Remember that Christmas When...

As a child, one thing was certain with each family visit back to the east coast: the adults would sit around and talk about the days-gone-by.  Even at a young age, I was nostalgic and treasured the glimpses into a world I could only imagine.  I’m not sure exactly when it happened, but at some point, I became a part of the stories told. Even today, one of the things I enjoy most when I gather with family is to listen to—and tell—those stories.  Stories of moments in time when our lives were—and will forever be—entwined.  Oh, the joy of connection!

While I don’t have a script of how this particular story played out back in 1968, when woven with my own memories and the dozens of times I’d heard my parents and grandparents tell it, I wrote the story of my favorite childhood Christmas memory, that Christmas when...

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“Now, what did I tell you?”  

I glanced at my mom as crocodile tears streamed down my cheeks.  “That Mamaw and Granddad were keeping a puppy for a little girl who was getting it for Christmas.”

“And?”  My mom asked as she buttoned her coat. 

“That I could play with her if I promised not to cry when you had to take her away.”  I held the puppy tighter.  “Do you have to take her now?” 

Mom nodded and waited for me to relinquish the small, brown chihuahua mix. 

“Can I go with you and Daddy?” 

Mom shook her head as she took the puppy out of my arms.  “Go take your bath and get to bed.  You need to be asleep by the time we get home.  Santa Claus is on his way.”   She kissed me and went out the front door. 

I swallowed hard and stared at the closed door.

“Come here, Sugar.” My grandfather came in the room.  I shot across the room into his open arms.  “One day you’ll get a puppy.” 

I sniffed loudly.  “But I want that one!” 

He rubbed my back. “I know, Shug. But that puppy is a surprise for another little girl.”

Mamaw appeared from the hallway.  “I’ve got your bathwater running.  Do you want to use some bubble bath?” 

I nodded, slipped out of my grandfather’s arms, and headed for the bathroom.  I undressed and climbed into the big claw-footed tub as Mamaw added a capful of my aunt’s scented bubble bath.  “You can play for a few minutes, then it’s time for bed!” 

Bathed and dressed in my new pajamas, I darted into the den to kiss my grandfather before climbing in the double bed in the back bedroom. 

“Scoot over against the wall and go on to sleep. Joyce will be in here soon.”  Mamaw tucked me in, kissed me, and turned out the light.   

I rolled on my side.  Three years earlier, when my father was in Vietnam, my mom and I lived with my grandparents.  Apparently, even at age four, I had the fear-of-missing-out and figured out that if I watched the shadows under the door and listened carefully, I could tell who was going where and doing what.  Tonight was no different. I knew from the faint sounds coming from my grandparent’s bedroom that my 15-year-old aunt was watching TV.  I could hear Granddad and Mamaw talking softly in the kitchen.  I heard the clunk of the cuckoo clock’s weights drop and knew it would soon cuckoo nine times.  I rubbed my eyes, fighting sleep.  I wanted to stay awake and listen for my parents...and Santa.  I yawned.

“Rise and shine! Santa came!” My father turned on the overhead light and yanked back the bedcovers. My aunt groaned and pulled the blankets back up. 

I climbed over her and headed for the door. My father stopped me.  “Get dressed first and then wait for everyone.”  It was my turn to groan. 

While it seemed like it took forever, soon we were all gathered around the aluminum Christmas tree opening gifts. 

“Come show me your new baby doll.”  My grandmother patted the bright floral sofa.  I sat beside her and demonstrated how to feed Baby Hungry.

“Sharon, look here,” my father—the family photographer—instructed.  When I looked up, my mom was standing in front of me with the puppy. 

Mom smiled and confessed. “You were the little girl getting a puppy for Christmas.” 

My grandfather blurted,  “Don’t ever make me lie to that child again!”