The Book of Christmas Virtues (6 page)

“But why so
much
?” Lee snatches a couple of toffee bars and crams his mouth full. I roll my eyes at his duplicity.

“Tradition,” I say.

And, dear Lord, on one level, it
is.
But, I ask myself, does tradition alone justify my annual cooking frenzy? I've done it since I was a teen practicing home ec class recipes. During ensuing years, I involved the children in the fun, building happy memories, packaging gifts of food for friends and family.

Now, with the kids raised, the activity has become, at times, tiresome. Yet the urge persists. Mystified, I wonder,
What is the core of this crazy compulsion?

Later, I browse through some old family photos.

“Look, here's my Two-Mama,” I tell Lee. “Remember how, after we married, we used to visit during Christmas? As far back as I can remember, she always had goodies of every description to feed us. I loved the way she would always . . .”

Tears spring to my eyes. I
miss
her. She and PaPa have been gone for many years. I remind Lee how my grandparents' fragrant house welcomed and cheered me during childhood holidays, how their table sprouted delectable treats and how she always had plenty. Two-Mama made sure her loved ones never left her home hungry, even loading us down with carry-home bags.

That's it!

My Yuletide frenzy evokes memories of Two-Mama's gift to me.
That's
what motivates me! I never felt more loved than there, in her home, knowing in my child's mind that she'd prepared all this in honor of me. She celebrated me with all those goodies. That was her way of loving.

I smile at Lee. “I guess now it's my turn to celebrate my loved ones. It's my way of loving them.” He squeezes my hand in understanding.

So, five weeks later, here I am: ten pounds heavier, crash-landed back to sanity. I'm also exhausted.

“Y'know,” I admit to Lee, propping my swollen feet on the coffee table, “I'm getting older. I believe next year I'll skip the candy-making thing.”

“That's a good idea, hon.” He winks at me.

This time, I vow I'll remain staunch. Immovable. At least until Thanksgiving rolls around, and I hear those first strains, “I'll be ho-o-me for Christ-maaaas . . .”

Emily Sue Harvey

Nickled and Dimed

I was sitting at my desk involved in paperwork one sunny May afternoon when the door opened, and a young boy, about nine or ten, came into the store.

He walked confidently toward me and said he wanted to purchase a gift for his father. His serious countenance made it obvious: This was a mission of importance.

As we wound through the furniture division of Loy's Office Supplies, he expressed dismay at the cost of each chair and lamp. Finally, I suggested a desk-pad set. With eyes glowing, he thoughtfully chose a maroon faux leather unit with matching pencil cup, memo holder and letter opener. His joy nearly matched my own—the whole process ate two hours of my time—and we headed toward my desk to finalize the sale.

“Okay, I'll be in every week to pay on this for my dad,” said young Michael Murphy.

“And you'll pick it up just before Father's Day?” I asked.

“Oh, no, ma'am. This is for Christmas.”

My mouth gaped as wide as my eyes when he handed me his first payment: a nickel and two dimes. But that day changed all of our lives at Loy's.

As the months passed, neither rain nor snow kept Michael away. Week after week, he arrived promptly at four o'clock every Friday to make his payment. His mother stood outside during each recorded transaction, and one day I asked to meet her.

From her, I learned that Michael's father was out of work. She took in laundry and ironing to eke out a living for the family of seven. I felt badly, but I respected their pride and refusal of help. But with the approach of winter, all of us at Loy's noticed Michael wore only a thin sweater, no matter how deep the snow. We concocted a story about a stray coat left at the store—that just happened to be his size. It worked.

One day Michael ran in to announce he had a job— bringing in the newspaper and sweeping the front steps for an old lady down the street every day after school. The ten cents she paid each week would bring him closer to his purchase.

As the holiday season drew near, I feared Michael would not have enough money to pay off the gift, but my boss advised me not to worry.

Two days before Christmas, a dejected Michael came into the store. He hadn't earned enough money to make his final payment.

“Could I please take the present for my dad so he'll have it for Christmas?” His eyes bored straight into my own. “I promise I'll be in after Christmas to finish paying it off.”

Before I could answer, my boss looked up.

“Why, young man, there's a sale on desk sets today.” He glanced at a paper in his hand. “I think it's only fair that you get the sale price, too.”

That meant his dad's gift was paid for!

Michael raced outside to tell his mother. Amid teary hugs and broken thank-yous, we sent them on their way, with Michael clasping the precious, gift-wrapped present to his chest. All of us were proud of Michael's commitment to his project and his devotion to the dad he loved so much.

A few weeks after Christmas, a shabbily dressed man came into Loy's and limped directly to my desk.

“Are you the lady my son Michael talks about?” His voice was gruff and as oversized as the man himself.

When I nodded, Mr. Murphy paused. He cleared his throat.

“I've just come to thank you for all your help and patience. We don't have much,” he picked at his worn glove, “and I still can't believe that youngster would do this for his old dad. I'm awful proud of him.”

Rising from my chair, I walked around the desk to give him a hug. “We think Michael is pretty special, too. As we watched him pay off that desk set, it was clear he loves you very much.”

Mr. Murphy smiled in agreement and walked away. But as he approached the door, his head swiveled my way and he blinked back the tears.

“And you know what? I don't even own a desk!”

Binkie Dussault

Fair Game

The real intent of our holiday trips to my wife's family in Oregon is for her to visit with her sisters and niece, along with shopping and cooking, of course. So I'm left twiddling my thumbs a lot, nobody to play with. Except my nephews Adam, Jimmy and Tyler.

A few years ago, I initiated an “Uncle and Nephews' Day” when we go out in force and spend time together doing something, somewhere. Bowling, skiing on Mt. Hood, whatever. Unbridled fun and freedom from parents with rules that only uncles and nephews share. Secrets and promises kept, love secured.

This time, I suggest a drive to the Coast Range west of Portland to an elk refuge called Jewell Meadows where hundreds of magnificent Roosevelt elk congregate.

“It's awesome,” I assure my nephews. “Warm steam shoots from their black nostrils as they sound an eerie paean,” I wax poetic. “We'll hear big bulls bugle their mating calls and see them proudly standing at attention as they oversee their harems.”

The nephews say they're game.

On a cold, damp December morning, nephews and uncle—puffed in parkas—pile into an old sedan and head west in anticipation. The guys are loose again!

Now, Uncle hasn't been to Jewell Meadows in a couple of years maybe, but feels certain he knows the way.

Wrong.

Taking the well-remembered turnoff to the north and the I'm-sure-we-go-left-here crossroad, the beige Volvo wanders onto snowy mountain roads that become more and more unfamiliar.

The three nephews, ages twelve to fifteen, hurl taunts that are immediately challenged, which escalates into an exchange of witticisms and good-natured personal insults.

It's a guy thing.

It's how guys show love: taking potshots at each other, poking at each other's weaknesses and sensitivities. It's primitive preparation for the competitiveness they'll face as men in this still occasionally Neanderthal world of aggressive mentalities. Whether blue- or white-collar combat, it's all the same. This banter toughens them and keeps them tough, with an underlying, supportive subtext of love.

An uncle is a special being, both buddy and adult authority figure. More slack than dad, more unguarded camaraderie. An equal for a nephew—but an equal with acknowledged wisdom amid his playfulness.

An uncle is like a god, but pleasantly flawed and bemused by earthly existence. An uncle lets you in on the secret: Nobody really knows what life is all about, but don't worry about it. Be a good person and enjoy life to its fullest.

Heck, everyone's lost in the winter woods looking for elk and laughing their tails off over Uncle's ramblings. Ain't it great?

After two hours of wandering—with the required detours: roadside pit stops to pee, snowball fights in drifts with dog piles of nephews on top of Uncle, then pushing the car back onto the road from icy shoulders—Uncle stumbles onto the road to Jewell Meadows.

But today, the long-sought meadow—historically populated with 400 to 500 regal animals against verdant green grass and bucolic woods beyond—is abo-so-lutely . . .
empty.

Not an elk in sight.

“So, Uncle, where's the elk? We don't see any elk.” Nephews are on Uncle's case.

Uncle's heart sinks; his male ego falters; his child leadership merit badge is at risk. Uncle's macho dissolves into nacho.

“I don't know,” Uncle stammers. “They're
always
here,
hundreds
of them. This is weird. Maybe they're off in the tree line browsing. They do that sometimes. Let's get out of the car and walk up to the fence. Take the binoculars, too. They've got to be here somewhere.”

All four guys zip up parkas, snug down wool caps, grab the binocs and creep to the fence.

Eyeing the tree line some three hundred yards across the meadow, they stare and stare. They begin to hallucinate. First, individually, then en masse.

“I see one.”

“Look over there, just past that big, funny-looking bush.”

“THERE. See it? See, it's moving.”

But no amount of conviction unearths an elk. It's cold; snow is on the ground; they've crossed the continent for the Promised Land and there's no gold. No milk. No honey.

Nothin'.

Uncle rallies. “Oh, I get it.”

Eyes hopeful, the three defeated nephews swivel their heads as one in his direction.

Uncle nods knowingly. “It's Christmas time, that's why.”

“Huh? What's that got to do with it?” all three demand.

“Remember . . .” and, on the spot, Uncle begins a serenade. His voice floats over the entire meadow, a new twist on an old carol.

“No-o-elk, No-elk . . .”

The nephews are stunned. They actually lean away from Uncle, mouths agape, struck dumb, incredulous.

“No-o-elk, No-elk . . .”

They can't believe what they're hearing. Adam, the eldest, recovers first. “You brought us all the way out here to do THAT?”

In turn, the others arrive at the same conclusion: They've been had. Shagged. Deceived. Misled. Tricked.

“Aw, man.”

“I can't believe it.”

“Du-ude . . .”

They turn from the fence and toward Uncle. He's about to be a dead man. He knows it—and he can't wait.

The nephews attack full force, wrestle him down, pound on him, sit on him, jump on him and pelt him with snow. He resists not at all.

It's great. He earned it; he loves it. He loves
them.

And they love him.

James Daigh

Nothin' Says Lovin' Like . . .

Christmas was coming, and I didn't have one ounce of spirit or energy. I couldn't even muster a half-hearted “ho-ho.” I was a gray heap of sorrow, enmeshed in my own pity party.

I had taken a last walk with my closest friend that year and still grieved her passing. Neither of my away-from-home daughters would be able to get back for the holidays. My recently retired husband, grappling with his own identity, didn't or couldn't see that I was a mess. My joints ached; I felt old, looked old and was losing my grip on things that had always been so sure and steady in my life. I slogged through my days, unable to even recognize myself.

I mourned for the past when everything ran smoothly: The girls were growing; I was busy and involved in their lives; my husband was working. My grief had reached crisis proportions after our move across town a few months earlier. Even my neighbors had been replaced with strangers.

I tried walking the new neighborhood. I tried holiday shopping. I even saw a movie or two. But I felt like I had lost my way. Then the phone rang one afternoon.

“Isabel,” a voice chirped. “It's Julie. Nicholas is wondering if you're planning your annual cookie-baking day. Are you?”