by Dean Hughes
The time seemed empty to Al—such a long morning with nothing happening, especially since he had gotten up before six. He had never learned to sleep any longer, and the fact was, something basic in him said that such lying around in bed was simply not right. Beverly wandered downstairs, still in her robe, at about seven-thirty, but it was after eight before LaRue appeared. So finally Dad and Mom, LaRue and Beverly exchanged their gifts, and the girls opened the ones that were marked “Santa.” LaRue had gotten what she wanted—an Underwood typewriter—which she had said she would need for college next year. For the first time since she had been a little girl, she hadn’t asked for any clothes. Mom had gotten her a few things: stockings and hose and underwear, and one new blouse. LaRue seemed thankful for those, but it was the typewriter that got all her attention. She was learning touch-typing in school this year, and as far as Al could tell, she was already quite proficient. She rolled in a sheet of paper and tapped out some sentences, quickly and cleanly, without even looking at her fingers. He had typed for many years, but always with two fingers and always looking at the keys.
Al was baffled by LaRue these days. He could understand Beverly running upstairs to try on her new “outfits” and then bouncing back down to show everyone. In years past he had watched Bobbi do that, and then LaRue. He had always worried a little that the girls’ love of clothing was too materialistic, too extravagant, but now he wished he could see at least a little of that girlish behavior left in LaRue. When she got something into her head, she rarely let it go, and she was still insisting that she was going away to college next fall. All the schools she talked about were in the east, and to Al it was almost as though she were saying that she wanted to go off and join another church. He had heard far too many stories about Mormon kids who had gone away from home for their education. Al was not even sure it was such a good idea to send kids all the way down to Provo, to the BYU, not when the University was practically around the corner, and a son or daughter could live at home where parents could still monitor the things they were taught by some of these young and rather too ardent professors.
Al was still fairly convinced that LaRue would back out when it actually came down to leaving her home at age eighteen, but he told himself not to bring it up, not to say anything that would ruin the day. He knew he had done that too many times in the past. But it was not easy for him to listen to her prattle on, describing her life at college and the great value of a student’s having her very own typewriter. The talk only made the gray, cold morning seem longer, and as it turned out, even nine o’clock had been too ambitious a goal. Richard and Bobbi arrived shortly after nine, and Alex and Anna, with Gene, just a few minutes later, but it was after nine-thirty before Wally and Lorraine showed up. Al was watching from the big window in the living room by then. A sprinkle of rain had begun to fall. He saw Wally park out front, by the curb, and then get out and hurry around the car. He had on his overcoat but no hat, no gloves. Al couldn’t believe that so many young men had begun to run around that way, even in the very heart of winter. Wally opened the car door for Lorraine, and then he reached in and took the bundle from her arms—the pink blanket. He held the baby in one arm and helped Lorraine from the car with
the other. Al could see the steam burst from Lorraine’s lips as she made the effort to step out of the car. The baby was three weeks old now, and Lorraine was doing very well, Al was told, but she looked flushed and still rather puffy in the cheeks.
A memory crossed Al’s mind. He thought of the year that little Alex had been born. He and Bea had been living in a tiny house on the west side of town, and Bea had decorated for Christmas as best she could. Al had bought a tree—a scrawny thing that cost him seventy-five cents—and Bea had bought a set of glass balls at a five-and-dime store—that, and a single package of icicles. Al’s mother had tried to get Bea to take some of her old decorations, but Bea hadn’t wanted to do that. “We need to start our own traditions,” she had said. Al hadn’t thought much about that at the time, but he had noticed those clear glass balls this morning, and he knew that for nearly thirty years now, Bea had been carefully packing them away and protecting them. He suddenly felt a little guilty that he had been impatient all morning. These married kids of his did need to start something of their own, however left out it made him feel.
“Wally and Lorraine are here,” he called out to anyone who could hear.
“You mean Kathy,” Beverly shouted, and she ran for the door.
But that was something Al didn’t understand either. The baby’s name was Kathleen Beatrice, which was very nice, but everyone was calling her Kathy already, and Al was not aware of a Kathy—or a Kathleen, for that matter—in all their family line. Wally and Lorraine both said it was just a name they liked, but Al really thought that names ought to come from somewhere, not just pop out of parents’ heads. Catherine would have been better; his mother’s sister was named Catherine. But he did like to call the baby “Little Bea,” since that name had some rhyme and reason to it.
All the same, he loved this little girl. When Beverly took her from Wally at the door and promptly ran off to the couch with her, everyone crowded around: Bea and Bobbi, LaRue, even Richard and Alex. Beverly carefully moved the blanket away from her face, and all the adults laughed. “Oh, what a big yawn,” Bea said. “Let me take her, Bev.”
“No. Not yet. She wants to say good morning to her Aunt Beverly.”
“She wants to sleep,” Wally said. “She loves to sleep all day and then stay awake half the night. It’s her way of telling us that she’s going to do things her own way—whether we like it or not.”
“Good for her,” Bea said. “Wally’s going to get just what he deserves.”
Little Gene had slipped between the legs of the adults, and suddenly there he was, reaching for Kathy’s face, only intending to pat her cheeks, apparently, but causing Beverly to jerk in response.
“No, no. Don’t touch the baby,” Anna said.
But Kathy’s eyes came open, and this caused new oohs and ahs.
“Baby,” Gene said, and he turned his head and bent forward to touch his cheek to hers.
Al didn’t want to overwhelm the poor little girl with so many people staring at her, breathing on her, but he did want a better look, and so he walked to the end of the couch and watched from a bit of distance. He would have his turn before long, he told himself. He knew he had never been all that wonderful with newborns. They scared him a little. But he told himself he was going to be a very good grandpa to this little girl, the way he was trying to be to Gene. He and Bea had finally agreed to break ground on their new house in the spring, and Al had already decided he would hold out a few acres from the area they were developing around it, and he would build a little barn. He had never told anyone, but
he thought it would be fun to keep a pony or two for the grandchildren to ride. He liked to think of having all his kids close around—and all their kids. Everyone could gather at his place on holidays and weekends. The children could sleigh ride off the hillside in winter, or maybe skate on the pond that he also liked to imagine. He would plant the pond with trout, and in the summer he would take the kids out there, maybe even on a little boat, and they could catch fish with him. He had gone fishing with his grandfather, but it wasn’t something he had done very often with his own kids. The family had fished on vacation now and then, especially on their trips to Yellowstone Park, but somehow life had gotten too busy, and he had never done as much with his kids as he had always intended.
Al was going to be better at this grandpa business than he had been at fatherhood. That was a promise he had made to himself. And some day little Bea would sit on a pony, and he would hold her up there on a little saddle, and he would lead her about the pasture. And then he would teach her to ride on her own. She and Gene, cousins—they would have a great time together, and Gene would look out for her, being older.
That was what he was thinking, and yet, almost in spite of himself, he found hi
mself saying, “We’d better start opening these presents or the day will be over. The rest of the family is coming over this afternoon, you know.”
“Oh, Dad, we’ve got time,” Bobbi said, and she came over and kissed him on the cheek. “We’ve even got time to hear you give us a speech.”
“Oh, no. No meeting this year,” Al said. “Let’s just enjoy ourselves.”
And he meant it. He had said enough to this family over the years—too much, actually. He didn’t want to be teased about that again this year. He was sure that some of the resentment ran a little deeper than the jokes they all made about him. Besides, he had spent so much money on Christmas presents this year, he knew he would be nothing but a hypocrite if he brought up his concerns—although he still had them—about Christmas being too commercialized. The fact was, people were going crazy now buying for Christmas, and some of the holiday advertising had started clear back at Thanksgiving time. The whole thing was an annoyance to him, the way the radio ads blared out little jingles and songs, all to sell six-shooters at Woolworth’s or dolls that wet their pants, down at the Emporium. Still, Al had gone out and bought gifts for everyone, and way too many things for the babies. So he was going to keep his mouth shut this year, and he had even told himself that he would laugh a little more, enter into the fun, the way Bea always did.
The opening of presents lasted over an hour, with everyone taking turns and showing off their gifts. Beverly balked when her gift was a box of panties, but her brothers invoked the family rule and made her show off her pretty things. Beverly turned red, but she held up the open box and said, “You naughty boys. You shouldn’t look.”
Wally was chanting, “I see London; I see France; I see someone’s underpants.”
There were lots of gifts. Al had bought Bea a double necklace of real pearls that he had paid more than two hundred dollars for. It was something she had always wanted, and he had enjoyed getting them for her—even though he had never really understood the idea of jewelry. Even as he had purchased them, he had asked himself what good they were. They were certainly pretty, but to hang something around your neck, just for the decoration, had never made sense to him. He thought too often of the scriptures: women in the last days adorning themselves with “fine apparel,” with rings and jewels. But he loved to see Bea so pleased and so certain that he shouldn’t have spent so much. He even liked his daughters’ praise. “Oh, Daddy,” Bobbi told him, “what a perfect gift. You’re so extravagant these days.”
He liked the word and hated it at the same time. He wanted to give. He just didn’t want to get the wrong idea started in his family: that the kids should spend more than they had, that they would perhaps not remember to save for nice things. He made a point of telling Bobbi that he had never once gone into debt for Christmas the way some silly people were doing these days.
In the middle of all the talk and laughter and general confusion, Gene was having a grand time. He had gotten some sort of toy from everyone in the family, and he seemed perplexed by all the little trucks and trains and toy horses, as though overwhelmed by the choices. What he liked more than the toys were the boxes and the wrapping paper. He would open a present as if the tearing of paper were the real joy, and as often as not, he would drop the toy and begin to play with the box. He was a year and a half old now, and very tall for his age. What Al could see was that he loved being among all
his uncles and aunts, his family. He had grown comfortable with everyone, and he liked all the attention. All the same, he seemed to sense at times that he was being forgotten in the midst of all the fun, and he would run to the tree and grab one of the decorations, or he would toss wrapping paper at someone—things he seemed to know would bring about a reprimand. Then he would laugh and look about, as though he were daring someone to follow up on the little warnings.
When Gene opened a box and found a wooden train—a gift from Al and Bea, but in reality purchased by Al—he didn’t understand how it hooked together. “Bring it here,” Al told him. “Let me show you.”
Gene didn’t respond. He ran the engine across the carpet, unconcerned with the other cars. So Al knelt on the floor next to him and said, “Look how it hooks up. Grandpa’s going to show you.”
He attached the little hooks, the five cars lining up behind the engine, a caboose on the back. And then Al pulled the engine along, tugging the cars after it. Gene laughed at that, but he wanted to do it himself, and when he turned the engine too sharply, the first car—a coal car—came loose. Gene was content to go ahead without the rest of the train, but Grandpa stopped him, linked the cars up again, and then said, “Choo, choo, choo—toot, toot. Here comes the train.”
Gene laughed and tried to make the sound. “Toot, toot.” And then he pulled the engine too fast and the cars fell over on their sides. Al set them right and told Gene to go more slowly, and the two started out again. “Choo, choo. Toot, toot, toot.”
Finally Al realized that the room had fallen silent. He looked up and saw that everyone was smiling, that they were all watching him, and he was embarrassed by what he knew they were thinking: Is this President Thomas? He rather liked that, and he looked about at everyone without saying anything but smiling back.
LaRue said, “Dad, I’ve never seen you do anything like that in my entire life,” and that stung a little.
But Alex said, “I have. We used to play on the floor together when I was little. I remember that.”
And Wally said, “Me too.”
It was such a little thing, but the memory—or the fact that they remembered—touched Al, reminded him of the young man he had once been. He wasn’t so different, really, hadn’t changed as much as everyone thought. But he had given the wrong impression at times, had maybe taken himself a little too seriously for some of the years of his life, and he was sorry about that.
Eventually Mom made her usual claim that everyone ought to have breakfast, late as it was, and she cooked up eggs and bacon. Some of the family ate in the kitchen, some at the dining-room table, and Bea liked what was happening. She loved to watch the way Bobbi and Anna and Lorraine ended up together, talking about babies and their new homes, but also about the world. They were all girls who read the newspaper, read books, had things they wanted to think about and share with their “sisters.” And Bea liked the way LaRue joined in, had perhaps stronger opinions on some issues, but seemed to like sharing her ideas with the married women. She liked even better what Al was doing. He argued that he had eaten plenty earlier, and he just wanted to hold “Kathleen Beatrice.” Bea found him, after she had served everyone, sitting in his big chair holding the sleeping baby, looking down on her and seeming quite content.
“All right, everyone,” Bea said as loudly as she dared without startling the baby, “Al said he’s not holding a meeting this year, so I’ve decided to conduct one myself.” This got a good laugh, and it brought the “girls” from the kitchen, but no one seemed to take the idea seriously, so Bea had to say, rather forcefully, “I mean it. I want to have a meeting. I’m in charge. So sit down and quit your gabbing for a few minutes.”
All the family managed to find places to sit. Richard and Wally gathered some chairs from the dining-room table
and placed them near the opening between the dining
room and living room. They let the wives take those seats, and the younger girls and some of the men sat on the floor. Gene was starting to get tired, and his mother took him onto her lap, but he soon squirmed away and went to his Aunt LaRue, who was sitting on the floor. She seemed more than pleased to hold him.
Bea was standing up in the living room, next to Al’s chair. Al was still holding the baby. “I’m sorry to say,” Bea announced, “that your father, in his weary old age, has become less than diligent about keeping one of our family traditions. If he won’t talk to us on Christmas day, then I guess I’ll have to do it myself.”
“Dad doesn’t think it’s Christmas,” Wally said. “He had his Christmas in November.”
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br /> Al grinned. “That’s right,” he said. And it had been a great year for Republicans. The ’46 elections had been a landslide, both nationally and in Utah, with the power in the state legislature actually reversing.
“Wally knows Dad’s talk,” Bobbi said. “He could give it.”
“No. I tried that once, a long time ago, and it didn’t go over very well.”
Bea remembered that Christmas, of course, but not with fondness, and she wasn’t even comfortable joking about the days when tensions had been so high. “It’s time for a new talk,” she said. “After buying me pearls this year, your dad can never talk about spending too much money again.”
Al laughed, and he nodded his head as if he agreed with her.
“Here’s what I want to say.” She looked around at everyone, motioned with her hand. “This, right here, is what we’ve all been dreaming about for seven years. And now that we have it, we need to pause just long enough to notice, so we won’t forget how blessed we are.”
Bea meant it. She was afraid that this day could pass, and everyone would be funny, even flippant, and never stop to think about the day and what it meant. But already she could see in her children’s faces that they did understand, that they were ready to pause and take notice.
“The last time our family was all together on Christmas was in 1939—seven years ago. And since then, most of our Christmas Days have been sad and full of worry. On three of those Christmases we didn’t know for sure whether Wally was alive, and in those same years we had to wonder whether Alex and Bobbi would be safe. We worried about Anna and her family, too, and then later about Richard. The worst was 1944, two years ago, when we had buried Gene and everyone else was in so much danger. I remember how the four of us here at home pleaded with the Lord that this day would come—that we’d all have a Christmas together again.” She could see that everyone was remembering.
