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
