For the Love of Christmas (3 page)

Up Front

By Terri Elders

E
ven though Mama always warned me to be careful what I wished for, I had no doubt I wanted a padded bra for Christmas. I wished for one when I blew out the candles on my twelfth birthday and again when I split the Thanksgiving wishbone with my sister. Once I even sneaked outside late at night to search for a falling star to wish on, too.

I had skipped a grade at school, so felt dwarfed by the other girls in seventh grade who wore bras, whether they needed them or not. I'd seen a few girls in the restroom stuffing Kleenex for extra filler, but in the gym showers I recognized that most already had no need for such artifice. I did.

I'd heard of training bras but thought that sounded like something for wannabe ten-year-olds, just one step up from an undershirt. I longed for the real article, a lacy 32AA with some slight padding to give me the illusion of curves. My older sister Patti had bras, and I wanted one, too.

Actually, wanted might be too mild a word to describe how incredibly desperate I was to be able to look down and see something other than my slightly knobby knees. I pined, I yearned, and I hankered and hungered. Sometimes, at night, I'd pat a hand across my concave chest as I called for divine intervention.

“Not too big,” I'd whisper, “just a little something to distinguish me from my brother.”

At first, my parents scoffed at my request. “Christmas is a time for games, for things you really need. Like coats, for example, not underwear,” Mama said.

“Bra? That's silly,” Daddy said.

Patti agreed that she, for one, needed a new coat, a pea jacket just like the other girls were sporting that winter.

But I whined and wheedled, moaned and groaned, until finally Mama sighed and shook her head. “We'll think about it.”

Daddy grumbled, but I knew I had won. When Mama thought about something, it got well thought about, and I knew she wanted me to be happy. And to look nice. Just like she always reminded me to wear clean shorts when I went to play tennis and to wash my hair when I came home from the playground pool.

On Christmas morning, Patti opened her present first, the biggest box under the tree. She pulled out a navy blue pea jacket and squealed with delight. She threw it on and vamped around the living room as if she were parading down a catwalk. I had to admit she looked chic indeed in the broad-lapelled coat with its slash pockets and big wooden buttons.

My old red wool would get me through another winter, I told myself, even though I had noticed it was getting snug across the shoulders. I reached for my package, much smaller, but gaily wrapped. I opened the box and spied, nestled among the tissue, not one, but two delicate brassieres.

My father and brother looked the other way when I pulled them from the box, but Mama and Patti smiled. I scampered into the bedroom to try one on and nearly cried for joy when I saw myself in the mirror. I had a bosom at long, long last. For the next few hours I preened, pretending not to notice my brother's knowing smirks.

Later that day we prepared for the drive to Grandma's for Christmas dinner. Since the temperature in late December had dipped into the low forties, cold for Southern California, I threw on my old red jacket. But when I started to ­button it up I realized I had a problem. No matter how hard I tugged, the buttons wouldn't slip into the buttonholes. They were about half an inch shy.

The culprit was my Christmas bra. The padding added just enough girth to my front to render the coat unclosable. And red wool did not fall into the category of a stretch fabric.

I had a choice—either remove the bra or go to Grandma's coatless. I chose the latter, yanking the army blanket from my bed and wrapping it around my shoulders. Nobody said anything when we piled into the backseat, but I couldn't help noticing how pretty and warm Patti looked in her new coat.

Grandma marveled at my enhanced figure. “She's really growing up,” she said, even though she'd seen me the week before and must have known I couldn't develop that fast. Grandpa did a silent double take.

When school started after winter break, I decided to put the bras aside until the weather got warmer. I couldn't substitute my army blanket on the long hike to the bus, so would have to button my jacket against the chill. I thought about tucking a bra into my zipper notebook and sneaking into the restroom before classes, but remembered how embarrassed those girls had looked when I saw them with the Kleenex. I decided not to make myself a laughingstock. The bras would wait for their school debut.

By spring I had grown two inches and gained ten pounds. On the first day balmy enough to head for the bus without my old jacket, I eagerly pulled one of the bras from the drawer where they had languished all winter.
So pretty,
I thought as I stuck my arms through the straps and reached behind to fasten the hooks.

It wouldn't hook. I took it off and stared at it in disbelief. The 32AA was now too small. Then my eye fell on something else, something softly rounded.

“Be careful what you wish for,” Mama had said.

Thank heavens my birthday was coming up soon. I knew exactly what to wish for. A new jacket in a larger size. Because it was suddenly clear that Mama and I would have to go to the store for underwear before then. Probably right away!

Owed to Joy

By Ted Thompson

S
helly was the perfect age for Christmas: old enough to understand the true meaning of the season, but still completely enchanted by the magic of it. Her innocent joyfulness was compelling and catching, and a great gift to parents, reminding us what Christmas should represent no matter how old we are.

The most highly prized gift Shelly received on Christmas Eve was a giant bubble-maker. It was a simple device of plastic and cloth that the inventor promised would create huge, billowing bubbles large enough to swallow our wide-eyed four-year-old. Both Shelly and I were excited about trying it out, but it was after dark so we'd have to wait until the next day.

That night after all the gifts had been opened, I read the instruction booklet while Shelly played with some of her other new toys. The inventor of the bubble-maker had tried all types of soaps for formulating bubbles and had found that Joy dishwashing detergent created the best giant bubbles. I'd have to buy some.

The next morning I was awakened early by small stirrings in the house. Shelly was up. I knew in my sleepy mind that Christmas Day could be held back no longer, so I rose and made my way toward the kitchen to start the coffee.

In the hallway I met my tiny daughter, already wide awake, the bubble-maker clutched in her chubby little hand, the wonder of Christmas morning embraced in her young heart.

“Daddy, can we make bubbles now?” Her eyes sparkled with excitement.

I sighed heavily. I rubbed my eyes. I looked toward the window where the sky was only beginning to lighten with the dawn. I looked toward the kitchen where the coffeepot had yet to start dripping.

“Shelly,” I said, my voice almost pleading, and perhaps a little annoyed, “It's too early. I haven't even had my coffee yet.”

Her smile fell away. Immediately, I felt a father's remorse for bursting her bright Christmas bubble with what she must have seen as my own selfish problem, and my heart broke a little.

But I was a grown-up. I could fix this. In a flash of adult inspiration, I unloaded the responsibility. Recalling the inventor's recommendation of a particular brand of bubble-making detergent—which I knew we did not have in the house—I laid the blame squarely on him, pointing out gently, “Besides, Shelly, you have to have Joy.”

I watched her eyes light up again as she realized in less than an instant that she could neutralize this small problem with the great and wonderful truth she had to reveal.

“Oh, Daddy,” she pledged, glowing with honesty and enthusiasm and Christmas excitement, “Oh, Daddy, I do.”

I broke records getting to the store, and in no time at all we were out on the front lawn creating gigantic, billowing, gossamer orbs—each one conjured of purest Joy, and sent forth shimmering in the Christmas sun.

Of Evergreens and Fake Firs:
The Trees We've Known and Loved

All in a Row

By Anne Culbreath Watkins

M
y father is the gruff, outdoorsy type who prefers hiking through the woods to sitting sedately inside a stuffy house. At eighty years old, Daddy has a mind of his own and is quick to set straight anyone who dares suggest he slow down. He is stubborn and not a man prone to displays of sentimentality. Yet despite this brusque demeanor, he never passes up a chance to celebrate the holidays with family.

After one celebratory meal at my brother's house, we all decided to walk off the calories. We strolled around the property while Daddy reminisced about the old place where we'd all grown up. Situated mere feet from my brother's home, the rickety frame house was long gone, but there were still plenty of things to look at in the yard that once surrounded it.

Daddy pointed toward a scraggly row of cedars, each one bigger than the other. “Do you remember what those are?” he asked.

An unexpected crush of memories transported me to Christmases past, when artificial trees played no part in our holidays. Every year we decorated a living tree—hauled, complete with root-ball, from the woods by my father.

The tree always stood in the corner of the front room, sticky-prickly branches dripping with glowing lights, sentimental ornaments, and tinsel. Daddy propped the tree in a bucket of water to keep it alive. Before he plugged in the lights each day, I enjoyed sitting beneath it, swirling my fingers in the cool depths and inhaling the piney aroma.

As soon as Christmas was over, Daddy took the tree outside and planted it in the front yard where it joined a row of other cedars, memorials to holidays gone by, that grew into a thick wall I loved to play behind. It shielded me from cars passing on the street close by and provided a fragrant shelter.

When I was six, we moved to Alabama, leaving behind the woodsy screen. I wondered if Christmas there would be as wonderful as those in Ohio. Would Santa know where to bring our presents? Would the little Nativity scene look out of place? Could we even have Christmas without snow? But Daddy stepped in.

One December day, he disappeared into the woods and returned a short time later carrying a small, shapely cedar he set in a bucket in the living room. We decorated it with the same ornaments saved from holidays past, along with colorful paper chains and stars we cut from construction paper. Wise men smiled from the Nativity scene, pleased to celebrate the Christ child's birthday with us in Alabama. And I told myself Santa would find us no matter where we were.

On Christmas morning, gaily wrapped gifts appeared under the tree, and stockings filled with goodies hung heavy near the crackling woodstove. The day was as wonderful as I'd hoped, even without any snow. And after the holidays, just like he had in Ohio, Daddy took our Christmas tree ­outside.

Easing the root-ball from the bucket, he planted it beside the house where it eventually grew into a beautiful, full-bodied tree. Each year he added another until there was a tapered line of cedars—like those we left behind in Ohio—standing point over our Alabama house.

My father had grown up in a home where Christmas gifts were few and far between, and whatever holiday ­sentimentality he may have harbored was stuffed deeply beneath the surface. Yet, somehow he hit upon the one thing that proved how much the season meant to him. Long after Daddy is gone, those trees will stand there, a living testimony to the warm heart nestled inside the quiet, sometimes curt old man.

And they'll remind me that there is much more to Christmas than decorations, presents, Santa Claus, and snow.

Tinsel Time

By Joanne Hirase-Stacey

W
hat a glorious holiday it would be. After four years, my husband Bill and I finally decided to get a real Christmas tree. We'd never had one before because our house was small and we didn't want the hassle of storing decorations.

In the past, we'd had tabletop trees—a fake ten-incher with a burlap sack wrapping the bottom, a gold wire spiraling to a peak, and a green wooden triangle flecked with bright colors. We lit pine-scented candles and sprayed our wreath with eucalyptus oil, but it wasn't the same as having the woodsy scent of a live tree.

The bushy evergreen we selected fit perfectly into a corner. I gently opened new boxes of ornaments, and we hung each fragile decoration with great care. Globe by colorful globe, our tree took on its unique look.

“Where's the garland?” Bill looked around.

“I didn't buy any.”

“We need some gold garland.”

I dug through the bag lying at my feet and pulled out two small boxes. I handed one to him.

“Tinsel?” He made a face.

“I love tinsel. It's fun to throw it on the tree and let it land wherever, then straighten it so it hangs just right.”

“It's droopy, stringy, and old-fashioned. No one uses tinsel.”

I opened my box, grabbed a small handful, and tossed it at the tree. Then I carefully moved the silver strands so they draped nicely over a branch.

“See? It's beautiful.”

He handed me his box and left to watch ­television.

After I finished decorating, I dragged Bill back into our living room.

“It doesn't look too bad.” He tugged on some tinsel.

“Thanks. If we have a real tree again next year, I'll get garland,” I promised. “Any color you want.”

Since I'd already wrapped my husband's presents, I hauled them from the closet and arranged them on the glittery tree skirt. The space looked bare, so I decided to wrap the other gifts we'd bought and put them under the tree as well. Presents for family, friends, and the girls (our dogs) completed the festive scene.

Hands on hips, I stood back to admire my handiwork. “It looks like a picture straight out of a ­magazine.”

Bill brought the dogs into the room to see the tree. Cindy and Honey sniffed a few branches and walked away. Lucille and Abigail took their sweet time, nudging ornaments with their noses and snuffling presents. When they decided the tree was disinteresting and nonthreatening, they moseyed back to their beds.

A few days later, Bill called me at work. “When are you coming home?”

“My usual time, why?”

“You'd better be prepared to see what your girls did.” Amazing how the foursome always became my dogs when they were naughty.

I hurried home—and found my beautiful tree in the middle of the floor, new ornaments shattered and pine needles scattered, several presents torn open. I couldn't believe my eyes.

None of our friends or family will get to enjoy our masterpiece,
I mourned. Tearfully, I put the dogs outside and cleaned up the mess. I knew the neighbors would wonder why our tree was stuffed in the garbage can, lights and all.

“Mom is mad at you, Lucy,” Bill chastised our little pit bull. “You wrecked the tree.”

“Cindy and Honey wouldn't have done it,” I agreed. They were older and never got into any trouble. “It could have been Abby, though. Why are you blaming Lucy?”

“The evidence points at her.”

Curious, I cupped Lucy's sweet face in my hands, but I didn't see any telltale sign pointing at her as the number one suspect.

“Uh, you're looking at the wrong end.” Bill tried not to laugh.

I turned Lucy around and saw it—tinsel peeping out beneath her tail.

“The vet said not to pull.” Bill handed me an old pair of scissors. “You just have to keep it trimmed until there isn't any more.”

I took the scissors and eyed Lucy with ­reluctance.

“I hate to say it,” Bill paused for effect, “but you should have gotten garland!”