For the Love of Christmas (12 page)

Tea for You

By Jean Richert as told to Carol McAdoo Rehme

T
he holidays were flying on swift wings this year, but I was ready. Right on schedule. Tree, gifts, stockings, cards, decorating. All done ahead so that I could fully enjoy today's traditional celebration.

With my two children conveniently situated at the sitter's house, I took a minute to think. “Let's see,” I scanned the dining room, “have I forgotten anything?”

I straightened the holly-leafed tea set; it was, after all, about the Christmas tea. My Windsong china ringed the walnut table. The silver-plated flatware I inherited from my grandmother—and polished, spoon by spoon, fork by fork for this occasion—flanked the place settings.
Perfect.
My hand-blown crystal stood at attention to the right of each plate. And, beneath it all, lay a crisp linen tablecloth freshly ironed.

“The napkins!” I hurried to fold the matching cloth squares into the crisp points of a bishop's mitre and placed them around the table.

Scrumptious scents of minted tea, seasonal desserts, and tempting appetizers wafted from the kitchen. But, to my way of thinking, the food was secondary. It was the setting, the centerpiece, the time-honored, minute details that would delight my seasoned guests. They were, after all, the sole reason I was willing to “put on the dog” as my friend Marie would say.

And in they came, lonely elders and widows and friends, all of a different vintage who, themselves, once entertained with a flair for formality and an eye towards decorum. Who once welcomed Christmas with unlined faces and the boundless energy of youth.

I knew that's what drew them to my annual holiday tea. I made certain every detail harkened back to yesteryear and spoke to a more genteel era in their lives, when there was more leisure time to linger over a fragrant cup. And that was exactly why I delighted in providing the experience each year—the Girlfriend Christmas Tea that crossed the ­generations.

“Happy holidays!” I greeted the first guest. “May I take your coat?”

“Merry Christmas, Marilyn. Let me hold your gloves and handbag while you unbutton your jacket.”

“Why, Wanda, what a lovely holiday brooch.”

Marie, the eldest of the group at ninety-three, needed my close attention with her cane and over boots.

And so the gracious lunch proceeded.

Dressed to the nines in their best pumps and nicest jewelry, the ladies dined with classic deportment—interspersed with lively discussions, reminiscences of Christmases past, even poetic recitations mined from memories of school days long ago.

I paused in my own conversation and glanced around the table to rejoice in the moment. Be-ringed hands fluttered over heirloom silver. Behind rimmed glasses, faded eyes sparkled enough to rival the shine of my crystal. The scent of lilac talcum powder and Taboo perfume drifted across the table to co-mingle comfortably with peppermint tea.

And, beneath it all, reedy voices rose and flowed, caught up in the heady mixture of company, ­Christmas, and auld lang syne.

I smiled in satisfaction.
Next year,
I thought,
I believe I'll invite a few others.
My mind raced ahead with anticipation.
I'll simply put an extra leaf in the table, arrange transportation for my additional guests . . . and brew another pot of Christmas tea.

Holiday Blockbuster

By Debbi Wise

T
hroughout the holidays,
my mind performs flashbacks from my childhood in Memphis, Tennessee, with memorable images that rerun like the
Charlie Brown Christmas
special featured year after year on TV.

When it came to Christmas, my mother was a leading contender in the category of Best Production. Funding was tight, making it a low-budget show, but for the audience—the four Walker kids—it was always a blockbuster hit!

The season officially opened after the last Thanksgiving plate was washed and the pumpkin pie was served. Dad would bring out the box of tangled Christmas lights, furrow his brow, and make his annual declaration: “Guess I should test these to see if they still work.”

Before long, all the brown tattered boxes were down from the attic. Rummaging through the decorations felt like a fond visit with relatives who made an appearance only once a year. As the excitement accelerated, my parents would decide it was time to buy a tree. Before long we were driving home with an evergreen tied to the top of our Chevy.

I was always convinced we had the best pick of the selection sold from Al's Christmas Trees, regardless if Dad had to surgically reshape the trunk and curse under his breath to get it into the stand. He hauled it inside, leaving a trail of pine needles on the shag carpeting. Clogging the vacuum with the prickly spikes was as much a tradition as placing the star on top of the tree. The scent of fresh pine was ripe in our home as we hung ornaments while sipping hot chocolate sprinkled with bobbing miniature marshmallows.

Christmas was the only time we received gifts. In our family of six, money was stretched thin all year. My parents conserved the best they could, making sure our basic needs were met, but there was nothing to spare for luxuries. So at Christmas, I felt like Dorothy when she stepped out of black-and-white and into the colorful Land of Oz. Knowing I was standing in Christmas was almost enough for me!

As wrapped gifts were placed beneath the tree, my sister and I shook only the packages tagged with our names. Though our gifts were meager, they put a spark in our eyes. We were always pleased.

When I was three years old, my sister and I received doll beds crafted by Dad. The next year we got a tea set arranged on a small wooden table with little chairs, more evidence of his ingenuity. It never crossed my mind that these gifts should come from a store. After all, they were handmade especially for us.

Since our mother knew her way around a Singer sewing machine, each year she used her skill to earn extra Christmas money. The Barbie doll outfits she designed and sold easily competed with those sold at local stores and padded the Christmas fund so well one year that my sister and I were the recipients of bicycles—our first. Never mind that they were used. When it's magic, you don't see anything but matching blue bikes. And Mom made sure Christmas was magic for me—for all of us.

My mother's script for Christmas was handed down to me like her recipe for holiday turkey. The magic, I learned, was all about the waiting. Holding out, not overindulging during the year. That was her key ingredient. It was an easy habit to practice, since, like my mother, I had to work within a tight budget.

I stuck to the script closely; only once do I recall a misstep. Two days before Christmas we took our three-year-old daughter to see Santa at the mall. She was well prepped with the items I convinced her she wanted: a miniature sink and stove, a Little Mermaid play tent, and the homemade doll bed I received when I was her age.

From her perch on Santa's lap, Hailey shyly recited her list and added, “And Santa, I want a red fire engine.”

Huh?
I thought.
A fire engine? Where did that come from?

On the way home, I asked about her odd request.

“That's my special surprise I wanted to ask Santa for,” Hailey chirped.

I chewed on a broken nail, mulling over what I would do. My budget was depleted and it was two days before Christmas. There was no way I would have time to fight the last-minute shoppers. Banking on the fact that she was as forgetful as a new puppy, I went about the business of preparing the best Christmas possible.

On Christmas morning, the house was full of relatives taking photos of my two sleepy-eyed daughters as they scampered downstairs to see what Santa delivered. Hailey stood in front of her gifts, her puffy baby cheeks smiling. She looked around, exclaiming over everything, and then said something I had hoped not to hear. “Santa forgot my fire truck.”

One of her aunts quickly diverted Hailey's attention to the doll bed. I sighed in relief when, distracted by her new Little Mermaid tent, my daughter climbed inside to play.

After a few minutes of excited chattering and giggling, however, Hailey emerged with a grin on her face—and a little red fire engine in her hand.

“That Santa tricked me,” she said. “He hid my fire truck in the tent!”

For a moment, everyone was speechless. To this day, no one has ever admitted to the deed.

When my girls grew up, I knew it was time to bequeath the family Christmas script. I never questioned its origins, assuming it was inherited like DNA, the way brown eyes or big ears get passed on from one generation to the next. And I would have gone on believing that. But a letter arrived from Mom.

She touched on a few delicate issues in the letter and then talked about her lonely childhood. My eyes blurred as I read the words she had written: “I never had a Christmas with decorations, packages, or the experience of a tree.”

How a person never exposed to the love and excitement of a traditional holiday could pull off such a perfect performance was beyond me. In my eyes, it was like walking onto a Broadway stage and knowing the lines without ever reading the script. Yet, for my mother, there was no inheritance—she simply made it up.

Or did she?

When I look to a loving God, and the true meaning behind Christmas, I see his image in my mother. His was the script she followed. His was the same script she handed down for me to share with my children. I am passing his script to my children to share with their children. And that's the Best Production of all.

What a Card

By Andrea Langworthy

W
hen people tell me they have cut their holiday card list in half, I cringe. Even with the increase in postage and the high price of greeting cards, I can't think of one person I would eliminate. In fact, my roster grows every Christmas.

I send cards to people we haven't seen in twelve years and neighbors we wave to every morning as they drive off to work. I include friends who sent a card last year and those who have never sent one. Inside each card I write a message: “Happy Holidays” or “Let's get together soon.”

My husband learned early that as much as I like sending cards this time of year, I love being on the receiving end even more. When he returns home each night after a long day at work, do I greet him at the door with a hug and a kiss of gratitude? No, I grab the mail from his hands and rush to the living room to see who has sent us their very best.

Even as a child, I couldn't wait until the postal carrier dropped a load of cards through the slot next to our front door. Those were the years everyone sent tidings, necessitating two mail deliveries on the days closest to Christmas. Ah, the good old days . . .

Long before the advent of word-processed form letters or fancy paper imprinted with candy canes and poinsettias, my mother's friend wrote an annual letter (typing each one individually on plain, white paper) that was a highlight of my Christmas season. I awaited its arrival, eager to read the latest news about this woman's children who, though close to my age, were so different from me. First, they lived in California, home to Hollywood and Disneyland. Second, these children were perfect. The letter said so, year after year.

I wanted to meet the daughter, so beautiful her father had to “beat packs of potential boyfriends away from the back door.” I hoped for a glimpse of the son, a golden-haired Charles Atlas, certain to become a professional athlete or a movie star, so smart he could be the president, too.

“Just once,” I heard my father say, “I'd like to hear the truth about those little brats.”

I looked at Mom to see if Dad could be right, but all she said was, “Shush, Arthur.”

Over the years, I've thought about penning my own Christmas letter. After all, I call myself a writer. But the dilemma remains: truth or fiction? I relish every word of the letters I receive and appreciate the effort of the sender, but who would want to hear that we went way over budget when we redecorated? Certainly, I would need to embellish the story of last year's winter vacation when we went nowhere and did nothing.

I'm afraid my holiday letter might receive the same reaction my daughter gave to one in my card basket this year. Folding the epistle in crisp fourths, she said in measured tones, “This is why I do not write Christmas letters.”

She's right.

And so, I will continue to send my seasonal greetings. But my message this year will be brief and to the point: Happy Holidays. We should get together soon.

Cumbered Christmas

By Wanda Quist

T
he New Testament says Martha was “cumbered about much serving” and wanted Jesus to bid her sister Mary to help her. But Jesus said, “Martha, thou art careful and troubled about many things: but one thing is needful: and Mary hath chosen that good part . . .”

At Christmastime, I was Martha in the Bible. Every year.

I was “cumbered about much serving” with my daily duties as a mother of eight children. Every holiday, Martha-like, I became “troubled about many things,” as the expectations of a traditional celebration came around again. In short, I was overwhelmed.

I chipped away at the gift list. “What should we buy your parents?” I asked Robert early in the month, when there was still time to mail their package to Canada. “And what new Colorado mementoes can we send to my family in Oregon?”

I labored over the holiday newsletter. It was no small matter to condense a year's worth of activities and adventures into two pages (or less), and be entertaining.

I tackled the kitchen. I climbed onto a stepladder and retrieved the blue glass cookie jar while the kids called out their favorites.

“Toffee squares!”

“Peanut butter blossoms!”

“Chocolate chip!”

“Sandies!”

We needed lots of cookies to last through the month of December. We filled plates for neighbors, friends, and teachers. We baked until we had no more room to stash cookies. Only then did I start making the fruitcakes.

I directed the seasonal decorating.

“We're always the last people to put up our tree,” the kids whined.

In preparation, we moved furniture and vacuumed—everything. The kids helped assemble and decorate the artificial tree. To make certain each had a fair share, I counted red balls, blue balls, and painted wooden ornaments and doled them out. I placed each of the special keepsakes on the tree myself.

I orchestrated all the Christmas programming.

With our large family, holiday concerts meant trips to elementary, middle, and high schools. I always scheduled one family evening to look at lights, sing carols, and deliver those plates of cookies. I calendared my husband's office party as well as the church social. When events conflicted, ­Robert went to one while I attended the other.
Divide and conquer.
That was my motto.

And, of course, I helped everyone buy or make one-of-a-kind gifts for each other.

Suffice it to say, the process involved lots of secret shopping excursions, tons of gift wrap, and hours of time, thought, and effort. December, everyone knew, was not the month to get sick or injured. There simply wasn't time.

All too soon, Christmas morning arrived with excited children sprawled around the still dark room, lit only by the tree lights.

Funny, but I can't remember any of those unique presents we labored so diligently over. Robert and I don't go caroling now and there are no school programs to attend. I don't bake cookies and fruitcake, and I don't miss doing it. There are fewer packages to ship, and cleaning the house isn't as involved as it once was.

But one image is crystal clear.

Each of those Christmas mornings, we took time to gather for family prayer. We settled around the tree and read from the New Testament about the birth of our savior, Jesus Christ.

During those still, holy minutes, I gazed into each shining, upturned face and remembered why we celebrated Christmas. I remembered the “good part” that Mary knew.

Oh, there were ways I could have simplified, traditions I might have eliminated to feel less “cumbered.” Honestly, I wish I had.

But I'm eternally grateful for the sweet, spiritual moments we shared as a family on those sacred mornings.

Mary Christmas.