Epiphany
Santa Claus drove his sleigh down our street early Christmas morning in 1942. “How could a sleigh drive down Byron Street when it doesn’t snow in Palo Alto?” Ever since that year, when my parents and even my little brother didn’t believe the miracle I was so sure I’d witnessed, I’ve struggled with Christmas.
Something changed this year. More than anything, I hate to be left out, especially left alone when it’s not by choice. It looks as if I will alone on December 25th for the first time.
I remember many, many Christmases nearly ruined by earaches and tonsillitis, salvaged by my father’s sudden, short-term hours of playfulness. One year our childless babysitter made dresses for my doll and gave us her tree ornaments in a box that smelled of her perfume.
A few years later, then a fifth-grader, I snuck into Mom’s closet a week before the big day to see my present, one that she’d proudly been showing all my friends behind a closed door. There’s that left-out feeling. The skirt Mom had sewn for me was her favorite plaid with white rickrack just above the hem. On Christmas morning, I prayed she wouldn’t know I’d already seen it. “It’s so pretty. And you made it!”
In high school, I was melancholy for days before Christmas. Where was the good cheer and that extra-special love that supposedly floats around in abundance during the holidays? Who knows why I felt so left-out then, too: sunless skies, too many candy canes? Unrealistic expectations didn’t cross my mind.
Christmases during my marriage were nice, often shared with my loving in-laws after mornings with our two sons, opening the few gifts we could afford. However, I almost blew Christmas, 1965. December 25th was also my husband’s birthday and I’d waited two weeks to have him all to ourselves after he’d been away at work. He announced, “I invited the Taylors to stay here on Christmas Eve and spend the next day with us. They’ll arrive after you’re asleep.” I whined, “but, but…” He interrupted with, “Hey. Remember the story — no room in the inn?” I cried myself to asleep, ashamed of my selfishness. Thankfully, our guests slept-in Christmas morning and our family had its alone time. I resurrected generosity and grace by the time the other couple, who became our friends that day, sat down to share the dinner I’d had fun preparing.
Post-divorce, some Christmases were celebrated with two other divorcées over brunch at the top of San Francisco’s Fairmont Hotel. Our children had the day with their fathers on the same alternating years. One of those times, before brunch I parked in a deserted alley next to the Greyhound station to drop off my sons for the visit to their dad. I returned to my car to find two men with shoulder-length oily black hair and weathered but young ruddy complexions leaning on the front fender. Their cohort sat on the sidewalk with a bottle-shaped brown paper bag between his legs. In spite of my pounding heart, I smiled my best smile, looked into their watery eyes, and said, “Merry Christmas, guys!” Then to the two against my car, “Sorry, but I have to move your seat.” They apologized and grinned back with a chorus of “Merry Christmas, ma’am.” Suddenly their eyes filled with embarrassment. They’d been caught — caught in a complicated web of life. My dressy clothes and jewelry announced that I’d never been in that same web. I felt immensely sad. And grateful.
The best holidays, on the years I had the boys, were complete with greeting-card ambiance, jokes and lots of hugs. At my married brother Bob’s beautifully decorated home, the scent of pine crackling in the fireplace layered itself with the tree’s evergreen perfume. From the couch, Mom and Dad quietly watched the other nine of us. Why didn’t I talk with them more? Bob served the Martinelli’s Sparkling Apple Cider I’d bring and eggnogs he concocted from scratch. His wife’s feasts assembled annual favorites, from black olives — a four-generation family tradition — to my other brother Perry’s pecan pies. The background to our conversations blended Christmas carols, five squealing cousins, and the sound of gift-wrap being ripped.
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