Christmas Through a Child's Eyes (8 page)

BY BARBARA KIFFIN

'T
was the Night Before Christmas in the Year of Our Lord 1932. 'Twas also still very dark as three-year-old me lay nestled, all snug in my bed, dreaming of sugarplums, when — just as dawn was breaking over Greenland — my eight-year-old brother, Rex, the “Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come” crept into my frigid chamber.

“Wake up, Bip,” he whispered. “I heard the reindeer on the roof and Santa Ho-Ho-Hoing, but I waited ere they drove out of sight.” Truly, my brother was steeped in Clement C. Moore. “Wake up,” he shouted into my ear. After another minute, he pleaded again, “Please wake up, Bip.”

Finally, I complied. The hot water bottle had grown cold anyway. As I rubbed my sleepy eyes, Rex dragged my slippers from under the bed and tossed my bathrobe over my head, stuffing my spaghetti arms into the sleeves.

Then, as quietly as we could, we tippy-toed downstairs for breakfast. This stealth grew from the orders laid down by the Queen of the Kitchen and the King of the Forest: Not one present was to be shaken, ripped open, or even touched until both of us had eaten our breakfast.

No doubt, had they not said both, we wouldn't have had our joint adventure; Rex would have gone solo.

For a week, Rex had been in a frenzy of activity, and all day Christmas Eve he was a living itch! Never before was the ritual of the tree performed with such speed. This ritual called for us to leave the Queen of the Kitchen in peace to make cookies. Our role was to help the King of the Forest pick out two of nature's mistakes for transformation into a glorious tree of wondrous symmetry. Every year, our father played one-upmanship with Mother Nature. That's why Mum had dubbed him King of the Forest. And if you'd ever tasted Mum's cookies, you'd know why she was Queen of the Kitchen!

Choosing the tree was the least of it. We knew that even if a cheap tree looked a little scrawny, Daddy would bring it to beauty by the addition of branches God might have forgotten.

Daddy had a method: He bought two cheap trees for less than the price of a respectable one, denuded the skimpier of the two, drilled holes in the trunk of the survivor, and filled in where old Mother Nature had been sloppy. It was amazing; each year he built a whispering pine worthy of last year's tinsel!

Yes, we saved tinsel.

Tinsel, the Christmas tree's thin, glory-long, flexible strips of silver, which, when hung with care, were delicate cascades of icicles, sparkling against the tree's multicolored lights and were the most beautiful things on the tree. Tinsel was a lead product, which accounted for its softness and drape-ability. It's a wonder we weren't all dead by New Year's.

Tinsel was quite beautiful when applied artistically, one strand at a time. Dad removed it at the end of the holiday with the same great care and saved it on the notched cardboard it came on.

Before tinsel ever touched the tree, though, the lights were strung. The lights, too, were magnificent, but these strings of color faded to black if just one bulb was dead. Dependable strings of miniature white lights that stayed on — even if one light was missing — hadn't been invented yet. If the lights passed floor testing, great sighs of relief echoed through the halls of our house. Failure meant we had to unscrew the bulbs, one by one, to weed out the duds and replace them so the whole string would work again. This caused God's rival in forestry to color the air with words it was best children not hear. When, at last, the lights had been carefully wound through Daddy's and God's boughs, the Queen would step into the room to view the masterpiece.

Without fail, the Queen found something amiss. “Oh, Frank,” she murmured, “there are three blue ones in a row.”

Uh, oh! More colored air!

Next came the ornaments, which could be handled only by the King and Queen because they were made of delicate glass — fine and oh-so fragile. Rex and I stood by and watched in wonder. For the finale, I — the littlest child — was lifted by our frazzled father to place the once-beautiful angel atop the magnificent creation. She was a little tacky and shopworn, but she was my angel and I loved her dearly.

After a hearty meal of Welsh Rarebit, Rex and I were bundled off to bed. I was all tuckered out and asleep in heavenly peace in no time, but my brother, the heir, had trouble coming down from the eight-day trip of anticipation he'd been floating around on. When he shouted that first “Wake up, Bip!” it was four in the morning and dawn was far from breaking over Hasbrouck Heights, New Jersey.

Rex wasn't skilled in hand-squeezing oranges, and frozen juice hadn't been invented yet, but he could handle a glass of milk. And he was bold enough to make toast. Toast, in 1932, was bread electrified. Automatic, pop-up toasters hadn't been invented yet, either. Toasters were dangerous, little, A-frame contraptions with flip-down sides. Bread was crisped by naked electric coils at the center, one side at a time. Buttering toast was another challenge. Even when butter was at room temperature, it wasn't much better than the outside temperature.

But, since God helps those who help themselves, Rex helped himself and me to Christmas breakfast. Then Rex helped himself to whatever had his name on it. Thanks to a whimsical mother, tags were signed by Santa, Old Nick, and Sandy Claws.

In perfect clarity, I recall watching Rex tear the paper from an Erector Set, a stamp album, lead soldiers, and the Boys Book of Adventure. But I haven't the faintest memory of what the jolly old elf brought me that Christmas, nor do I recall what the King and Queen thought of our adventure when they awoke. I was still in shock at having been woken when dawn was breaking over Greenland!

BY JEWELL JOHNSON

“T
ime to get your coats on,” Mom called to my two brothers and me on Christmas Day. “Dad's got the car warmed up.”

White steam billowed from the tailpipe as I tumbled into the backseat with my brothers, Deisel and Gary. We were going to celebrate Christmas Day at Uncle Oscar's farm, something we all enjoyed.

Soon, the prairie where we lived ended and skinny poplar trees and scrubby bushes dotted the snow-covered land. “We're in brush country now,” Dad said, letting us know we'd passed the first leg of the journey. For the next half hour, we traveled down a bumpy, gravel road.

Suddenly, Mom pointed to a figure in the distance. “There's Oscar waiting for us!”

I knew by the sound of her voice that she was smiling, and I smiled, too, as I craned my neck to see my uncle. He wore a fur cap, the collar of his thick coat buttoned up to his chin. We hadn't seen him in a long time, and it felt good just to see him standing there beside a big sleigh pulled by two brown horses with long white manes.

“Goddog!” Uncle Oscar called as Dad opened the car door. That means “good day” in Swedish, which is the language Dad and Uncle Oscar had learned to speak as children.

High snowdrifts blocked the road to Uncle's farm, so we always left our car on the highway and rode to the farm on the sleigh. In my mind, the snowdrifts were part of the magic of the season; without them, we might not have gotten a wonderful sleigh ride.

“Duck your heads!” Uncle said as he spread the buffalo robe over Mom, my brothers, and me. “This will keep out the cold wind.” Then, turning to Dad, he added, “John, you ride up front with me.”

From beneath the warm robe, we heard Uncle yelp, “Gid up!” The horses' harnesses jingled merrily, the sleigh jerked, and we glided over the snow. My mind raced ahead to the farmhouse where my cousins would be creating a wonderful meal, and my heart sang in rhythm with the horses' feet as we effortlessly sped across the wide-open spaces.

Almost too soon, I heard Uncle yell, “Whoa!” and felt the sleigh stop beside Uncle Oscar's small white house nestled among poplar trees and brush. When Dad pulled off the buffalo robe, my brothers and I popped out like gophers ready for whatever the holiday would bring. Mom laughed at our rosy faces — pink from the heat we had created and shared beneath the robe, not angry red like the faces of our father and Uncle Oscar, who had braved the biting wind.

“Come in! Come in!” Cousin Helen called from the porch, practically jigging in anticipation as she wiped her hands on her pink and green apron. The smell of turkey and sage wafted through the open door as we hurried inside.

“Get close to the stove to warm up,” Helen advised, allowing us to spread our cold hands over the black kitchen range.

Uncle Oscar hung his hat up and turned to Dad. “It must have been twenty below zero this morning.” Dad nodded as they stomped the snow from their overshoes. We children exchanged a knowing look and shared a quiet giggle. The men were so
predictable!
They always talked about the weather whenever they were together.

Within minutes of our arrival, Cousin Florence was placing a mail-order catalog on a chair for little Gary to sit on and calling everyone to dinner. Deisel and I sat on the piano bench.

Everything was delicious, and we all ate our fill. Later, while the ladies washed the dishes, the men went into the parlor and Uncle set up a game of chess. He and Dad sat close to the potbellied stove for the rest of the afternoon, challenging one another.

We children anxiously raced to the kitchen as soon as Florence called to say the table was cleared and it was time to play checkers. After checkers, we played prize bingo. I won a yellow pencil and Gary won a jigsaw puzzle.

At dusk, Florence took the glass chimney off the kerosene lamp, lit the wick, and set it back down on the table. A soft yellow glow filled the kitchen as we snacked on apple salad, cold turkey, and rolls, before it was time to go.

Reluctantly, we bundled up into coats and boots, and headed back outside. I loved coming to visit Uncle Oscar and his family as much as I hated leaving. But I knew one more secret bit of magic awaited me outside in the dark. Because the wind had died down, we no longer needed the buffalo robe, and this time I could see the stars.

The sleigh runners squeaked on the hard snow, the horses' harnesses jingled, and I gazed into the sky. There were stars so near it seemed I could touch them, and stars so far away they were only dots in the sky.

“One, two, three, four,” I counted.

“You can't count them all,” my older and wiser brother said.

“I can too,” I replied. “Five, six, seven …” When I got to fifty, I stopped. Deisel was right — there were too many stars to count. And every one of them was beautiful.

At the main road, the horses stopped and we quietly jumped off the sleigh.

“Thank you for the ride, Uncle,” I said, and reached out to shake his hand. He smiled as he grasped my hand, then he looked at Dad.

“Thanks a million,” Dad said in Swedish. Uncle Oscar nodded.

My brothers and I snuggled together in the backseat of the car as Dad roared the motor to life. When the car jerked forward, I peered up at the stars one more time and thought about Dad's parting words to his brother.

Snuggling closer to Deisel and Gary, I whispered, “I like everything about Christmas Day at Uncle Oscar's. Best of all, I like the sleigh ride in the night when a million stars look down on me.”

BY CAROLINE B. POSER

“H
ow was your weekend?” Kathy, my son Griffin's daycare office manager, asked.

“Oh,” I sighed. “Not that great.” It was first thing Monday morning and I was dropping off my youngest. I had just left my older two boys, Mark and Daniel, at school.

Kathy raised her eyebrows.

I offered her a lopsided grin. “My children are like a small band of monkeys,” I said, picturing my three sons, all under the age of six.

“Oh, well … it's that time of year,” she added.

“I suppose …” I said, not quite believing my words.

I was still recovering from the second weekend in Advent and prayed things would get better, not worse, as the holiday season approached. I had already arranged my work schedule and decreased my commitments in an effort to implement all the traditions I remembered from my own childhood, and I planned to enjoy the holiday season. But, so far, that wasn't happening.

I had envisioned the kids and I putting up the tree and decorating it during Thanksgiving weekend while listening to Christmas music. Then, over the course of the next several weeks, we'd bake cookies, make peppermint bark, and bake other goodies together, including the customary gingerbread houses. We'd talk about the birth of Jesus while we set up our nativity scene under the tree. We'd watch Christmas movies, make wish lists for Santa, and observe Advent every Sunday. That meant I'd have to plan a lesson and an activity and a treat, but that would be okay. After all, I was only working four-day weeks in December. I figured we could count down the days with our Advent calendar. I thought it would be fun. Yeah, right.

What it was really like in my house was far from the pleasant scene from a Norman Rockwell painting I had envisioned. Instead … I put up the tree. The boys lost interest in decorating it after hanging a few ornaments each, at which point they proceeded to use them as missiles and other weapons. A couple of weeks later, our tree's ornaments remained on the top half only — as does the tree of any family with an eighteen-month-old toddler. (Though, one day, I did find a pair of dirty socks draped across one of the lower branches.)

The boys would rather have watched superhero cartoon reruns than any of my favorite Christmas specials, like Santa Claus is Comin' to Town, Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, and Frosty the Snowman. I insisted that if they were to watch superhero cartoons, they'd have to do it upstairs and without me. They went gladly … so much for togetherness.

Creating our gingerbread house was an extravagantly messy affair. Not only because the pastry bag sprung a few leaks, but also because it was so hard to keep it twisted closed to keep the icing from squeezing out the wrong end! Eventually, we all used our hands to smear the royal icing “mortar” on the gingerbread pieces. The house wasn't much to begin with, but that didn't bother my sons. It worked well for target practice. It was decimated nearly as soon as it was built. Throughout the rest of the holiday season, I found reminders of our gingerbread fiasco — icing crusted on various knobs, dials, switches, and faucets.

Because I played the Christmas music in the DVD player, which was attached to the TV, Griffin couldn't understand why there was sound, but no picture. “Show?” he would ask plaintively, as he handed me the fingerprint-covered CD he'd just divested from the DVD player.

The only Christmas music we heard was when we were serenaded by Mark and Daniel belting out, “Jingle bells, Batman smells, the Joker learned ballet … hee-hee-hee, snicker, snicker, snort!”

They fought over the Advent calendar. Griffin's participation was limited to examining and then discarding the felt-and-Velcro nativity scene characters, much to the chagrin of his two rules-based, school-aged brothers, who tried in vain to keep the characters in sequential order beginning with the star, angel, and shepherds and ending with the Wise Men, gifts, and Jesus. Thinking I had found a solution, I moved the calendar to a less obvious spot. Unfortunately, we never ticked off another day.

The nativity set was reduced to a battle scene and the boys launched Baby Jesus off the roof of the crèche. That we still had tiny Baby Jesus and his little straw bed after four seasons was, in itself, one of the miracles of Christmas. Compounding their irreverence was the extent of their interest in our Advent celebration. The boys argued not only about who got to light the candles, but also who got to blow them out. Sometimes we lit them and blew them out repeatedly until everyone had an equal number of turns.

I was on overload, as I was essentially trying to cram five days worth of work into four days on top of all the added holiday hoopla, which resulted in my sampling far too many cookies and chocolates and drinking way too much coffee.

“It's chaos at my house,” I concluded to Kathy.

She chuckled and nudged me. “C'mon, that's part of the fun!”

I rolled my eyes. “Uh-huh.”

As I drove off that morning, I thought about our conversation. I really didn't want to be such a grinch, and Kathy was right — this was Christmas — all of the boys' antics should be taken in stride, because it really was part of the fun. Right then and there, I decided to embrace the pandemonium.

The rest of the holiday season included Griffin's new tradition of pulling pinecones, bells, and candy canes off the tree (the only things left on the bottom half) and hiding them around the house and Mark and Daniel's regular habit of shrieking potty words and scrapping like a couple of puppies. I knew that reminders of Santa Claus seeing them when they were sleeping, knowing when they were awake, and knowing if they'd been bad or good would be useless. I simply told them that I expected the mess to be cleaned up before they watched their superhero cartoons.

My children's gift to me was to remind me to view Christmas as they do. Once I aligned my vision with reality, I was fully able to enjoy the season. And pinecones, bells, and candy canes continued to surface until Easter.

Boy to the world!