any child would, staring at a table full of gifts wrapped with colorful paper and bows, and walked up to the front of the room by herself to select hers. Noël’s selection was unknown to everyone, even her. She turned, facing the cheering people, and paused for a moment, looking at her wrapped prize, then lovingly at Dr. Mike. I remember thinking to myself, She’s unbelievably poised for a child her age. Noël then raised her gift, took seven steps toward the surgeon who had skillfully changed her life when others before could not, and said, “I want you to have this gift, Dr. Mike.” The cheering ceased, marked by the vacuous sound of air being rapidly inhaled by the audience, and then total silence at the realization of what was occurring. Dr. Mike didn’t understand and turned to me with a puzzled look, so I said, “I think she wants to give you her gift!”
What child anywhere would do that? Noël. This child. This angel. This tiny source of brilliant light knocked us all off our chairs with a gesture so uncommon and out of character for a child her age. She had the presence of mind to realize that she was holding something to offer the man who had given her back her life.
I’ve never witnessed a teammate hit a walk-off home run or catch a touchdown pass in overtime, but now I know what it feels like. Experiencing this moment was my best gift that year—maybe any year. Thank you, Noël.
Mark Geiger
Christmas Cookies
Stevie was barely five years old when he first came to visit, joining my youngest son and me for an afternoon of decorating Christmas cookies, which was a tradition in our home. We had done it ever since the oldest of our five children was small. Anticipating our afternoon, I arranged a Christmas tablecloth with bowls of icing, red and green sprinkles, and red and green colored sugars. I had baked cookies throughout the morning. Christmas carols were playing on the stereo. I wanted the boys to have a good time.
Stevie’s eyes grew wide with excitement as he spied the table and its wares. I set trays of cookies in front of both boys.My son started spreading icing on the cooled cookies immediately. Stevie simply watched.
“Don’t you like decorating Christmas cookies?” I asked him.
“I’ve never done it,” he said. “I don’t know how.”
This was such a surprise to me, but then I knew that Stevie’s mom was single and worked long hours. He was one of three small children, and there wasn’t much money for extras in their home. His mom probably had just enough energy and money at the end of the day to put supper on the table and crawl into bed. Christmas cookies would be considered an extravagance.
I began slowly showing Stevie how to spread the white icing smoothly and evenly over each cookie. He laughed as we dusted sugar and sprinkles on the wet frosting. Soon Stevie had the hang of it and was busily decorating cookie after colorful cookie. Both boys had fun eating the confections, too.
“This is fun!” Stevie exclaimed repeatedly.
Somehow, I think I was the one having the most fun, watching my son teach his friend how to enjoy a new facet to the Christmas season.
“Can I come over and do this again?” Stevie asked.
“We’ll plan another play date soon,” I said.
There was as much icing and candy on Stevie as there was on the cookies and in the bowls! Perched atop a kitchen stool, his tongue deliberately wedged between his lips in strong concentration, Stevie decorated dozens of cookies. He didn’t even notice when my son became bored and wandered off to watch a video.
“These are good,” Steve said, biting a cookie he’d just decorated. “They’re sweet.”
When Stevie’s mom came to pick him up, he was astonished that I was wrapping his decorated cookies and sending them home with him.
“To keep?” he asked.
“To eat!” I said.
Stevie left with his package of sweet Christmas cookies, and a face and shirt covered with evidence of how he’d spent the afternoon. His young mother was grateful for Stevie’s fun afternoon and unique Christmas experience. I was left with a feeling of sheer joy at witnessing this little boy’s first delight at decorating Christmas cookies, and knowing that we had, in a very small way, brightened Stevie’s Christmas.
My children have always taken the cookie-decorating tradition for granted. They expect it every year, and as my son did this particular year, they typically grow bored after decorating just a few, and go off and find something else to do.
I was reminded this particular year just how richly our children are blessed, and how graced we are with the sweetness of cookies—and little boys. Traditions like baking Christmas cookies make for cherished memories.
I will hold our visit with Stevie among them.
Kimberly Ripley
The Truth About Christmas Decorations
Oh, sure, we all know that you can size up people pretty quickly by the way they dress, the kind of car they drive, and the company they keep. But, frankly, I think you never really know people until you see what kind of outdoor holiday decorations they display. Come December, people who don’t so much as display a lawn ornament suddenly cover their entire yard with nativity scenes, pinwheel angels, and jumbo plastic candy. It’s amazing, really.
Our neighbors, for example, are a nice, quiet, conservative couple who won’t even leave their car parked on the driveway overnight. As of yesterday, they are the proud owners of five movable reindeer, a light-up tree, a sleigh, and a ten-foot inflatable snowman. Not that anything is wrong with this, mind you. I’m all for showing holiday spirit. But for as long as I’ve known them, there was nothing—nothing—about them that suggested something like this was coming.
But, really, I can see how this could happen. Christmas decorations, much like commercial jingles and, well, chicken pox, are contagious.
Consider our neighbors down the street. One year, they bought a lovely outdoor Christmas tree with lights for their front yard. A few days later, eight wooden reindeer pulling Santa’s sleigh appeared in front of the house next door. Then, shortly after that, a six-foot, fiber optic Frosty the Snowman showed up a few houses down, followed by a group of electronically animated elves singing “Jingle Bells” in the yard of the house across the street.
Bells” in the yard of the house across Coincidence? I don’t think so.
However, one of the perks of holiday decorations is that you have a
n excuse to drive around and comment on other people’s yards. But let me just warn you that sometimes this may only confuse and depress you. It’s not because of the cold, but because, by a cruel twist of fate, some of the yards—the very same yards you’ve snubbed all year long—now look like something out of a Norman Rockwell painting, while yours has only a shoddy display of a tree made from a stack of aluminum cans!
Another thing about Christmas decorations, besides their obvious festive appeal, is that they tell us a great deal about the people who own them. I mean, you can tell who, exactly, is handy with a scroll saw, and who spends their weekends roaming around craft fairs. Or which family is deeply religious, and which is more of the gingerbread man type. In fact, there are a lot of houses in the neighborhood that we refer to by their Christmas decorations all year round. I mean, even in midsummer, the house around the corner is known as “the house with the blue icicle lights.” In the house across from the park resides “the family who has a thing for ice-skating penguins.”
And what about our house? Well, we put up our traditional Christmas display: lights-still-up-from-last-year. I’m not quite sure what this says about us, and, frankly, I don’t want to know.
However, this year my husband has added three hand-craftedwooden reindeer.Of course, he claims it has nothing to do with our neighbor’s elaborate display because “competing with friends over yard decorations is just plain silly.”
Chicken Soup for the Soul Christmas Page 15
