Thursday, December 21, 2017

Christmas Spirits

A handwritten sign for a tag sale on Meriweather Lane caught my eye as I drove home after some Christmas shopping.  A tag sale!  In December!  Did I really want or need to shuffle around a chilly garage perusing someone’s cast-offs?  Of course not.

But I took the left on Meriweather, pulled over to the curb in front of a brick McMansion, and parked.  I silenced the radio and Perry Como’s jolly partridges and pears and pocketed my keys.  As I walked up the driveway, a dog barked inside the house, and a male voice called out, “Be there in a minute!  Just putting on a sweater!”

The garage door gaped open to admit me, watery sunlight, and raw cold.  Tables laden with books, worn holiday decorations, tin cookie cutters, clay molds, stacks of vinyl record albums, craft supplies, and a battalion of miniature Eiffel Towers were set wherever they could fit.  I had to inch past a folded wheelchair to view items toward the back.

Drawn by the cover illustration of a koala, I flipped through the pages of a children’s book.  The colorful pictures of raccoons, owls, and bears were appealing, so I decided to buy it for my grandson, Paul. Other than that, my browsing was done and when the homeowner appeared, I was ready to leave.

He was pale and slight of build, and his flyaway, graying hair was disheveled, no doubt from the tussle with his argyle sweater.  He gave me a rundown on general pricing then added, “unless it’s something unique... like Susan’s wheelchair.”

He was clearly disappointed when I held up my lone find.

“Oh.  Well. That’ll be $.25.”

As I rooted about in my pocketbook for a quarter, I remarked on his courage in holding a December tag sale.

“Truthfully, I’ve been holding them off and on since July.  My wife – that’s her wheelchair – died in June.”

“Oh no.  I’m so sorry….”

“They wanted to put Susan in a home, but I promised her that as long as I lived I would take care of her here.  And I did.”

His eyes reddened as he spoke with admiration of Susan’s degrees, career, and command of five languages.  “When I think of her at a podium, speaking before large audiences… or here, hosting parties for her students… yes, she was like that.  We always had groups of students around.  And then," he paused, his voice wavering, "she had a stroke.  So, take care of any little health issues you have: high blood pressure, high cholesterol, diabetes.  These took Susan down.”

He pulled out a handkerchief and wadded it to his eyes as tears flowed. My own eyes filled as I imagined the difference in this man and this house when Susan - vibrant, brilliant Susan - was here as companion and hostess. 

Christmas is poignant even in the absence of loss.  The plastic bins hauled from our attic are filled with memories.  Christmases past are layered between white sheets of tissue: popsicle stick ornaments made by my kids in elementary school, the velveteen Santa from my parents for Tucker’s first Christmas.  Ornaments of bread dough and papier mache that conjure family craft projects in the early eighties.  So many Santas, angels, and artfully decorated Styrofoam balls given or created over the years by friends and family.  I miss those days when my own parents were youthful and strong, when our kids, giddy with excitement, snuggled in bed to wait for Saint Nicholas.

But Christmas Present is richly blessed!  The day itself has not yet arrived, and Dave and I have already celebrated in Rhode Island with my side of the family.  We attended a joyful musical performance at our grandniece’s school and reveled at the cascades of confetti at its end. We have gathered with friends over too-much food, joined the shopping bustle at Barnes and Noble and the mall, and listened, happily, to countless versions of “White Christmas.” And we helped our daughter and her husband prepare for their first party in their new house.

How many times have I looked over at my Dave through all these festivities and felt a prickle in my nose at seeing that dear, beaming face loving these people and cherishing these moments as fully as I am?  Soon enough, these will be the days that make me misty even as now I miss their brethren past.

We recently discovered a treasure from 1982, a tape of Tucker reciting "The Night Before Christmas” with the help of a few cues whispered in the background by his dad.  Dave and I listen and smile, eyes bright and damp as our little one’s childish sing-song voice announces, “BUMPF! Down the chimney Saint Nicholas came with a bound,” adding that ”BUMPF!” as we always did in reading the story to him, just as we add it now while reading to Paul.  And Paul hoots, “BUMPF!” with the same exuberance his father once did.

Recently my sister Rita sent a nostalgic text after she’d re-read a commemorative book she’d made with the hymns, readings, and eulogies from my dad’s funeral.  “I honestly thought it had been four years [since he died],” she wrote, “I’m losing time!  It’s been six!”  It’s hard to believe my big, solid, mischievous, boisterous, funny, beloved father has been among the ghosts of Christmases past for that long.

The other night, Dave and I were out to dinner at Molto, one of our favorite restaurants. Surrounded by the chatter, lights, and festivity of the season, I borrowed Dave’s handkerchief and tearfully confessed my maudlin musings.  I mentioned my nostalgic memories, and touched on my clash of joy, guilt, and sorrow in the staggering contrast between our lives and the suffering people of Syria, the hurricane-bereft homeless in Florida and Puerto Rico, and yes - the starving children of India.   I was on a roll, and I snuffled into his handkerchief while ranting about our poor country, upended by violence and inept governance. 

Dave regarded me, his brow furrowed with loving frustration.  “You have too many black crayons in your crayon box,” he said.

Maybe.  Maybe.  But it’s not so much about shadows as wishing everyone could have it as good as we do.  And I want better from our leaders. As he did to Scrooge, I want Dickens’s Marley to shake his chains and wail in fury at those driven by power and money. I want them to absorb his remorse over his pursuit of gold when he should have known that “mankind was my business.  The common welfare was my business:  charity, mercy, forbearance, and benevolence were all my business.  The dealings of my trade were but a drop of water in the comprehensive ocean of my business!”  Let’s add the health of the planet and well-being of our fellow creatures to that list, while we’re at it.

And oh, how I wish Susan were still here to celebrate Christmas with her grieving husband on Meriweather Lane.  After paying for the koala book, it was time to leave.  Why would I linger longer in that cold, sad garage? In parting, I drew the man in his argyle sweater into my arms, and the two of us cried and held each other.  Then I returned to the blessing of Perry Como and my cozy car for the drive home to my Dave.   



10 comments:

Christine Porter said...

Lea - what a wonderful piece. I had to wipe away a tear when reading about Susan and her unnamed husband. I know just how you feel about remembering past Christmas when the children were small and parents were strong and invincible. I guess you are right about having to count our blessings when we think of how many people are suffering. Enjoy the moment! Happy Christmas to you all - with love, xxx

Joan said...

Such a beautiful entry, Lea! Yes, this season is certainly ripe with nostalgia. Emotions are never far from the surface for me....and, for this I am grateful. So many cherished years to look back upon (and hopefully, many to look forward to as well!) As you have so elegantly articulated, I too, am truly blessed by my loving friends and family. I appreciate my beloveds (present and past) each and every day. Your stumbling upon that December tag sale was no coincidence. To be placed in opportunities where we can give light and comfort to those less fortunate is truly a blessing. Glad you were there to receive it. xoxo

David Hughes said...

I, as always, adore your writing. You always give me so much to think about. If it is OK, I would like to share a part of this on my Facebook page. It resonated so strongly with me when I read it .Love from your Weekapaug friend, David

Gail Bromer said...

Thank you again for bringing me in touch with my own emotions, the ones I try to glide by. The pain of loss and a country in turmoil are more poignant perhaps because of my own contentment.
I want a version of what I have for everyone. I am blessed, and more greatful of those blessings because of countless times that I didn't feel so.
Merry Christmas!

Lea said...

There you are! Dear friends writing in with loving hearts.....so lucky to have you all in my life! Merry Christmas! XXOO

Lea said...

And David, of course you can pass along excerpts...actually, I love it when readers share my blog, so feel free. XO

gail m said...

So beautiful. As I count my endless blessings of good health and plenty, the refugees, indigenous, and poor are also in my heart. The tears that well up in my eyes lately are usually from watching loving interactions that I see on my path...like that beautiful garage sale hug. Let's do more of that! Enjoy your beautiful traditions with dear little Paul this year, Lea and Dave! xo gail

Pam Fortin said...

What a beautiful piece Lea. Reminds me that although we will be celebrating our first Christmas without The patriarch of the Winch family, it is in the warm hugs and the festivities of the season that we will be making new Christmas memories - all the while keeping Paul near and dear to us forever. Thanks for the reminder - i needed that today!

Meredith Charreyron said...

You did it again, Lea. Touched my heart and wet my cheeks.
Thank you for a beautiful blog entry, though it's taken me well into the New Year to read it.
No less meaningful or poignant, though. Thank you and CHEERS to peace and greater happiness for many, Susan's husband of course included. See you in warmer times !! xoxo Mere

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