Christmas Visitor (8 page)

“White with black shutters.”

“To match the house?”

Esther nodded happily.

“A porch!” Barbara announced.

“With a porch,” Ruth wrote.

They wanted new scooters, a Gameboy, Monopoly, and all the books that Nancy's Notions had. Every single one. Elmer wanted bunk beds. Roy wanted a bow and arrow. Esther wanted a skateboard. And on and on until Benjamin started fussing, the clock struck eight, and it was time for their baths.

For their bedtime snack, they made popcorn and sprinkled it with sour cream and onion powder. They stirred chocolate syrup into their milk and discussed many silly subjects, along with some serious ones.

After Ruth had kissed the last soft cheek and collapsed on the recliner for a moment of rest before her shower, she realized she wanted a playhouse for the back yard so badly she could physically feel it.

Just as quickly, that dream's bubble burst, the pin named reality doing its job well. Ruth knew that a playhouse wasn't attainable and wouldn't be for a long time. That was okay. As Mam said, “Siss yusht vie ma uf gebt (That's just how things go).”

When the next box appeared on the front porch, the children squealed with excitement. Their enthusiasm turned quickly to disappointment when they opened it and found nothing inside except a small wooden box with a slot in the lid.

Elmer extracted an envelope from under the wooden box, tore it open hurriedly, unfolded the paper, and read, “Christmas wish lists. Please fold papers and insert in box. Put box on porch. Thank you!”

They gasped and lifted their round eyes to Ruth, questions flying as they reasoned among themselves. Who in the world? Well, they'd stay up all night. They needed a dog, that was what.

Ruth, who had returned to her quilting, smiled and burst out laughing after Roy devised a plan to trap the “box person,” as they began to call him or her.

“I bet it's Mamie.”

“They don't have extra money.”

“Maybe they do.”

“It's Helen.”

“The driver?”

“No way.”

Ruth looked up from her quilt binding and said they may never know, but they didn't really need to know. The giver would be blessed for his or her generosity, regardless.

She told the children to make new wish lists, but she asked them not to write down large expensive gifts. She did not want the person to feel obligated to fulfill every wish.

Esther gnawed her pen, glancing at her mother with cunning eyes, and then wrote in very small letters at the bottom of her list, “Real playhouse with porch. White with black shutters.” She slipped it smartly into the slot cut in the top of the wooden box, right under Ruth's nose. After the children were in bed that night, Esther whispered to Barbara about what she had done.

Barbara was horrified at Esther's disobedience but said maybe it wasn't too serious, knowing Mam would love to have one, too. She had said so herself.

Christmas was fast approaching, and the children marked each day with a large black X on the calendar, completely changing its appearance.

It was December thirteenth when they decided to hitch up Pete and go shopping together with the small amount of money they had. It was a Saturday, the sun was shining, and excitement hovered over the house as the children danced rather than walked, yelled rather than talked. Ruth barked orders, combed hair, and bundled everyone into clean coats and hats and scarves and bonnets.

They brushed Pete till he shone, cleaned the harness, hitched him to the buggy, and were off to the small town of Bart, which everyone called Georgetown. No one knew why Bart was the official address, since no one ever said Bart
—
just Georgetown
—
but that's how it was.

They were all snuggled into the clean buggy under the winter lap robes. Roy, Esther, and Barbara sat in back with Esther holding Lillian. Elmer sat in front beside Ruth as usual, holding Benjy.

Pete stepped out eagerly, and the buggy moved along smoothly around bends, past farms, up hills and down. They waved to oncoming teams, pulled to the side to allow cars and trucks to pass, and were very careful when they approached a narrow bridge. Ruth pulled firmly on the reins to allow a car to cross first.

As they approached the hitching rail at Fisher's Housewares, the row of parked horses and buggies left no room for them, so they drove past and pulled up to the fence beside it.

“You think it's okay to park here?” Ruth asked.

“Do you want me to ask someone?” Roy offered.

“No, we'll tell someone when we get inside.”

The store was filled with so many things. The boys went off in one direction, and the girls in another, leaving Ruth with Benjy and a bit of time to buy some gifts for the children. It wasn't much, but it was all she could afford, and she wanted to be content.

The store was filled with others of Ruth's faith
—
some folks she knew, others she didn't. She tried hard not to be envious of the mothers with their carts piled high or a young couple discussing a purchase together.

Row after row of dress fabric, heavy pants material, bonnets, shawls, coats and sweaters, housewares, toys, beautiful sets of china, all sorts of kitchen wares, Christmas candy, books, and canning supplies
—
an ongoing display of every Amish family's needs.

Ruth chose a Monopoly game for the boys and a set of Melamine dishes for the older girls. Lillian would receive a small doll that boasted a 4.99 price tag. That was all she could afford this year.

She bought two serving dishes for her mam, two red handkerchiefs for her dat, a set of wooden spoons for Mamie, and some coating chocolate. She would make fudge and Rice Krispies treats.

Elmer and Roy begged for a set of books that was marked 29.99, and Ruth had to swallow the lump that formed in her throat. Oh, how she would have loved to buy them, wrap them in colorful Christmas wrap, and watch their faces on Christmas morning, the way it had been when Ben was alive
—
just last Christmas. But not this year.

Bravely, she handed her meager purchases to the clerk, smiled, and made small, cheerful talk, trying hard not to look around and want the items she could not have, the many things that were clearly out of her reach.

The children were quiet on the return trip, sharing the small bag of Snickers bars wrapped in red and green wrappers. Ruth courageously told them that Christmas was all about the baby Jesus being born in the stable and not about worldly possessions or large gifts.

“Is that all we're getting, though?” they asked.

“Oh, no, your grandparents, your teacher, you'll get a lot more,” Ruth assured them.

It was no wonder that Ruth cried that evening, the silent tears running unhindered down her cheeks as she allowed herself the luxury of letting her guard down for just one evening.

She found she could only be courageous for so long before her white flag of defeat went up. She allowed herself to roll around in self-pity and longing and all the stuff she was supposed to avoid but just couldn't help.

It was cleansing and solidifying to accept and admit that she was just one very lonely woman. She knew these were the times that eventually helped her to move on. This plain down honesty was refreshing.

She looked at her reflection in the mirror with her swollen eyes, the red blotches on her cheeks, and her scraggly hair, and she burst into a snort of hysteria before she moved out of the bathroom and away from the brutally honest mirror. Ruth reminded herself that God was still in His Heaven, so all was right with the world. She accepted her lot in life once more and was comforted by His presence.

Hadn't He provided a miracle in the form of that large sum of money that had appeared in a plain, white envelope in her mailbox and in the banana boxes and the generosity of her parents? Surely God was good, and here she was, whining and crying, ungrateful, and asking for more when she already had been given so much. Deeply ashamed, she knelt by her bed and asked the Lord to forgive her undankbar (unthankful) thoughts, remembering to thank him over and over for the Christmas miracles she had received.

Yes, He had chosen to take Ben, and yes, she was an arme vitve (poor widow), but even she could be caught unaware in the devil's own snares, the same as everyone else, perhaps even more so, if she tried to cloth herself in self-righteous robes of martyrdom.

Her spirit revived, her thoughts at peace, Ruth tucked her slim hands beneath her soft cheeks that had been cleansed by her tears, and drifted off to sleep. She slept like a baby, with Lillian creeping dangerously close to the edge of the bed as she tossed and mumbled her way across the expanse.

After her good cry and a solid night of sleep, Ruth enjoyed the Sunday day of rest with her children. On Monday morning, feeling refreshed, energetic, and more alive than she had for months, Ruth shivered on her way down to the basement to stoke the coal fire.

They had a good system. She shook the grate and watched the ashes for red coals, which were the signal to stop as all the cold, dead ashes had already fallen to the pan below. Then she pulled out the pan and slowly dumped it into a small metal bucket, where the few live coals would soon be extinguished in the pile of ashes.

Elmer and Roy took the ashes out and scattered them across the garden or beside the old tin shed. Then they filled the coal hod every evening and placed it by the stove, so she had coal in the morning to get the system going again.

She grunted a bit as she lifted the heavy hod of coal, watched carefully as the pieces slid into the hopper of the stove. She shut the lid, adjusted the thermostat at the side to three, and went back upstairs.

She had developed a habit of stopping by the back door every morning to peer through the window, checking the sky for the starlight
—
or blackness without them
—
that signaled a sunny day or a cloudy one.

She opened the door and stepped outside for a better view, peered into the early morning gloom, and found not one star. She could hear the traffic plainly, over on 896, so that meant the air was heavy, and rain or snow was just around the corner.

She missed the daily paper. Every morning, Ben had read the weather forecast to her as she stood by the stove frying eggs. Daily newspaper service was too expensive for her now, so she just checked the atmosphere and the stars before sorting clothes for a day's washing.

Not a nice wash day, she thought, but the boys wouldn't have enough pants to last until Friday, so she'd wash. She filled the stainless steel Lifetime coffeemaker half full of water, set it on the gas range, and flicked a knob to turn on the burner. She got down the large red container of Folgers coffee and spooned a portion into the top of the coffeemaker before quietly gathering hampers, dirty towels, wet washcloths.

She frowned as she entered the boys' room and stumbled on soiled clothes strewn across the floor, a sure sign of a significant lack of respect. How often had she asked them to please scoop up all their dirty clothes and throw them in the hamper? She'd even put a plastic laundry basket in their room
—
one without a lid
—
so it would only take one second to carry out this small act of obedience instead of two or three. Time for another pep talk.

Her hand slid along the top of the nightstand, searching for the small flashlight Elmer kept there. She grimaced when the alarm clock slid off the edge and crashed to the floor. Elmer lifted his head and blinked, his hair sticking up in all the wrong directions, a scary silhouette from the dim lamp in the hall.

“Sorry,” Ruth whispered. “Getting your clothes.”

He flopped onto his stomach, hunching his shoulders to pull up the covers, made a few smacking sounds with his mouth, and went back to sleep.

No flashlight. Well, she'd try and get everything although, inevitably, she always found a dirty sock or a crumpled t-shirt under the bed when she cleaned.

Now to start the diesel. No time or need for a sweater as she'd only be out for a minute. She stepped briskly out into the dark morning and took a few steps across the wooden porch floor before the toe of her sneaker connected with a solid object. With a startled cry, she pitched forward.

The old boxwoods by the porch softened her landing, crackling beneath her weight as she came to a stop. She rolled off the breaking shrubs, leapt to her feet, and brushed bits of mulch and leaves off her apron.

Ouch. Her shin was throbbing, painfully bruised from connecting with the edge of the porch, or…was it? Yes, it was another banana box. Well, she'd wait until the children awoke to let them experience the thrill of the box's contents.

When the first load of whites was being churned back and forth by the washer's agitator, the hot water and clothing rhythmically slapping the sides of the machine and the frothy suds appearing and disappearing, Ruth went to the kitchen, turned off the burner, and poured the boiling water over the coffee grounds. She set the top part of the coffeemaker over the emptied lower section and put it back on the stove to drip. The rich, flavorful aroma from the dripping coffee gave her a boost of energy and well being.

They'd likely have snow today. Wouldn't it be wonderful? Maybe they'd even have a white Christmas! The children could go sledding at Doddy Lapp's.

She went to the boys' room and whispered loudly, “Elmer! Roy! Kommet (Come).”

“Esther!”

Sleepy little sounds of denial met her voice, and she smiled, anticipating telling the children of her clumsy tumble into the bushes. Lifting her foot to a chair, she pushed down the black knee sock and examined the dark, angry bruise that had appeared there, surrounded by a faint bluish ring. She certainly had slammed that leg. Well, nothing to do about it now. Gingerly, she pulled the sock back up and went to feed the first load of clothes through the wringer.

After the water had been squeezed from the clothes, Ruth took up her hanging ring, a clever handmade item that was exactly that
—
a ring made of white PVC piping with wooden clothespins dangling from it, a few inches apart and attached by a sturdy nylon cord. All the socks, underwear, handkerchiefs, bibs, baby onesies, and numerous other small items were attached to the clothespins and, in the winter, carried to the basement to be hung above the coal stove, where they'd be dry in a jiffy. Those rings were a housewife's dream, and every wash day Ruth appreciated hers with her six children and all the piles of small, wet items to be hung up.

Back and forth she hurried with the Rubbermaid clothesbasket, up and down the basement stairs, making sure the boys and Esther were up and starting to pack their lunches.

It was an unspoken rule. If they heard the air motor and knew their mother was washing, they'd have to finish packing lunches for school. She set the brightly colored plastic lunchboxes side by side on the countertop each evening, put their pretzels in sandwich bags, and chocolate chip cookies, too. All they needed to do was make their own sandwiches and add an apple or canned peaches or pears.