Christmas Through a Child's Eyes (13 page)

BY MARILYN JASKULKE

F
amily fun always meant picking out the Christmas tree together. Boots, mittens, and caps were part of the attire for our snowy adventure in the Midwest. Then off we went: four boys and Mom and Dad all piled into the family sedan in search of the perfect tree.

The sign at the big lot read, “Christmas Trees for Sale.” With only a few days left before Christmas, the selection had dwindled. Most of the trees appeared scrawny, not like the lovely full tree we expected to find. But one of the fir trees had a sad and lonely “please take me home” look, which I couldn't resist. I immediately felt bad for the tree and made up my mind it would be that tree or no tree.

“That's it,” I piped. “We have to take that one!”

Disgruntled looks appeared on the faces of our sons. They got no sympathy from their father, however, for Cliff understood my heart as much as I did.

“Tie it up on the top of the car,” Cliff said without batting an eyelash.

“This was supposed to be fun,” my eldest son, DuWayne, muttered as he pulled his stocking cap down over his nose.

The tree shivered and shook on the ride home but arrived minus only a few needles, which was good, because my husband wasn't through with it yet.

“Get the saw,” DuWayne said to no one in particular. “And get the metal tree stand, too. We need to get this tree into the water. It doesn't have much time left.”

Within minutes, the creative stage had begun. Father and sons began hacking at the lower branches to make it stand straight, something this tree had never done in its life, but their progress was impressive.

“Well … let's cut this branch off down here and maybe that will help,” Craig — another son — added, looking at me hopefully.

I felt assured this was the right tree for us. Our family had rescued it from being the loneliest tree on the lot.
Who among us wouldn't be proud of that?
The day had been a great adventure and surely this tree would be a symbol of our time spent together.

The tree was tilted once more and returned to the tree stand.

“That's it!” we all chimed at once. Somewhere in the background, I heard the strains of “Oh Christmas Tree,” and felt myself exhale happily. My mind raced, thinking of the gifts that would be placed under our perfect Christmas tree, all wrapped in fancy red and green Christmas gift paper.

Then, reality set in. The sad and lonely Christmas tree I had chosen looked sad and lonely no more. It looked completely devastated. And as I looked at my sons, I realized that all interest in decorating the tree had disappeared.

“Let's go outside and make a snow fort,” offered one son. In a wink, all four sons were out the door.

Christmas doldrums walked in and replaced the happiness I'd felt only a few minutes earlier. I lost my vision of perfectly wrapped gifts beneath what should have been a sparkling beauty.

Propped in a corner, the tree was left for me to decide its fate.

When Christmas Day arrived, a beautiful tree stood beaming with lights, tinsel, strings of popcorn, and cranberries. All the nostalgic decorations from previous years had been unboxed and hung on each limb, adding a delightful atmosphere to the cozy living room.

It was not the tree we had chosen on our snowy day escapade. The boys and their dad had spent another adventurous day Christmas tree shopping — this time without me. But on their own, they managed to bring home a beauty! It filled the corner of the room, standing tall and handsome.

Visions of sugar plums once again filled my head. The gifts would soon be wrapped and arranged beneath our beautiful new tree. I continued stirring up a batch of gingerbread cookies, now designated for hanging on the tree, rather than placed on a cookie plate.

“Can we eat some of them first?” one child begged.

“Sure, there's more in the oven,” I replied with a grin.

“Oh, that's what I smelled when I came in the door,” said Cliff. Trying hard to hide the smirk on his face, he asked innocently, “What happened to our other tree?”

I let the smirk go. After all, it was Christmas. I pointed my spoon toward the house next door where our widowed neighbor lived all alone.

“The other day I noticed she didn't have any decorations up. And since I made a wreath out of our first tree, I was wondering if she might like to have it.”

Four boys bundled themselves against the cold once more and headed for the neighbor's house. “Would you like to have this Christmas wreath?” the bravest asked.

With tears in her eyes, the elderly woman reached for it. Smiling at the boys, she replied softly, “No one comes to see me at Christmas time. My family is all gone. I don't even have a Christmas tree anymore.” She gazed at the wreath with tear-filled eyes. “This is the loveliest most precious wreath I've ever laid eyes on. Will you please help me hang it on my front door?”

“Sure, I will,” said our eldest, anxious to help. Shyly, our youngest reached into his pocket and extracted a gingerbread cookie he'd been saving. With no thought to himself, he handed the cookie to his neighbor. Then he smiled, the words “Merry Christmas” spilling from his mouth happily.

The lonely tree, now transformed into a Christmas wreath, had found a home, and in the process, our boys had befriended a lonely soul during what should be the happiest time of the year.

BY FAITH SHERRILL

I
t was a cold winter for Phoenix, Arizona, and the trees were covered in a thin layer of frost. My grandfather poured himself a fresh cup of coffee and sat down slowly. I watched as he laid his newspaper in front of him and took in an exhausted breath. When he exhaled, his breath extended out into the cold, the puff of air turning white as if a soft cloud had left his chest.

He called me over to sit beside him as we waited for the first customers of the morning. The trees were all lined in horizontal rows, their bowls filled with water, as they, too, waited. A car approached and I sat up a little straighter as Grandpa's sharp blue eyes darted toward the chain-link fence. No luck. They were only trying to turn around in the dirt lot. It was a slow year for selling Christmas trees.

I looked up to Grandpa's tough leathered face and he smiled gently. “They'll be back,” he whispered, and I couldn't help returning his smile. In a way, I knew he was right. He had run the Christmas tree lot on that corner for nearly ten years, and when one person left, another always arrived. Grandpa offered me a sip of his black coffee and I shook my head in embarrassment; coffee was not for little girls.

My mother had dropped me off for the day while she ran errands. I didn't mind, though, my grandfather was a little bit of magic — especially around this time of year. I knew if I helped him, he was sure to put in a good word for me with Santa.

I sat patiently, my hands folded in my lap, breathing in the smell of freshly cut trees. He looked down at me and smiled again as he opened his paper. His eyes caught a small article about the boom in the sale of artificial trees that year, and his eyes sagged. I looked up at his white beard and hair and laughed. To me, Grandpa always looked like he belonged to the winter. I reached up and tugged on his whiskers. As I knew he would, he gave a rich belly laugh in return.

“Grandpa … can I —” He nodded before I could finish and I rushed out of the chair. I ran through the trees, my imagination taking control. I was running through the forest as wild wolves nipped eagerly at my heels. I turned a sharp corner and barely escaped with my life. I laughed as my little legs moved as quickly as they could.

Then, my imagination turned me into an elf, and I had to inspect every tree to make sure it was worthy enough to go home with a family. I ruffled my fingers through the prickly needles with ease as I pulled one off and held it to my nose. It smelled fresh and wild, new and alive — like me. I dropped the small needle, letting it fall carelessly to the dirt and gravel. As I rounded a corner, I caught sight of another car pulling into the lot. I ran to my grandfather quickly, nearly tumbling headfirst into the few trees.

When I arrived at Grandpa's side, a small tailwind of dirt followed me, dying beneath my small feet. I quickly hopped onto the seat beside him, my chest heaving and my legs throbbing in the cold. I looked up to his face and then into the lot. This car also was just turning around. My head sank as I watched the car disappear down the road. Who didn't want a tree in the desert; they were so rare? Grandpa patted my small head as I turned my saddened gaze to his.

“They'll be back,” he whispered again, and for a moment, I caught the uncertainty in his voice. I looked at his hands as they trembled with age, his breath heaving wearily out of his chest. I wanted to scream at the cars that passed, to stop them from making a terrible mistake. Couldn't they see that this lot, that this grandpa, was magic? They lived in a desert and they were passing up the chance to find their worth in winter.

I watched Grandpa as the day moved on, slowly. More cars turned and left the small piece of Christmas behind them. Eventually, my mother pulled in and parked just inches before the small opening in the fence. She walked in and I ran to her. I hugged her legs tightly, as if they were breath, as if they were life. She laughed and patted me on the head as she made her way to her father.

“How are they biting this year, Dad?” she asked with a laugh, as she wrapped her arms around his small frame. He looked at me and winked as he stood and returned her embrace.

“Oh, we've been busy all day, and why not, people always need Christmas trees.”

With his words, I understood what his wink had meant. I shook my head and kicked the dirt, not sure of what to say as we made our way to Mom's car and climbed in. Grandpa and I waved slowly, sharing the last of the day with one another. Then Mom turned the car around and we drove off, leaving Grandpa in the dirt with his trees.

That special time with Grandpa was destined to be one of our last times together at the tree lot. I think back on his blue eyes, his white beard and hair, and I don't feel the chill of winter at all. Instead, warmth radiates in my chest.

I still visit the old lot, even though it's empty now. I still imagine the wolves are chasing me, and I need to inspect every tree to make sure they're worthy of the little children that will camp around them. Sometimes I even imagine pulling a needle from one of their long branches and holding it to my nose, but not to smell the tree; I do it to breathe in my grandfather, and all of the love he brought with him to give out to the people who stopped and stayed for a while.

I think about what he was really offering out there on that small lot. I think about how I miss him, as well as all of the friends and family I've lost over the years. I know now that his words were true, “They'll be back.” One day, I will see him again. Somewhere past winter and beyond spring, we'll all find each other, and when we do, we'll all come back to Christmas.

BY DEBRA J. RANKIN

I
t had been one of those dreary winter days when kids are home from school for Christmas break. Bored with entertaining my two-year-old brother, Stevie, I went looking for my older brother, Kenny, who had told me the other day that there was no Santa. Kenny didn't like me hanging around all the time. He was good at hiding from me, but I was even better at finding him.

Wandering into the kitchen, I noticed the basement door was slightly ajar. We hadn't lived in this big old house very long and I had never been in the basement before. I pushed timidly at the door. It creaked open and cool damp air touched my face. I squinted into the darkness. Shadows moved across the steps. The wooden stairs weren't welcoming, and the floor at the bottom was hardly visible. No noise came from the basement. Why would Kenny be down there?

I held the railing with both hands and started to sneak down the stairs, sliding my hands along the railing as I moved. I heard a scuffling sound and hesitated as the furnace rumbled to life. I shuddered and gripped the railing tighter. I didn't dare call out to Kenny; it would be just like him to hide and then jump out and scare me. Instead, I waited quietly until the furnace settled down.

Halfway down the stairs, I saw the gray cinderblock walls and gray floor that seemed to suck the light from the bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. I stepped onto the cold cement floor in my stocking feet and shivered.

My brother was balancing on a Big Tonka truck with his back to me, at the workbench. He was so engrossed in whatever he was doing, that he looked like Frankenstein in his laboratory.

I tiptoed closer. “What ya doin' down here?” I asked.

Kenny jumped at the sound of my voice. Then he spun around and leapt off the truck. With outstretched arms, he moved toward me.

“Get out of here!” he shouted. “You can't come down here!”

Startled, I took one step backward and tilted my head up to look him in the eye. Kenny blocked my view of the workbench with his arms, so I tried to duck beneath them, but he was too quick for me.

“Get out of here!” he shouted again.

I frowned. “What ya doin' down here?”

Kenny grabbed me and tried to push me toward the stairs.

“It's a secret.”

I loved it when Kenny had secrets — it usually meant he wasn't supposed to be doing what he was doing.

I tried to wiggle free of his grip.

“No!” he shouted. “Go back upstairs!”

I knew if I left I would never find out what Kenny was doing, so I stood with my feet frozen to the floor like, little Cindy-Lou Who staring down the Grinch.

Finally, he relented. “You gotta promise you won't tell anybody — even Mom.”

“Okay. I promise.”

Kenny leaned toward me and whispered, “Come here, I'll show you.” I stepped up on the Tonka Truck and gazed at the workbench.

“Wow!” I breathed.

Sitting on the workbench was Kenny's old wooden train set, a glass of water, and a set of water colors. It looked just like Santa's workshop! Kenny had carefully sanded the cars and was adding matching paint to the chipped areas.

“I'm fixing it up nice for Stevie. For Christmas,” he explained.

Kenny didn't need to say anything else. He was thinking of someone besides himself! He was fixing up his well-loved train set to give to our little brother for Christmas. My big brother — the one who told me there was no Santa — was working very hard at being Santa, and that made me smile.