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.
