A Christmas Tale

The year was 1977. Christine and I were married in June, I had quit my job, we bought our first home, and I started law school. Christine chiseled away on her undergraduate degree as she worked full time and was raising a 6-year-old boy. We were happy, and in love. Thankful for our blessings, we were oblivious to our lack of money. In gift giving this was to be a “thin” Christmas for us.

Midnight Mass was wonderful. St. Francis Xavier church had a congregation with an eclectic mix. There were octogenarian parishioner’s who had called this church their spiritual home since the 1930’s, and there were college students who were drawn to the more liberal Jesuit atmosphere. We felt welcome, loved, comfortable, and embraced by God and his (“her” as Christine would say) children.

As special as the service was, it took second place to the spectacle before us on our walk home. The sky was deep indigo, laced with countless stars shining diamond sharp above us. It was a white Christmas. Fortune had given us 4 inches of new snow, deep enough to challenge the footfalls of a 6-year-old. Sean stretched to match my stride, finding reward in the “trail” that I blazed. Perhaps he was wondering what it would be like to someday walk with the stride of a man.

A man, me. Here I was with a family, home, bills, school and the nagging fear of failure weighing upon me. Sean would someday face his own adult challenges, but for that night his focus was to just put one foot in front of the other and managing his excitement that Santa would soon be at his new home.

As we walked up the steps to our yard, I suggested to Sean that we stay in the backyard and scan the sky for the vapor trails that might be evidence of Santa’s wanderings. To again have a child’s faith, what a gift. Next best is to look deeply into the eyes of a 6 year and remember.

 Christine took her leave, complaining that “You men are just too warm blooded”. Actually, her departure was contrived as part of a plan to enhance Sean’s first Christmas in a home with a real fireplace and chimney. Our previous home had been an apartment. While it was a nice apartment, the vision of Santa arriving on the balcony and opening the sliding glass door fell short of the poetic image which begins with the words, “Twas the Night Before Christmas and all through the house not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse”.

We had gone out of our way to make a big deal about our “new” fireplace. It had seen its first fire in 1922, and like fine wine it had mellowed with age. The ceramic bricks had taken on the patina of countless fires through 55 winters. Tonight, there would be no fire. Sean insisted that we not risk preventing Santa’s entry.

At my urging, our arrangement was to engage in a bit of theater. The Christmas Tree was decorated, but it stood solitary without any presents beneath it. The gifts were hidden in the living room coat closet. While Sean and I stood in the yard searching for signs of Santa, Christine planned to place the presents under the Christmas Tree.

Out in the yard Sean and I pondered whether the wisp of a cloud here or a dash of smoke there was Santa’s trail. There was a bright moon which echoed its glow on the snow atop our home. I turned my gaze to the roof and shouted, “There, Look There! Did you see him Sean? Santa on OUR roof!” The pliable mind of a 6-year-old is a fertile place to plant thoughts. Sean saw him too.

On cue Christine burst out the back door calling for us to come quick, Santa had been in the living room when she walked into the room. We fairly fell over one another as we charged up the stairs and into the house. In the living room we saw presents where none had been before.

Sean slowly surveyed the room, his eyes and mouth wide. One must remember that this was a “thin” Christmas. We had purchased with care, and within our means. Before the fireplace was a pair of roller skates, the kind that take a key and clamp on your shoes. There was a red wagon, some wrapped gifts, a couple of small toy cars and a large yellow metal dump truck. Noteworthy was the absence of items which needed batteries for fun. These toys were powered by imagination. It was imagination that we counted on to elevate this Christmas in a small child’s mind.

Sean’s gaze continued around the room as I mentally congratulated myself for the cleverness of our creative “theater”. The thing that I had not counted on was that a child’s imagination, like gasoline, is easy to ignite but once lit is difficult to control. Sean’s eyes halted upon Christine. His little face hardened, and his gaze narrowed as he uttered these words of accusation, “You scared him off! You scared him away before he could leave all the presents!”

Christine and I were dumbstruck. For an instant I might have thought the irony of this turn of events funny, but any such tendency was ended by the very real tears that began to fall from my wife’s eyes. She ran to the bedroom and I went to console her. She felt failure as a mother, and I felt failure as a husband. A few minutes together felt like hours. We composed ourselves and resolved to make the best of things. We still had a small child downstairs, and it was still Christmas.

Arm in arm we descended the stairs only to find a 6-year-old happily occupied in the joy of moving imaginary earth from an imaginary construction site with his new toy truck. Nothing more was ever said by him of Santa’s “interrupted” visit. By any child’s measure, that Christmas was a resounding success. For us it has taken the passage of time to temper the bittersweet of that night.

We have since enjoyed many more Christmases. Three holiday seasons in our early years brought with them the births of our children, Peter, Renee’, and Alexis. If you do the math their births are also celebrations of the preceding Springs. 

Christine knows that I am telling this piece of our history. Signs of the old pain remain, but punctuated by a smile, a knowing look, and a squeeze of my hand. So, Merry Christmas to All, and to All a Good Night.

Peace Everyone. Pete