Now I Understand
The pile looked
pathetically small upon my bed. It was
Christmas Eve and the pile of presents that I had collected together to give to
my friends seemed lost on the old blanket.
I sat for a moment and reflected upon these few treasures that I had
decided to pass on. I was living at home
and going to college at the time. I had
a job directing a youth theatre group for the city’s Parks and Recreation
Department, but my salary barely paid for my bare bones truck and the gas to
get to school. Somehow money for
Christmas presents wasn’t easy to come by this year. I had spent what I had on my family and even
then I knew that reactions were going to be mixed. My grandparents would take whatever I gave
them and treat it like it was gold, which is what they were to me, but I knew
my younger brother wasn’t going to be impressed. Instead of spending $5 each on my mother,
stepfather, brother and half-sister, I had decided to get them a group gift. It was a beautifully sculptured, multicolored
candle. The wax had been molded in
different colored layers and then it had been skillfully sliced and twisted and
twirled. I liked it, but I had a feeling
that my brother’s reaction was going to be something along the lines of, “Nice
going cheapskate. Can I burn my part
now?” He and I aren’t cut out of the
same bolt of cloth. To be truthful,
there have been times when I wondered if we had indeed come from the same cloth
factory, but I digress. The core family
presents had been acquired and wrapped and now I was dealing with friends. It was Christmas and I felt that it was
important, perhaps only to me, to give all of the people in the caroling group
something to show that they were special to me.
The caroling group had been created
when I mentioned to my friend Mike, who was a year older than I, that I thought
it would be neat to get our friends from the choir and the drama club at school
together and create a group to sing. We decided to dress up in period Dickens
costumes and carol at nursing homes during the holiday season. It sounds like a
simple idea but it took a lot of time, researching costumes, finding where to
buy top hats and tail coats, getting patterns for the girls’ outfits, getting
the music, setting up the performances and rehearsing. We all had the hang of it by this Christmas, though. We had been caroling for three years. We were quite proud of how far we had
come. In addition to singing in nursing
homes, we sang downtown for Noel Night and appeared on TV a few times. So there I was, an integral part of a fairly
successful group of a dozen singers and I was scrambling to find gifts for
them. After much deliberation I made a
decision. I would give to my friends my
most precious belongings. I would find
presents for them from what I had, but it had to be something that had special
meaning to me. If I didn’t want to keep
it, it wasn’t considered worthy of being a present. Now I was looking down at my little pile,
realizing that I didn’t have a lot of cool stuff to pick from. Time was wasting and there was much to do, so
I started to wrap. The last thing that I
wrapped, the thing that I wanted to keep the most, was a little HO scale 4-4-0
steam train. Now I know it doesn’t sound
like much of a sacrifice but I had waited a long time to get that train. For me it was filled with nostalgia and
action-filled stories of the Old West and the Civil War. It was going to be the beginning of a huge
track layout that I was going to build some day. It was going to have mountains and streams
and bridges and buildings and…you get the idea.
My friend Mike had a huge train set-up in his parents’ basement. It had multiple tracks and mountains and
buildings. His dad and his brothers had
spent years building it. All I had was
my one locomotive and enough track to get it to run in a three foot
circle. I decided that my 4-4-0 (four
leading wheels, four driving wheels, no trailing wheels) would live a long and
happy life with Mike’s other trains and found a box that it would fit into.
Five o’clock was approaching fast
and I gathered up my presents, my Christmas cards and my costume, got my coat
on and headed over to my grandparent’s house for our traditional Christmas Eve
meal.
My grandparents lived in a house
that they bought in 1942. It was the
house that I lived in as a child. The
upstairs was a separate flat from the main floor, with its own front door
entrance and its own stairway to the basement.
The most unique aspect of their house was that it was a converted
one-room schoolhouse that was built in 1870 and it had been moved twice! It was dark and windy that night. There was snow on the ground but it wasn’t
very deep. It was the kind of night
where everything seemed quiet and crisp.
The flakes were fine and hard and skittered across the low snow mounds,
driven by the wind. The stars seemed
particularly bright. I parked my truck
at the side of the house, carefully navigating the driveway and avoiding the driveway guardians – four massive maple trees. I grabbed my bundles and crunched up the
stairs. The rest of my family was
already there and I could hear their muffled voices through the thick
walls. The windows glowed with the amber
light of the electric candles placed there.
I entered the rear sun porch and stomped the snow off of my shoes. It smelled like Christmas Eve. There was the sound of sizzling steaks (my
grandfather was the master chef) and the aroma of baked macaroni and cheese.
(Na Na’s specialty) The family was
milling around in the front living room, admiring the tree and taking note of
the names on the presents beneath the tree.
Most of them were for my grandparents but there were always a couple
more to open for the kids – like me!
Even at the age of twenty-one, I was still one of the kids. I added my tiny package to the pile. The snacks were being attacked with
enthusiasm. My grandmother always put
out special treats for the holidays - chocolates and hard candies.
It seems like so long ago as I write about them
now. My grandfather was in his seventies
and had a small moustache and curly red hair that started quite high on his
forehead. This didn’t bother him because
most of the men he knew had white hair and foreheads that extended all the way
to the back of their heads. He always
wore glasses and liked to smoke cigars, not large ones but smaller, more
discreet ones. Thankfully, he didn’t do
it all the time but, to be honest, as much as I hate the smell of cigars, I’d
welcome the smell of his now if he came with it. Early in his life he had been a successful
purchaser for the Ford Products Company.
Unfortunately, that company was absorbed into Ford and he was let go at
the age of 50. He eventually found a job
as the head custodian at our local junior high school. My grandmother was an energetic and
strong-willed woman who was, for the most part, generous and supportive. I say for the most part because one of the
traits that she picked up from being a nurse was to be honest, and brutal is
sometimes a word that can be linked with honest. If she believed you were right, then heaven
help the person who crossed her and told her that you were wrong. She had broken her back while lifting a
patient several years before and had made a complete recovery. It takes a special person with a special
spouse to recover from such a life-altering event. She did it and if you had ever met her you
wouldn’t have been surprised. The
nursing home where she broke her back had tried to deny that she had done it at
work. Well, they had made a
mistake. They tried to cheat the wrong
person. She was celebrating Christmas
and the nursing home that couldn’t be trusted was long out of business, with a
little legal help on my grandparent’s part.
They lived a simple, pleasant life and their main pleasures seemed to be
each other, their flowerbeds and their holiday gatherings.
The moment of truth had come. We were invited to the dinner table, which,
now that I think of it, wasn’t really the dinner table. We all gathered around the kitchen table, a
red plastic and chrome masterpiece from the 1940’s. Its most distinguishing feature was a metal
tray located under the table where the legs came together. This was a fabulous place to hide unwanted
food items until they could be disposed of later. We didn’t use the formal dining table in the
dining room. We preferred to cuddle knee
to knee around the breakfast table in the kitchen. You would think that it would be crowded with
my grandparents, my mother, my stepfather, my brother, my half-sister and
myself, but it really wasn’t. You see my
stepfather didn’t come to these gatherings, so that made more room. He liked to mix his holidays with a stiff
shot of anger and alcohol, which always kept things interesting. By trade he was a carpenter, so you would
think that he enjoyed putting things together.
As I recall, he seemed to be better at busting stuff up during this
time. I remember with regret the year
when he didn’t speak to my mother or the rest of us (year being a length of
time and not a general reference). And
then there was that Christmas when he opened his presents, at my half-sister’s
insistence, that following spring. But
again I digress and these are other, less pleasant stories.
The meal was fabulous. It wasn’t the type of meal that everyone had
for Christmas but that was OK with us.
We feasted on thick T-bone steaks, which had been purchased at the only
place in the neighborhood that was anywhere near as old as my grandparent’s
house; a very old family market complete with a butcher and his block in the
back. I still remember the fellow. He was very helpful and cheerful but old, and
looked it, with veins showing in his thin hands and a couple of missing
teeth. The grocery store still stands,
but it’s been converted into a rubber boat store for years now. Over twenty years ago we were eating those
steaks. I didn’t realize how special
those days were when I was living them.
After dinner it was our tradition to retire to
the living room and await the opening of the presents. My grandfather would always sit on the floor
near the tree and pass out the gifts. He
used his pocketknife to cut the ribbons, tapes and strings, all the while
smiling from ear to ear. My grandmother
would be supervising the event from her rocking chair located near the furnace
grid. Most people probably don’t know
what a furnace grid is. The house was
heated by what they called a gravity furnace.
The furnace didn’t have any ductwork to speak of and was located in the
basement between the living room and the dining room. Above the furnace was a thirty-inch square
metal grating. This meant that when the
furnace kicked in, a blast of hot air shot up into the main floor of the
house. The downside was that the back of
the house became really cold in the winter – ice in the corners of the room
cold. One amusing aspect of this type of
heating was watching the ladies in their dresses poof up like Hershey kisses
when the furnace was on. Usually, at
this point in the event my mind was charting my flight path for the
evening. You see, with the creation of
the caroling group I had instituted a personal Christmas Eve tradition, I began
delivering my Christmas cards to my friends dressed as Santa Claus. The costume matched my bright red truck
perfectly and I enjoyed the moment of realization when the kids in the cars
around me figured out that it was Santa on the road with them on Christmas
Eve. There were many smiling
moments. My grandmother had sewn the
costume without the benefit of a pattern.
Working with me she had a customer who was almost as big a perfectionist
as herself. The suit had the usual
trousers and overcoat but also included a vest for that North Pole sporty,
indoor look. At the time I needed padding. Since then God has seen fit to make me need
much less. Anyway, the gifts were being
sorted out and my grandmother was making sure that each individual piece of
wrapping paper was being carefully removed for future use. The preferred method of removal was cutting
the tape. After the holidays she would
actually iron the paper for use the following year. It’s funny how I recall seeing the same paper
patterns year after year on
progressively smaller packages. I
can’t specifically remember what I got my grandparents that year. The most marvelous thing about them is that
it didn’t matter. I could’ve made them
an ink stamp out of an old potato and they would’ve loved it, and I loved them
for that.
After the gifts were opened and we
listened to a couple of Christmas carols played on my mother’s old upright
piano, it was time for me to excuse myself and adjourn to the bathroom to begin
the Santa transformation. About a
half-hour later I would emerge, to the immense joy of my grandmother. Then there would be a picture or two taken
and I’d hug them and be off on my yearly mission.
This year I started on my rounds
with more trepidation than ever before.
I was concerned about how my gifts would be received. I hoped for the best, arranged my cards in
order of delivery, and backed out of the driveway.
Traffic on Christmas Eve was never
very heavy. Families were all bundled up
in their best clothes and off to some friend or relative’s house. The kids were often dozing in the back seat
and didn’t usually notice me unless we
were both stopped at a stoplight. Then
things would get interesting and energetic.
Their faces would light up and they would start waving wildly. I always enjoyed that part. And so, lost in thought, I puttered up and
down the side streets to my various destinations. More than half of my cards and presents were
delivered to empty houses. At the houses
where people were home the reactions were usually the same. I would pull up and park at the curb, jump
out and run up to the door. After
ringing the doorbell I would usually hear something like “I wonder who that
could be?” and a face would appear at the window of the door. This was usually followed by an, “Oh my God,
it’s Santa. Come on in Santa!” I would then be ushered into a family
gathering of varying size and all the folks would be very glad to see Santa,
and the little kids wouldn’t know what to make of the situation. The parents would usually announce to the wee
ones that they had asked Santa to stop by, even though they were often as
surprised as the kids. There would be a
lot of “Ho, ho, hoing,” and a lot of hand shaking. After a few loud and raucous moments I would
get my friend alone and give them their Christmas card and present. They would thank me for the card and for
coming by and then would tear open the present.
The girls were much better at masking their reactions than the boys
were. The small collection of trinkets
and figurines that I had received as presents over the years were somehow not
seen in the same light by their new owners.
Now, having been in the drama club and having lived in two alcoholic
households, I had long ago learned to sense a person’s mood by their body
language. This is a survival technique
in certain families. I recall a certain
skillet, still plugged into the wall and full of hot goulash, that unexpectedly
became a projectile one winter’s evening.
That ability to sense moods had alerted me to be on the other side of
the kitchen at that instant. The floor
and the ceiling weren’t paying attention and they still bear the scars of their
mistake. My dear friends seemed to take
immediate notice of the lack of fresh packaging. I sensed that without the original boxes, my
presents were viewed as little more than my cleaning out of my closet. I quickly said my good-byes at each home and
hurried on to the next, all the while hoping that I had been mistaken and that
I was just being overly sensitive.
Somehow the night seemed colder and the squeals of the children in the
nearby cars seemed much farther away. I
continued on my way and, much to my dismay, the pattern seemed to repeat
itself. Everyone seemed happy to see my
whiskered face, except that by the end of the evening I was beginning to wonder
if they had any real feelings for the face underneath.
As had become the habit of the night
over the past couple of years, I reserved going to Mike’s house for last. Several of the carolers were family or very
close family friends and would be at his large family gathering. I pulled down his street and parked as close
as I could to his house. Before getting
out of the truck I gathered the few cards and presents that were left. For a fleeting moment I was struck by the
fact that there was nothing left upon the seat.
I was giving the last of Christmas away.
The event started much like all the others, only much more so. There were more people, more children, and
much more excitement. My entrance, being
for the most part expected, drew a big crowd of little people. This was Santa’s annual visit. There were just a few minutes to spare before
Santa had to get back to work. I handed
Mike his card and present and he became my very jovial tour guide. It was time to say hello to everybody. The kids trailed behind and all wanted to get
a picture on Santa’s knee. After the
kids were done the adults wanted to get pictures. Everyone was having a special moment, but I
felt oddly detached. After a little
small talk, I ended up in the basement where some of the food was. I was familiar with this basement. We held our caroling practices there. Adjoining the central area at the foot of the
stairs was Mike’s brother’s bedroom. I
had always admired his bedroom furniture.
In my room under the stairs I had half of a bunk bed to call my own and
a bedroom only 6’ wide. Sam, Mike’s
younger brother, enjoyed the pleasures of a family heirloom, an elaborately
carved, black walnut, too-tall-for-the-basement-so-it-had-to-be-shortened,
Victorian bedroom set. I try not to give
in to jealousy but I have to admit that Mike’s family had a couple of things
that I wouldn’t have minded having.
Everyone there seemed to actually like being around each other. Their dad was very supportive of everything
that they did, and of course, there was the family HO railroad set up at the
other end of the basement. I couldn’t
really imagine what it was like building it.
I couldn’t really imagine working with one’s dad on anything. I had heard Sam and Mike talk about the track
layout over the years and it always intrigued me that they were all
contributing to it. I sneaked a peak at
the track. It was covered by a couple of
sheets for it was not allowed to get dusty.
I thought that my 4-4-0 would work great with the layout. I had high hopes. I had confidence that Mike would be able to
see that my train wasn’t just an old toy; it was something special. If he looked closely, surely he would notice
that the paint was pristine. All in all
it had only chugged about 30’ on my little circular track. Other than not being in the original box, it
was brand new. Eventually the party
quieted down and the kids got used to Santa munching on a cookie in the
corner. I found Mike and said that I
should get going. I reminded him about
the present. He found it on the table
near the front door and opened it. I
watched his face very carefully. He
smiled, thanked me for the card and the present, and led me to the door. It was a very pleasant exchange. If it weren’t for the fact that he had looked
puzzled for a moment and had dropped the box on the table with a little too
much indifference, I never would’ve suspected…oh, yes I would’ve. The best laid plans of mice and men often go
astray. As I looked back at my train
lying on the table, I had an intense urge to step back in and grab it. I felt that it would probably not be used
with infinite childish joy on the winding track in the basement, as I had
imagined. I felt very sad, but it is
hardly good manners to grab a person that you have just given a present to by
the shirt collar and explain to them that they have just received something of
personal importance and not a piece of junk!
Mike thanked me again and wished me a Merry Christmas. The closing door made the empty night seem
unnaturally quiet. Inside, people were
making merry, and Santa was feeling out of sorts. It was rather late but I decided to mull
things over for a while and went for an extended drive.
I drove down the side street and
onto the main road. The evening was mine
alone it seemed. The streets were almost
completely empty. There weren’t any
cherub faces squashed up against car windows to ease my feelings of
isolation. I imagined that most parents
had already tucked their children into bed and were waiting for the right
moment to bring out the gifts and pack them under the tree. The stockings were being stuffed with candies
and tiny toys. The children dreamt of
piles of packages and the myriad joys inside.
In their simple lives their greatest worry was that they’d get too many
articles of clothing and not enough “cool” stuff. Everything was as it should be, except in my
own heart. Eventually, I found myself
driving slowly down the road by the lake.
The mansions lining the side of the lake were twinkling
with more lights than I could possibly count.
The preferred color seemed to be white.
Occasionally, I would pass a house with an assortment of colors, but for
the most part the lights were white.
They were laced through the bushes and up into the tall trees. They were strung upon the eaves and up the
sides of the driveways. They outlined
the windows and illuminated the porches.
They warmed up everything in sight except my mood. With the best of intentions I had set myself
up for disappointment on the most important night of the year. I had planned and prepared to bring as much
Christmas joy as I could to those in my life and I felt oddly empty. The engine turning over and the crunching of
the brittle snow were all that could be heard.
I thought about how much I had given of myself, and what high hopes I
had had. I thought about how much the
gifts had meant to me, and how now they were all gone. I thought about how the seat next to me was
empty. I had received during my journey
not one card or present. I thought about
how everyone had loved Santa’s visit, but didn’t seem all that interested in
who was under the beard. I thought and I
thought and I thought and as I was turning around to go home it dawned on
me. God had given his best present
Christmas morning and He probably would’ve liked the world to say “Thank you”
too. On second thought, God wouldn’t
need to be thanked. He gave his son, a
piece of his own heart, out of love, and I should do the same, without regret
and without looking for a reward.
Now I understand.
No comments:
Post a Comment