Recently my brother and I discussed
our worst Christmas ever. Even though the ones since then may not always have
been joyous, none will ever compare with the worst.
On February 16, 1954, I stepped off
the school bus just like every other day. I looked toward our house and saw
cars parked in our driveway and along both sides of the street. Some I
recognized. Some I didn’t.
As I walked home, I kept running
different possible scenarios through my head as to why so many people would be
at our house. None of them made sense.
My confusion deepened when I opened
the door and saw my aunts, several neighbors, and some of my parents’ friends
sitting and standing around the living room and in the kitchen. Most appeared
to be crying.
I grew even more alarmed when I looked
down the hall. The window blind on the glass back door had been pulled down,
leaving the corridor in shadow.
My mother started toward me. She wore
a brown and white striped dress I disliked. Her eyes were red, and my dad’s
father had his arm around her as they approached.
My first thought was: That’s really weird. They hate each other.
Why is Grandpa holding onto my mother?
She walked up to me and said, “Your
daddy died this morning.”
I realized everyone in the room was
staring at me as if they expected something. Since they had all been crying, I
decided to conjure up a few tears. They came more from fear and confusion than
from any real emotion.
My aunt brought me a glass of tomato
juice.
I was seven years old and realized my
whole world had just changed, only I wasn’t really sure quite how yet.
The concept of death wasn’t new to me.
My grandfather had died when I was twenty-six months old, and I was still keenly
aware of his absence.
My four-year-old brother wasn’t
present. I later learned he’d been sent across the street to another neighbor’s
house.
Christmas
1953, the year before the worst one ever.
As an adult,
I realize what this moment must have been like for our mother. She had been
raised to expect to spend her life as a wife and mother. Suddenly, at thirty-six
years old, she was responsible for raising two small children without their
father. And Dad’s $1000 life insurance policy provided only enough to bury him.
From then
on, it was as if my dad had simply evaporated. We never spoke of him, and we
were never given permission to grieve for him. The three of us didn’t do so
until over fifty years later.
The next morning,
I was sent off to school as if nothing had changed.
The
atmosphere there contained the same unreality as at home. My father had died
the day before, yet no one said anything about it. Not my teacher. Not the
other students, No one. There, life went on as usual, only I no longer felt a
part of it.
I have many
memories of the next few days, but the most vivid is my crying and begging to
be allowed to go to the funeral. Following the wisdom of the day, however, I
was once again sent off to school.
Just before
Christmas, Mom announced we would spend Christmas Eve with my grandmother. She
was not like the warm and fuzzy grandmas I’d seen in movies and on TV. Our grandmother
was starched and stiff and had the gift of criticism. She had made it clear to
both of us that, no matter what we accomplished, it would never meet her high
standards. I worked hard for years to gain her approval, only to be met with more
suggestions for improvement.
On Christmas
morning, my brother and I woke early to discover that Santa had, as promised,
found us at Grandma’s house. I remember several gifts I received that year,
including a life-sized doll with elastic bands on her feet and hands so you
could dance with her. It was certainly not anything I would have thought to ask
for. It looked sort-of like this one, only not dressed quite as well.
Shortly
afterward, I wandered into my grandmother’s service porch and discovered the
boxes and shopping bags from our gifts. In our house, Santa removed the toys
from their packaging to put under the tree.
Here was concrete
proof that my friends had been right. Santa was a story we were told by our
parents. I had asked and asked my mother about what they had told me, but she
insisted that a real person in a red suit brought our Christmas gifts.
My first
thought upon my discovery was: If Mom
lied about this, what else has she lied to us about?
When my
daughter was born, I made myself a promise never to lie to her. When she asked
me the same questions I’d asked my mother, my stock response became, “What do
you think?” Then I’d nod in agreement with whatever logic she had come up with.
When it
finally came out that she knew the truth and had for quite some time, I asked
her why she hadn’t said anything.
After my
assurance that she’d still get her ‘Santa gift,’ her answer made me cry. “I didn’t
want to spoil your fun, Mommy.”
What a
different scenario from my own childhood when, within the span of less than a
year, I lost my father, Santa Claus, and my trust in my mother’s veracity.
It took time
before I found the joy in Christmas again, but because we were quite poor, I
always knew I would never get the gift I most wanted. The year when all my
friends received new bicycles, a much-needed robe awaited me on Christmas
morning. I would have to save all my money and earn more before I finally
bought my own bike. And even then, I was not allowed to buy the one I wanted.
The year
1954 provides a clear line marking the end of my childhood.
Do you have
a worst Christmas story? When was it, and what happened?