A Week Before Christmas

A Week Before Christmas

A true story – Christmas in 1963

            It was just one week before Christmas when I finally awoke to the fact that my shopping wasn’t even half finished.  I really meant to get it finished early this year, but I was too involved in making wreaths, spraying pine cones and just thinking about all I had to do.

            Then too, I kept expecting some surprise check to come in the mail.  I didn’t know where it would come from, but it was a nice thought.  Why hadn’t I joined that Christmas Savings club last year?  Oh well, I’d just have to stretch that paycheck a little bit further even if it was already like worn out elastic.

           Early one morning I set out with determination, if not enthusiasm, to finish my shopping.  I checked my list out over morning coffee; I thought that knowing what I wanted was half the battle.

            Arriving downtown, on Western Avenue, I drove around looking for a parking spot. I felt like I had received my first Christmas gift when thirty-five minutes later I pulled into an empty space.  Once in the stores I smiled bravely when elbows crashed into my sides; oversized packages hit me in the face and when other people thought my feet were just bumps in the floor.  After inching my way to a certain counter and found they were ‘out of stock’, I had to wipe a tear from my eye.  The clerk tried to be helpful by suggesting other stores that might carry the item I was looking for.  Of course those were the stores where I had already been and they were at least four blocks away.

            At last the day was over and I checked off the final item on my list.  I was cold and hungry and hadn’t taken time to eat.  TIME! The parking meter was half a block away and I could see the little white paper fluttering on the windshield of my car.  With a black heart, I thought to myself, “I bet it even says ‘Merry Christmas’ on it.

            Reaching the car, I found that I could not get the keys out of my purse without putting down all the packages.  Those in my left arm were shifted to my hip and then slide them over onto the trunk lid. I then unwound the string handles of the over-weighted shopping bag from my right arm, only to find the circulation had been shut off so long my hand was numb.

            As I clumsily unlocked the door of the car, I noticed my packages were slowly sliding off the trunk with the melting snow.  Making a quick grab, I somehow caught them and piled all of them in the car, which was quite a feat, being one handed at the moment.

            Sometime late I pulled into my driveway and glancing at my watch, was shocked at the lateness of the time.  The children would be home from school in ten minutes.  I jumped out of the car and began grabbing packages.  By this time I could use both of my hands, but in my hurrying, the shopping bag slipped and fell to the ground, ripping and spilling its contents in the snow.  I gathered up an armload and slipped and slid up the slippery walk.  Once inside I deposited the load on the living room floor.  Huffing and puffing I ran back out to get the rest.

            It was then I began a rare balancing act – first on one foot, then a foot and an arm and for the grand finale; the posterior and one elbow.  The former being well padded only bounced, but the elbow suffered.   With what little dignity I had left, I gathered my various parts in order and again one-handed, managed to get the remainder of the packages into the house.

            My elbow was beginning to get a strong feeling in it as I crammed everything into my bedroom closet.  I closed the door just as the children all tromped in from school. Susie, bless her heart, had thought to bring in the mail.  Glancing quickly through the pile of bills, I came across a familiar shaped envelope.  I knew before my shaking hands opened it, that it was our first Christmas card.  I collapsed into the nearest chair as I thought of the neatly stacked boxes of cards on the shelf that hadn’t been addressed yet.

            Weary, in pain and faint from hunger, I got to my feet and went into the kitchen to prepare supper.  My only thought was to hold on until my husband came home and then he could take over.  I would swallow two aspirins, crawl into bed and address cards while resting.  It would save time and the way I felt; maybe even my life.

            A car crunched to a stop in the drive; “He’s home” I thought with joy and reached for the aspirin bottle.  He came in singing, “Jingle Bells” and dragging what looked to me, like a twenty foot pine tree.  Propping it against the refrigerator he called out, “Merry Christmas, wife,” it’s the night to trim the tree.”

Not getting a response, he asked, “Why are you crying?  What’s wrong?”

Sniffing loudly, I dried my tears and tried to smile, but when I moved the pain shot right through my elbow.  When I finally pulled off my sweater, I was surprised to see a lump the size of a big Christmas ornament right on the tip of my elbow.  The color dazzled my eyes; a shiny blue-black.  He looked at it and was sure it was cracked and from the way it felt, I had to agree.

            A call to the doctor; a trip to the hospital and several x-rays later, the verdict was that I had a badly bruised elbow that was to be kept wrapped in a vertical position for more than a week while the swelling went down.

Home again; my husband fixed supper; his specialty of cold scrambled eggs and burned toast.  It was a jolly affair with the children laughing at me while I clumsily ate with my left hand, spilling food and trying to butter the toast one-handed.

            After entertaining the family during our meal, I took advantage of the sofa while they erected the pine tree that just wouldn’t stand up straight.

            It was late that night when I crawled into bed.  The pain pills helped a little, but I was tense and miserable thinking about the baking, cleaning, gift wrapping and the other million things to be done in the few remaining days before Christmas.  “How do you roll out sugar cookies with one hand,” I mused?  “I wish there wasn’t such a thing as Christmas.”

            At that moment, I heard music coming from down the street; a group of carolers blending their voices in “Joy to the world, the Lord has come.”  Hot tears began to trickle down my cheeks and the anxiety drifted away.  A prayer found its way into my weary mind.  “Forgive me, Father,” I prayed, “the blessing of Christmas somehow slipped by me.”

            I had been so wrapped up in all the preparation parts of Christmas and gave no thought to the real reason we celebrate Christmas.

            With my heart back on the right road and thinking of the joy that Christmas brings to each of us, peace began to flood my soul.  I knew that everything was going to be alright.  After all, “all things work together for the good of those who love God.” 

        Muskegon Michigan - 1960’s