Christmas Wreck Collection
Nothing’s perfect. And the Christmas season helps us see the cracks and dusty corners more vividly. The contrast, I suppose, between the heavenly ideal and the normal jumps out at me. This is not such a terrible thing in some ways. After all, the shimmering dream of holiday giving and songsters on busy street corners and proclamations of good will, are a soothing balm to gritty reality. If, only one could hold onto its illusive seduction.
It is easier at Christmastime because with Pavarotti and Sinatra crooning, I don’t need to think as much as I might listening to a Beethoven Sonata, and not thinking is crucial to my personal filtering system. I believe this mental vacation, however brief, allows the spiritual punch to be delivered, which deadens skepticism just long enough to permit the taking of life only as it exists on the surface. Not a bad break for weary reality.
As a kid, I wanted the aura of Christmas to mask all there was in my world, which inflicted pain on my normally unsettled mind. But this was hard work. The harsh, bleak light somehow got through the cracks and reminded me that December 26th would inevitably come to pass; that mournful day upon which all dreams would vanish.
I remember one Christmas eve my two uncles bought me a beautiful bow and arrow set. I was twelve. I found out because they hid it in our chilly attic during Christmas week. I was mistakenly sent up there by my mother to get boxes to hold knitted scarves she made for the women in her office. At the top of the attic steps, in full view, lay the unwrapped bow and arrows with a red tag tied to the string: “Merry Christmas from Uncle Dick and Uncle Hal.” The bow had not been strung yet, and I sizzled with excitement imagining drawing back the taut string and letting fly a perfectly aimed missile. The only disappointment was that the surprise was out of it.
When my parents finally got me to bed on Christmas Eve and I lay sleepless, wrestling with thoughts of morning and the piles of presents, and especially of my bow and arrows, I heard someone arrive. By the voices and laughter I knew it was my two uncles. My mother came to my bedroom door, cracked it open and checked to see if I was asleep. I remained frozen and simulated the steady breathing of deep sleep successfully. The door closed and my hearing suddenly became acute. I was the alerted deer in the forest, still, tense, a sensory receiver.
A debate commenced about how to string the bow. “It’s gotta be done in a cold room, I think,” said one uncle. The other thought heating it over the radiator would be a better bet. My father suggested each uncle take hold of an end, bending as he manipulated the string. I heard grunts and utterances of caution.
“Watch it! Easy, not too fast. Wait, it’s slipping. This isn’t working!”
I heard the bow drop on the linoleum floor and rattle. Soft cursing.
“Wait a minute. Here, Hal, put your foot on the hand grip. Jimmy, hook one end of the string on the bow. That’s it. Now lift your end and hand me the string.” Silence, then labored breathing.
“Easy does it.” My mother’s voice hissing, “It will break if you’re not careful.”
The men groaning, “She’s coming. Little further. Hold it steady, Dick. Take the loop will you! Just hook it on.”
“It won’t reach, dammit. I need a lousy quarter inch.”
“I can’t give you much more.”
“Come on, Baby. Give me a hair more.”
CRACK! Silence.
Then, “Shit!”
“Oh for God’s sake. I told you it would break. Now what are you going to do? It’s Christmas Eve.” That was my mother.
An embarrassed giggle from the men. Then a steady, rising pitch of laughter.
“Oh Jesus, I almost fell on my ass when she went!” More laughter.
“Just one more hair!” Hissing, muffled hilarity. You got your one more hair.”
“Can it be fixed?” my mother wanted to know.
“It’s firewood.” Uncle Hal said.
There was the sound of wood being bundled like kindling in newspaper.
“What are you gonna tell the kid?” asked my father.
“Tell him we ordered something great and it didn’t come yet. He didn’t know anything about this anyway.”
“It was from Santa, you idiot. He still believes…” My father started laughing again.
“We gotta go. Don’t worry, we’ll make it up to him.”
“You want some coffee or a drink?”
“If you have it made.”
“It’ll only take a minute. I’ll put it right on,” offered my mother.
“Not for me,” said Uncle Dick. “Gives me indigestion this late.”
“Just a beer for me,” said Uncle Hal.
Kitchen noises. Glasses withdrawn from cabinets, scraping chairs, my mother’s quick steps back and forth across the floor. Then, all settled around the creaking kitchen table in silence.
It was Uncle Dick who broke the quiet with his high wheezing laugh. The other men joined in and a round of half heard muttered comments reignited the laughter.
“Almost fell on my ass!” someone said.
“I couldn’t get a grip!” another voice.
“You wouldn’t listen to me. Now you’ve made a mess of it!”
My cheeks were wet as I stared at the ceiling. The plaster had cracked in many jagged hair lines, which I studied in the half light from the kitchen. One configuration of lines reminded me of the shape of Africa where, I imagined, they had no Christmas. I wanted, oddly, to be there; to be in Africa.
