Chicken Soup for the Soul: Christmas Magic, Page 2

  We’ve tried traditional Christmases. I would bake and cook for days in order to prepare a typical American feast—but when to enjoy this family meal eluded us. We’ve tried feasting on Christmas evening, then Christmas afternoon and then Christmas Eve. One year we tried Christmas brunch, but there always seemed to be a scheduling conflict with an in-law family. Our children would come to a table that was resplendent with turkeys, hams, platters of side dishes and scrumptious desserts, nibble a bit and be on their way to the next family home and the next feast.

  I worried that, in a world where one in seven people go to bed hungry, it is wickedly wasteful to prepare such a feast when it can’t be fully enjoyed. We longed for the company of our children for more than a couple of hours as we celebrated the season of family togetherness.

  Grandchildren began to arrive, one-by-one until they numbered thirteen, and the issue of gifts took on an onerous dimension.

  Then came the conversation with a little boy who remembered a fun afternoon spent with his grandparents and a cousin two years before.

  Although the details were still fuzzy, we began to plan a special kind of Christmas. First, Gary and I agreed to stop giving them “things.” Instead, we undertook to find a way to offer them opportunities to make memories. We needed some uninterrupted time and that meant that, most likely, Christmas would have to fall on a different day and traditions would have to be swept away like used gift wrap.

  We decided to rent a cabin at Shaver Lake in central California, where we’d likely find snowy winter weather. The location is fairly convenient for everyone and we are there for a week that includes Christmas Day.

  “Christmas is no longer on December 25th,” we announced that year. “Whenever any family members can be there with us, that day will be Christmas.” The plan was an adjustment for our more traditional children, but our grandchildren immediately embraced the adventure of it.

  We never know exactly who will be there, when or for how long. In fact, there are days when we are alone—we use the time to put our feet up, read by the fire or nap. When someone is there, I cook Christmas dinner. It’s not a feast, just a nice dinner featuring the favorite foods of those who are celebrating with us. Dessert is more likely to be someone’s favorite treat than traditional holiday fare. The money we used to spend on trucks, Barbies or the latest TV toy now pays the rent and buys food for the week.

  We are a large, noisy bunch. We have a “game box” and I love sitting with a cup of coffee, watching our children and grandchildren playing board games, working puzzles or playing Uno with the cards Gary, who is blind, has brailed. Often, groups of skiers head up the mountain to spend the afternoon on the slopes, a graduation from the “Daddy-built” sled runs of years past.

  There is a “boot box” with extra snow gear and we take a box full of photo albums crammed with family pictures—and memories—of hairstyles and Christmases past.

  Someone always brings up a Christmas tree. These days, it is decked out with traditional lights and decorations, but when the grandchildren were little, we provided a “crafts box” full of glitter and glue and they made decorations. Some years, silver stars, glittering angels, cotton snowmen and pipe-cleaner reindeer adorned only the bottom two or three feet of the tree.

  One year the tree didn’t arrive until late in the week and a tall 1970s orange lamp was pressed into service. When the grandchildren are asked to name their favorite Christmas tree, they always laugh and shout, “The Christmas Lamp.” The Christmas Lamp is a silly, happy memory shared by all.

  Each year brings a different configuration of family members together to ski, play in the snow, thaw out in front of the fire or take long, icy walks. Generally, everyone is able to be there for at least a couple of days. Relaxed, uninterrupted time together has allowed our children to become as close as biological brothers and sisters. Relationships among the thirteen cousins have formed and reformed as the years pass and each has found a special bond with the others.

  Last year, a grown-up Brandon arrived at the cabin with his enchanting new wife. The joy of the season will come full circle this year when they bring their new son to play with his cousin, Maddie’s daughter, and to help our ever-expanding family make Christmas memories.

  ~Irene Morse

  The Cookie Party

  Nobody can make you feel inferior without your consent.

  ~Eleanor Roosevelt

  I set my briefcase on my gritty kitchen counter and traced the raised gold lettering on the thick ivory card. “You are Invited to a Holiday Cookie Party,” the card read. The invitation was from a fascinating, creative, high-powered executive I had met only months ago. I was surprised and thrilled that she had invited me to such a gathering.

  Each woman would bring a batch of home-baked cookies, she explained in her note. We would then get to sample all the cookies and take a bag of treats home to our families. I adored the idea of bringing my teenage daughters such an array of home-baked sweets. I envisioned a room filled with charming baskets of star-shaped sugar cookies, generously topped with red or green frosting. I imagined a jolly basket of Santa cookies, and a fragrant ginger-scented array of reindeer cookies. I wanted to bite into rum balls, sinfully rich fudge and even nibble a piece of golden raisin fruitcake. I fantasized about thumbprint cookies, gooey with jam, and about silky buttery sandies melting in my mouth.

  Then I realized the implications. Given the nature of the invitation and the fact that its sender worked at such an innovative company, these holiday cookies would not only be beautiful, creative and delicious, they would be presented in festive and unusual ways. I didn’t even have time to worry about what I would wear—I could only think about what I would bake.

  Given the fact I had never really baked anything other than the occasional clumpy chocolate chip, peanut butter or oatmeal cookie, I figured my offerings would be ignored and I would feel left out, inadequate and disgraced. Why hadn’t my mother been a more glamorous baker, I fretted, as I turned on the kettle and rummaged in the refrigerator for something to make for dinner. She only made the plainest of cookies—date crumbs, peanut butter and chocolate chip. As I sipped my tea, boiled water for pasta and heated up the jar of Mamma Somebody’s Secret Marinara Sauce with Mushrooms, I analyzed the situation. Right before the pasta was ready to pour into the colander, a number floated into my head and I dialed it.

  “If I decide to go to this cookie party, will you help me come up with a recipe and a cute idea for presenting the cookies?” I asked my friend Judith, who was graced with five-star baking abilities.

  “Of course,” she said. Judith had the kind of aplomb and panache that would fit right in at such a gathering. Briefly, I wondered if she could go to the party in my place, and just deliver my treats to me.

  I told my daughters the good news—in several weeks we would have our own private holiday cookie festival. Since our sweets were usually the mass-produced variety, made by some giant corporate entity, they were ultra excited.

  A week later, I received a thick packet in the mail. Judith had selected a number of “easy” recipes for me to consider. I smiled as I looked over the pictures. These cookies were adorable, with just the sort of cute holiday twist that would help me blend in. I frowned as I read through the baking instructions. These cookies required a kind of culinary acumen I had never been able to achieve. Plus, each cookie demanded its own specialized pan, gourmet tool, thermometer or esoteric ingredient. This would never work for me.

  The day of the cookie party neared and I had no recipe, no cookies, no plan and nothing to wear.

  That night at dinner, I said, “I don’t think I can go to the cookie party.”

  “Why not?” Sarah said sharply. She was thirteen and took promises and plans very seriously. Plus, she had a highly sophisticated taste for sweets and was looking forward to expanding her repertoire.

  “I don’t have anything cute to make. I can’t just walk in carrying a paltry tray of blobby-looking chocolate chip coo
kies.” My throat constricted and I wished I was the sort of mother who could whip up a chocolate soufflé from ingredients that just happened to be in my kitchen cabinets.

  “Why not?” my older daughter Jessica said. Even during the holiday season, she kept to her black-themed wardrobe. She looked Gothic and serious as she coached me. “Everyone else will be all silver bells and fancy sprinkles. You will represent the good old-fashioned approach to the holidays—the working middle class and all that. Your simplicity will be a breath of fresh air.”

  I took a breath and took in her words. If worse came to worst, I could always pretend I never saw those cookies before in my life.

  That evening, my daughters and I made chocolate chip cookies. We put them, as usual, in a simple tin lined with aluminum foil. In honor of the holiday season, I unearthed a shiny red bow to top the tin. They analyzed my clothes and helped me select something reasonably festive to wear.

  Walking into the party was like walking into a fairyland. Christmas lights lined the windows and a sparkling tree spread its branches in the living room. The dining room table looked like the December cover of Gourmet magazine. Stars, hearts, Christmas trees, snowmen, all the icons of the season were out and glowing with icing and sprinkles. Some cookies were nestled in handmade wreathes. Others shone from star-shaped or tree-shaped boxes. A fruitcake was surrounded by a miniature set of reindeer. A charming wicker basket lined with red velvet cradled a mound of delicate meringues. Walnut-topped fudge nestled in a wrapping paper covered box and a galaxy of colorful star-shaped cookies decorated a tiered silver-server. I admired each display, all the while looking for a quiet corner where I could tuck in my tin of chocolate chips. I finally settled them between candy cane cookies and the gingerbread Santas.

  My hostess offered me a glass of champagne and introduced me to several women. The conversation flowed. Then our hostess announced, “It’s time to gather the cookies.” She had a large silver gift sack for each of us and encouraged us to take several of each cookie. As I began the table tour, I sneaked a look at my humble confection. What if no one took any? What if I had to take the whole batch home? What if... I thought as I filled my sack with samples of every delectable cookie there.

  “Who made the chocolate chip cookies?” someone asked. The room quieted. I concentrated on the rum balls in front of me, considering my options. The silence spread and finally I said, “I did.”

  Though I spoke softly, I felt like the announcement blasted into the room from a bullhorn.

  “What an interesting idea,” someone said.

  “Yes, I never would have thought of it. It’s comforting, you know, it reminds me of my mother and home.”

  I smiled as I put three rum balls in my sack and headed for the reindeer.

  That evening my daughters and I had a magnificent holiday feast, consisting of cookies, cookies and cookies.

  “Here’s the strange thing, Mom,” Jessica said, as she leaned back, sated. “Your cookies are really just as good as any of them. Not as cute, but just as delicious.”

  “More delicious,” Sarah said.

  I smiled, thinking that about my mom’s cookies when I was growing up. Maybe there was something to say about the plain old recipes offered in the plain old way, so sturdy, so unglamorous and yet so deliciously comforting... like coming home.

  ~Deborah Shouse

  Christmas Blues

  There is no psychiatrist in the world like a puppy licking your face.

  ~Ben Williams

  If you have married children you most likely watch them juggle parents at Christmas. I call it the “Every Other Holiday Syndrome.” Wife’s parents on odd years and husband’s family on even years. Simple—except when unforeseen circumstances found this unsuspecting mom and pop facing a lonely Christmas for the first time. We were not looking forward to the holidays.

  Okay, we can handle it, we’re grown-ups and we understand, we kept reminding ourselves. Okay, that is, until our Golden Retriever collapsed under a massive seizure that forced us to say goodbye to our beloved lady. We were heartsick over the loss of our Nikki. Oh, dear God, I lamented, what a bummer just before Christmas. I cried buckets while my husband, Ken, labored to keep his macho image intact. Finally he let go and it was a dreadful scene.

  Just a week later, severe arthritis and profound loneliness for Nikki rendered our fifteen-year-old Border Collie withdrawn, incontinent, and unable to walk. The excruciating trip to the veterinarian was nearly more than we old souls could handle. Ginger had been what we mountain folks call a “dump-off,” and we had gladly adopted this sweet and loyal herder. Celebration of our Lord’s birth took a backseat to the loss of adored family.

  Christmas Eve morning, Ken popped out of bed full of vim and vigor. I, on the other hand, was still caught up in gloom and despair over the loss of our beloved dogs, and slightly miffed at his seemingly hard-nosed attitude. “I’ll be back in a while, dear,” he shouted on his way out the door, leaving me thinking he probably needed solitude in his grief. The house was deathly still as the rising sun’s pink radiance surfaced the top of our mountain. I stood at the window pulling myself together and yearning for the holiday-charged din of impatient grandchildren around me.

  At noon Ken returned through our front gate, opened the truck door, and out flew one great tri-colored mass of fur. What on earth! The ten-month-old Keeshond (Dutch barge dog) from the shelter raced through the snow into my outstretched arms. As if we had been bosom buddies forever, we fell over in a joyous heap of emotion, this medium-sized, wiggle-tailed bundle of yips and slurps and I. She had been the sorriest looking pup in the place, her brown eyes pleading, “Please Mister, take me home with you?” Ken was smitten.

  Her curly tail dancing a jig atop her back, Keesha snuffled out all the interesting scents about our ranch. The sweet pup rolled and played in the snow, acquainting herself with the kitties, donkeys, ducks and geese. Gratefully, she had no desire to chase, bite, or torment. She was a keeper.

  We old fools took our dog to town for a lovely Christmas Eve dinner (Keesha’s was in the form of a doggy box), and then to the pet shop for all the right toys and perfect collar. She readily stuck her nose up over silly toys, her passion only to be talked to often, to sit close, to work hard, and to be loved unconditionally. Now that reminds me of just about everyone I know. The thoroughly content tousle-haired pup held down our big feather bed as we watched yuletide services between our toes. Twelve years later she still spends precious time in her place precisely between 10:00 and 11:00 PM, whether we’re there or not.

  Christmas morning arrived with the children’s phone calls, our voices heralding joyful anticipations of the day, and sounds of excited grandchildren ringing across the miles. Instead of hanging around pretending we weren’t sadly devoid of human companionship, we grabbed our new pup and headed for our Salvation Army Church headquarters. Captain Miss B welcomed all three of us as I began setting out table decorations and Ken knuckled down peeling spuds. Keesha was so frightened she might be abandoned again, she sat quiet as a mouse in the vestibule eyeing us with trepidation while Miss B’s Schnauzer jumped in circles.

  More volunteers arrived to help serve ham and turkey dinners to an overflowing dining room, a place where humble families and destitute homeless dined in the shadow of Jesus’ house. A place where both Ken and I rose above our Christmas blues in rebirth of our faith, savoring the meaning of the day as never before. That evening we three wearily returned through our front gate to the echoes of waterfowl and heehaws lamenting their belated holiday fare. But it was such a good tired, the kind that firmly commits to memory that sharing and giving is the way of God, our most blessed Christmas ever.

  ~Kathe Campbell

  The Wreath Makers

  Strangers are just friends waiting to happen.

  ~Rod McKuen

  My Christmas comes in October, with the first sound of migrating geese and the cooler night temperatures that sadly usher in summer’s final end. I am a wreat
h maker, and on this particular October morning I have driven to the small local greenhouse where the remnants of hollyhocks cling to a fence. Perennials have been put back in the ground, the landscape is awash in shades of browns and grays, and the last of the brightly-colored fall leaves blow across the driveway. I have made this trip every year for eight years. There is a horse trailer parked near the workshop, where my coworkers have begun to unload forty-pound bundles of fresh balsam that have just arrived from up north. In seven weeks, we will use about eighteen tons of balsam to create more than 4,000 wreaths, the majority of which are made for the area Boy Scouts to use as a fundraiser.

  We are a small and varied work force. Seasonal work coupled with changing lifestyles create yearly turnover, and with the exception of one or two regular workers, we arrive as strangers. We are not here to get rich, and this occupation would not be considered a good career move. We are, instead, homemakers, retirees, students and the currently unemployed.

  We assemble in a small building that has been cleaned and converted into a workshop stocked with yards of red ribbon, pine cones and brightly-colored miniature packages. Plastic berries and poinsettias nestle next to the boxes of thin wire, and empty metal wreath rings of varying sizes are stacked near the two homemade machines that bend the ring prongs to secure the balsam.

  The assorted politics, religion, social and economic standing that may define us with other groups, slowly give way to the things that bind us. For our short time working together, we become liberated from those classifications and characterizations, and we drift into a transitory relationship that does not require our adherence to be anything or anyone other than just ourselves.

  There is a trick to snapping the boughs so the small bundles look like fans, and our workforce is split into two groups—those who snap boughs and those who decorate the wreaths. Amid the continuing background sound of SNAP, SNAP, SNAP, hard work and a relaxed atmosphere seem to smooth out the rough edges in our lives. It may start with a joke from the quick wit of a seventeen-year-old who, while carrying two large bundles of pine branches, declares he is having a “bough movement.” More like children at play than adults at work, it is the laughter that rings most clear in my memory.