A Treasury of Christmas Stories (3 page)

I live in the Northwest now, where we rarely get snow at Christmas. But each Christmas Eve, I think of that snowy night when I went to gather water at the Christmas well. As I turn on the lights in my windows and on the Christmas tree, I look outside at my tree-lined street to where a city light stands guard above the hedges. I don't even have to close my eyes to see the Christmas well glowing there under its light, the snow falling down on its cylindrical shape and the neighbors gathered around. It is etched forever in my mind.

Let us always be neighbors to one another, not only during the holiday season, but throughout the year.

Janet Lynn Oakley
is the education curator at Skagit County Historical Museum in LaConner, Washington. She has published school and museum curricula as well as articles in historical journals and popular magazines, completed four novels and a picture book, and enjoys a good family yarn.

Star of Wonder

By Carol Tokar Pavliska

T
HE DARKNESS
, though encompassing, was anything but quiet and still. Three little figures bounced along in front of me, flashlight beams jerking spastically around, revealing split-second images: fencepost, pasture, dirt, packed clay, yellow coat, green cap. My husband reached over and held my cold hand in his large, warm one. He squeezed once to let me know he was aware of my gloomy mood.

I stepped up my pace, determined to outdistance the shadow of sadness that followed me, so as to share in the joy of my family's winter ritual. This was the night of our “cold walk.”

It was a perfect night, really. Rarely in our South Texas climate does the first cold night of the season happen to hit on the night we first turn on our Christmas lights. But on this night it had happened. We were able to take our cold walk with the added bonus of viewing our Christmas lights from a distance.

After a long, extremely hot summer and a short indistinguishable fall, the first cold front to blast across Texas is a noticeable event. There are some who say we don't have a true change of seasons in South Texas, but with or without leaves in various shades of red, when an icy wind slaps you in the face immediately on the tail of a warm southern breeze, you'd better believe you notice it.

When I was a child, my father had celebrated this exciting change in the weather with a cold walk. After a summer and fall spent in shorts and sandals, my sister and I were awkwardly bundled up in our somewhat foreign coats and hats. We then headed out into the darkness, leaving our mother behind to stir up some hot cocoa with which to welcome us home.

We'd walk with our dad, basking in the shocking chill that we knew could very well be gone by the next day, replaced again by balmy air. Over the years, we spent many a Christmas Eve with our windows open and fans whirring, so we cherished this bit of winter and secretly hoped for a Christmas where we wouldn't wilt beneath our brand-new sweaters.

As we took our cold walk with Dad, my sister and I would watch our long shadows and puff our frosty breath. It was a little bit scary out there in the dark, and a whole lot of fun. We'd walk until our noses stung and our fingers grew numb and slipped from the mittens grasped by our father's strong hands. We wanted the walk to last forever, and at the same time, we couldn't wait for it to end so we could rush back to the warmth of our house and our mother's arms.

I let my mind linger on the sweet memories of my childhood as I walked down our farm's dirt lane with my husband and children, walking briskly to warm myself in the bracing air. Yet, I found myself trying to shake off more than the chill. I was trying to shake off the overwhelming feeling of sadness I had carried home from a visit with my parents, earlier in the day.

The usual excitement of the Christmas season was painfully absent from their house. There had been no tree. There had been no lights. My dad had tried to welcome me with a hug, but his fatigue was so great that he could barely manage a smile. His shoulders were as full as my mother's eyes were empty. Rather than Christmas cheer filling the air, it was shrouded in the darkness and gloom of Alzheimer's disease.

I had hoped that, somehow, the magic of Christmas would have found its way into my childhood home. But it had not. Christmas had forgotten my parents. My parents had forgotten Christmas. I felt forgotten, as well. Forgotten by my mother who didn't remember my name, and worse, forgotten by God.

I had stayed and helped my dad, who suffered the very hard work of being a lone caregiver. I had done the best I could to lighten his load, but as I left I had the usual feeling that nothing had changed. Nothing I had been able to do during my visit seemed to matter much in the grander scheme of things. I could not bring the light back to my mother's eyes, and I missed the warmth of her arms.

Now, outside in the cold, surrounded by my elated children, I gave my shoulders one last shake and quickened my step. I was determined to take my own youngsters on a cold walk they'd always remember.

The sky was bright with stars, crisp and clear, and little voices cut through the air with shrieks of delight. The children watched their breath and gazed in delight from beneath knit caps at the frigid night world while trying to hold on to flashlights with mitten-clad hands.

As I walked, I felt the shadow of sadness falling farther behind. The bite of the cold air against my face woke me up to the joy of the night, and of the moment. As we arrived at the very end of our long dirt lane, right where it meets up with a longer dirt road, we prepared to turn around and head back. But just before we could, we saw a spectacular thing: A beautiful falling star, red and flaming with a huge sparkling tail, blazed across the sky.

We stood speechless as it lit up our night — and literally shot from end to end of the sky, staying visible for several seconds. Shocked silence quickly gave way to hoops and hollers of excitement as the children realized what they'd seen: their first falling star. What a sign!

As we headed home, I felt my burden lift and a sense of peace envelop me. My husband was equally excited, intrigued by how close we'd come to missing it completely. Could I believe that they were all three looking? Could I believe it happened just before we turned around? The timing, he thought, was accidentally perfect.

But I felt there was no way we would have missed that star. It was our star, meant especially for us. I could almost hear a voice say,
I haven't forgotten you. I see you down there in the darkness. I hear your joyful cries. And I hear your painful pleas. I was just waiting until you were looking to answer.

We walked home quietly, the shadow of sadness replaced with something else. Not hope, really. More like … reassurance.

The comforting feeling followed us back down our dark country lane, made crisp and cold by a burst of wind from the north. Back to our small and plain house, made somehow spectacular by a row of colored lights, shining bright in a dark pasture. Back to warmth, our hearts renewed by a falling star that carried a very special Christmas message:

We are not forgotten.

Carol Tokar Pavliska
lives with her husband and four children on a farm in Floresville, Texas, where she writes a family humor column for the local newspaper. Raising and homeschooling her children is her primary occupation and focus.

Where the Heart Is

By Christy Lanier-Attwood

“
CHRISTY, GO TELL
your brother and sisters to hurry up,” Mom said.

“All right,” I groaned. At nine years old, I found being the oldest child a gigantic burden.

I cupped my hands to round up my siblings, but Dad beat me to the punch. From the front door his voice boomed out, “Get a move on, kids. At the rate you're going, we won't get to Grandma's house until tomorrow.”

Grandpa also lived there, but for some reason no one ever called it his house.

“Last one to the car's a rotten egg,” Derris yelled over his shoulder as he ran outside, heading for the car.

Gari and Cynthia hollered, “Dibs on shotgun,” and took off after him.

Being the family thinker, I lagged behind and ended up squashed in the middle of the backseat. I elbowed my way to a comfortable position before Dad started the car and the chatter began. Try to imagine six people crunched in a compact car, everyone doing their darnedest to outtalk the others. No one got a word in edgewise, and most of the time it didn't matter anyway, because everyone only half listened to each other.

“I wish it would snow,” said seven-year-old Cynthia, the family dreamer.

“Have you lost your mind?” I asked her. “It's eighty degrees today.”

“So? It could snow.” She made a face and stuck out her tongue.

“I wouldn't want that nasty thing in my mouth either,” I said.

“Christy, you're the oldest,” Dad reminded me. “You know better than to pick a fight.”

See what I mean? I got blamed for everything, whether it was my fault or not.

Cynthia mouthed a silent, “Nah-nah-nah-nah-nah-nah,” just about the time Mom's singsong voice resonated over the front seat. “Y'all better behave. Santa Claus might be listening.”

Santa was definitely listening, since he was the one driving us to Grandma's.

Here's how I'd learned the truth: The year before on Christmas Eve, I got up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom and caught sight of Mom and Dad in the living room. One by one, Dad removed gifts from a huge department store bag and held them out to Mom, whose eyes sparkled like the lights on the Christmas tree. With every gift Dad handed her, Mom returned a tender smile before she turned to place the package under the tree.

From my hiding position behind the dining table, I watched in silence for some time and then tiptoed from the room back to my bed. I fell asleep feeling a little sad about Santa, but my heart felt happy, even though I wasn't quite sure why.

By the way, I never came clean about my discovery.

“What do you think Grandma will give us?” my brother asked from his lucky window position.

Mom twisted around in the seat and faced us. “I wonder.” Her light blue eyes twinkled.

I'm sure she was kidding. A few days before, I'd heard her talking to Grandma on the telephone. She said, “I'll pick out something nice for the kids with the money that you sent, Momma.” I think Grandma was much too old to go shopping, so Mom had to do it for her.

Gari squirmed around like a wiggly worm. “Are we almost there?” She was only four, so the thirty-five minute drive probably seemed like infinity to her.

Mom reached around to the backseat and patted Gari's curly blond head. “It won't be long, honey.”

“I hope Santa comes while we're gone.” Derris's head was always in the clouds, just like Cynthia's, which made perfect sense. After all, they were twins.

Derris wanted a bicycle, but he was most likely going to be disappointed. Right after Thanksgiving I'd heard Dad tell Mom that he was working hard as he could just to scrape up enough money to buy food, much less Christmas presents. Mom looked like she was going to bust out crying. My heart ached seeing her so sad. I wanted to hug her and tell her I didn't care if she got me anything, but I didn't want to get in trouble for overhearing something not meant for my ears. Besides, I wouldn't have been telling the truth. What nine-year-old doesn't want presents?

“We're here,” Dad called out. He stopped the car at the large two-story house where my mother and her five brothers and sisters had grown up.

We tore out of the car like it was on fire.

Grandma's front door was open and through the screen I could see loads of relatives inside. Many had spilled outdoors onto the huge front porch. A few swayed back and forth on the old white swing, some stood around talking, and others sat on the steps.

When we got close enough, they smothered us with kisses. After they said how much we kids had grown (what did they expect?), Mom steered us inside for more smooches. I suffered through, only because I knew I'd soon be able to play.

There were cousins galore in our family, and every year the numbers grew. I once mentioned how many new babies there were to my older cousin Danny. He told me the reason: “We're Czech Catholics and we do it for the pope.” I had no idea what he meant, but he laughed like he'd told a great joke, and so did I, just like I'd gotten it.

Before long Grandma stood in the center of the dining room and announced it was time to eat. “Let's say the blessing,” she said. In unison we spoke the prayer we'd all learned at an early age. “Bless us, oh Lord, and these thy gifts which we are about to receive from thy bounty, through Christ, Our Lord. Amen.”

Then everyone dove in. The dining table was loaded with turkey and dressing, Grandma's creamy vinegar green beans, salads, and homemade rolls. The buffet held pies, cakes, and cookies, and my favorite, kolaches. I jam-packed my plate with much more than I could possibly eat.

With a family of at least fifty, everyone took a seat wherever they could find one. I sat in a living-room chair and balanced the dinner plate on my lap. The cheerful voices, delicious food, and anticipation of the night's remaining Christmas Eve festivities made me tickled to be part of the huge family.

After dinner the aunts and married female cousins cleaned up the dishes while the men chose the table where their favorite game would be played. From one table came the clickity-clack of “bones” being mixed up on the Formica top for a domino game. At another table, tall funny-looking cards from Czechoslovakia were shuffled for tarosy.

The kids took off outside to shoot firecrackers. The sun had set and the night air was so cold we were breathing smoke when we talked. About ten cousins, plus my siblings, were running around screaming and yelling. We were having more fun than a barrel of monkeys, until we were asked to come inside and sing Christmas carols. You could tell by the way the grownups' voices barreled out the melodies that this was the part they liked the best, even if most couldn't come close to carrying a tune.