Gee whiz, its Christmas By Paul Della Valle, Worcester Mag, back in the day As the man grew older, the Christmas spirit became more elusive each year until, by his fifth decade, it some years came barely at all and the holidays became just another hassle. But sometimes the man remembered. He remembered the warm Christmas feeling in the three-decker in Quincy and later in the big two-family in Weymouth. And he remembered being a boy who believed, of setting up the manger on top of the television and making a star of tin foil to hang on the rabbit ear antenna above the stable. And he remembered saving his paper route money to buy presents at the St. Francis Xavier Church bazaar for his grandpa and nana and mom and dad and brothers and sister, and, how as a child, giving meant more to him than getting. The years passed and the joys and disappointments that flow like a river through all lives flowed through his. And the boy became a man, and maybe to protect himself from the disappointments, he hardened some and sometimes he forgot to cherish the things that bring true joy: his children and wife, the love of family and good friends. And so Friday he drank his beer and worried about selfish thing and went to bed; just two weeks from Christmas and he had felt not one iota of the spirit yet, felt nothing but disdain for those fools with the colored light in their windows and smiles on their faces. Bah, humbug, he might have said if he talked that way. WHUMP. Early Saturday morning the 4-year-old jumped on the man in his bed. WHUMP. The 7-year-old jumped on too. Are we going to get the tree, daddy? they shouted. Are we going to get the tree? The man looked at the alarm clock — 8 a.m. — and he looked out the bedroom window and saw the hard cold rain. Then he looked at his girls faces as bright as ornaments. Yes, he said. We will go get the tree. The girls began to dance and for the next hour, as the man drank coffee and shaved and read the papers, the 4-year-old would say Are we going to get the tree now? Are we going to get the tree now? and finally the man said OK, go wake up your brother and the girls did — WHUMP, WHUMP — followed by the teen-age boys grinch-like Get the hell off of me. Soon the family was at the French Hill Farm in West Boylston, standing alone in the rain in a field of brown grass and blue and green Christmas trees. They had paid the girl in the house $29 and could pick any tree they wanted. It did not take long. A spruces life was spared on a 3-2 vote. A 10-foot-high balsam was nominated by the mans wife and won on a 4-1 vote. The 7-year-old dissented in favor of the blue spruce but, in the best tradition of democracy, she quickly changed her vote and made it unanimous. Home the balsam rode on top of the van, the 4-year-old so excited she fidgeted like she had to pee. Are we going to decorate it when we get home? Are we? Are we? Back home, the man put on the familys favorite Christmas album, Soul Christmas, and soon the voices of the Drifters and Carla Thomas and Otis Redding joined the smell of evergreen in filling the room: Merry Christmas, baby, sure did treat me nice. And soon the kids and mom and dad were dancing around singing Gee whiz, its Christmas and even the lights, always a pain since half of them dont work, became this year a joyous pain. Next came the bulbs. In her excitement, the 4-year-old dropped one on the hardwood floor and it shattered. Dooooo, the girl said, just like her favorite cartoon character, Homer Simpson, and everyone laughed. And the sound of the ornament breaking reminded the man of a Christmas long ago when one of his brothers got a toy gun for Christmas, a big green gun that shot red plastics bullets. He remembered how that afternoon the brothers discovered blasting ornaments off the tree was more fun than just about anything else they could do. And then their old man came in and yelled but couldnt resist blowing an ornament or two off the tree himself. And then their mother came in and yelled Rocco, at the old man, and she was so mad at all of them because vast amounts of bulbs lay broken on the floor. And the man told his children that story and they all laughed and asked questions and so he told the story again. He did not tell them about the time his mother had one of her miscarriages on Christmas morning; that as the children came out of their rooms the ambulance attendants came rushing in. He did not tell them how his mother, bleeding and weak, refused to let them take her to the hospital until she saw the look on Tommys face when her second youngest son discovered the tricycle he had begged Santa for, the shiny new tricycle their old man had worked two jobs to afford. No, the man would tell his children about that at another time, when they would understand why, though his family didnt have a lot of money when he was growing up, he never felt poor. And the man watched the children hang the ornaments they had made in school, each with a photo of themselves and each photo now one year older. And he thought how fast it goes by, and how he has so much to be thankful for but often isnt. He thought of how easy it is forget that the beauty of time is they were here together now, the family, and nothing else really mattered. On Saturday night, the rain turned to snow. His wife went to her job waiting tables, and the man and his children shut the lights out and ate spaghetti by candle light. The Christmas tree glistened in the corner, while outside the swirling snow gave the world a new coat, another chance. And late that night, while the children and his wife slept snug in their beds, the man put on the Soul Christmas CD again. He sat in the darkness with a glass of wine as Luther Vandross sang For your Christmas this year, may the happiness you find bring you love. The man looked at the sparkling tree and thanked God that the spirit had found him again. -30-
Posted on: Fri, 19 Dec 2014 21:05:31 +0000
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