the toboggan. Heâd do his best to hold onto them. Mom loved the smell; sheâd sniff the end of each one after she cut it. Dad used to play the course, so he pretended that he didnât approve, but heâd always tell Mom which trees needed trimming if she insisted on cutting them.
Everyone was at our Christmas parties. Not just people from the neighborhood, but people from my parentsâ work and my school friends tooâback when I had friends. Mom would play the piano and sing Gordon Lightfootâs âSong for a Winterâs Night.â Iâd tell her she was awful and that it was embarrassing. Sheâd tell me not to take things so seriously and to stop worrying about what other people thought.
Then sheâd convince Dad to sing a duet of âBaby Itâs Cold Outside.â Iâd always make it clear to my friends just how mortifying I found it.
Mom loved to laugh and have a good time. Entertaining was her thing. She and my dad would do a dramatic reading of â âTwas the Night before Christmas,â acting out the different partsâcomplete with wardrobe and propsâgrabbing some unsuspecting person out of the crowd to spin around with at the âturned with a jerkâ part.
It was the very definition of corny, but all the younger kids and the adultsâwith the help of a little rum and eggnogâ loved it. My friends and I would watch from the sidelines, making sure always to be laughing at, and never with, them.
On Christmas morning, Mom would be up before any of us, even Billy. Dean Martinâs âSilver Bellsâ blasting from the stereo would awaken the rest of us. Sheâd spray fake snow everywhere as we came down the stairs, and then weâd rip open the mound of presents. At least, I think that was us. I remember it all right, but not to touch, not to feel, just to watch, like an old film. Last Christmasânow that I can still feel with painful clarity.
There was no party, and there were no lights outside or cedar insideâonly a touch of tinsel and a sad little tree for a sorry little Christmas. We all had to wait for Mom to wake up and for Dad to help her down the stairs to the chair by the fire. He wrapped her in a blanket, put a scarf around her neck and turned up the gas fireplace. He then straightened the knitted, pale yellow toque sheâd been wearing since she lost her hair. After that he went into the kitchen, made her a cup of tea and handed it to her gingerly.
âAre you comfortable?â he asked her for the thousandth time.
âYes, Iâm fine. Just open your presents.â
âYouâre sure?â he asked again.
âSheâs fine! Now can we get on with it?â I answered for her. Dad gave me a dirty look, but he didnât say anything.
I vividly remember Momâs frailty and how not even the fireâs reflection could give her face any color. I remember Dadâs patience and gentleness, Billyâs enthusiasm, my anger. I watched all of it with a great fury, and I let that fury be known for the rest of the day. Why shouldnât I have been angry? I had lost my Christmas.
I got to be in the schoolâs Christmas pageant, but I was the only one there without a parent. Dad arranged for me to get a ride with the neighbors and their kid, Martha.
Martha stuck to me all night like a bad smellâliterallyâ and in doing so ensured the complete destruction of what remained of my social standing.
The thing about Martha, besides her âtop studentâ marks and her random, loud, snorting laugh, is that she will occaâsionally stick her hand down the back of her skirt, pull it out and sniff it. She did it that night, on stage !
My perfect evening was complete when, on the way to the car, Martha grabbed my hand with the hand âMerry Christmas!
All I wanted was one morningâChristmas morningâ just a couple of hours of normality. But Mom couldnât
S. Ravynheart, S.A. Archer
Stephen G. Michaud, Roy Hazelwood