22. Christmas
I’ve had some really great Christmas mornings in my very-soon-to-be 64 years. Of particular note was the year I turned eight — that was the year Santa left a really cool bike parked adjacent to the Christmas tree with my name written on the hanging tag. It was the kind of bike that announced to the world that I’d arrived at that place — the one between training wheels and the other kind of wheels that require DMV permits for operation.
My cool bike was a ‘girl’s bike’ — the kind that angled metal structural elements away from important ‘girly bits’. It had a semi-banana-shaped seat of white, a bright white basket affixed to the handlebars, royal blue and white streamers hanging from bright white handlebar grips, and white-walled tires. It was beautiful and it was given to me in the dead of a Massachusetts winter.
I ached to hop on that baby and ride it around the Columbus Park neighborhood, but the best I could do was ride it from one end of the 10x10 foot kitchen to the other end and wait for spring. My sigh of disappointment could have been heard at the North Pole when I was told to put it onto the enclosed front porch and wait for good weather.
And. Then. This. Happened.
A little before noon, my father took the bike out through the front door, carried it past four-foot-high snow banks and put it onto Hobson Avenue. “Get your coat and go for a ride,” he said upon return.
I flew out past him, learning pretty quick why my bike was outside — the temps that Christmas morning were in the 50s and the streets were snow-free.
“Stay on Hobson Avenue,” he said as he closed the front door.
“Nooooo problem,” and off I went. I stayed on Hobson Avenue — a dead-end street that had minimal traffic on most days, and on that Christmas day had NO TRAFFIC. It was MY STREET.
I rode my new bike all afternoon, stopping occasionally to puff warm air onto really cold hands beginning to freeze into the shape of handlebar grips as the temps began to plummet.
I was a bit peeved when dusk arrived and a bit sad when I lugged my brand-new bike into the house and saw white-walled tires all splattered with winter yuck. I grabbed a rag and wiped her down, parked her into a corner and bounded inside the warm abode. I walked the few steps to the living room, adjusted the rabbit ears on the television and thawed my ass while waiting for Harvey Leonard to predict the weather for the next day. As soon as I heard temps wouldn’t get higher than the teens, I slumped a bit knowing I was back to the springtime waiting game.
I grabbed a piece of ribbon candy from a pretty glass bowl on the end table and bit into the glass-shard-shit, threw half of it back into the bowl, and wondered why the torture treats always end up at our house, and why I always bite one. As soon as the tiny slices to the roof of my mouth stopped bleeding, I smiled wide at my good fortune of that Christmas day — the one when I could ride free like the wind because Santa brought me a bike and an unseasonably warm day to enjoy it.
And. Then. This. Happened.
The year I turned thirteen, I got a combo Christmas/Birthday gift from my parents. Like any other kid born in December, getting a combo-gift is part of life. It probably dates back to the most important kid born in December — the one born in a manger — the one who became the reason for the season.
When you think about it — or when I think about it — I figure baby Jesus was the first to suffer the fate of combo-gift givers. Take the Three Wise Men for instance. They each brought a lovely birthday gift of gold, frankincense and myrrh, but would it have killed them to stop at a little boutique on their way from the mountain, part with a few gold shillings, and pick up a lovely blanket of blue for the Christmas babe asleep on the hay — or maybe get a little something, something for Mary, like a heating pad for her back and maybe a few OTCs for pain relief? I’m sure she would have appreciated the gesture after the donkey riding and child birthing thing. But, alas, the Three Wise Men came without notice and bearing one gift each.
I venture to guess if it were Three Wise Women bearing gifts, they would have put the gold, frankincense and myrrh into a gift bag, and made a plan. “We should call before visiting the manger.”
“And we should bring a Christmas gift. Maybe a basket full of diapers, bibs, and teething rings.”
“And we should bring a tree ornament engraved with Jesus’ name and birthdate as his birthday gift.”
Yeup. Three Wise Women would have figured that if ever there was a kid deserving more than a combo-gift, it was our Lord and Savior.
But I digress.
And — I’ve probably ensured myself a lengthy wait at the Pearly Gates for that bit of sacrilege.
Anyway, back to the point of this blog — if there really is one. My birthday being sooooo close to Christmas, put me upon the combo-gift-road on more than one occasion. In fact, I began an annual tradition of watching gift-givers arrive to see if their bounty included any boxes wrapped in birthday paper. It was a crapshoot for sure and, on more than one occasion, I felt gypped in the gift receiving department. I should note, however, that my parents never succumbed to the ease of a singular gift — until my 13th birthday, that is.
I rolled my eyes and folded my arms when I bounded downstairs Christmas morning and was directed toward my gift, the one wrapped half in Christmas paper and half in birthday paper, leaving NO mystery for me to solve on whether it was a twofer gift.
All was forgiven pretty quick when I opened the rather large box and pulled out a suitcase. “Finally a way of escaping.”
“It’s not a suitcase, Sheryll Anne. It’s a portable record player.”
The parent-tag-team held the floor and gave an operational lesson.
“You slide this latch and carefully lower the cover which holds the turntable. Make sure you gently snap the cover into the Open position.”
“This arm holds the needle. After you slide the record down this shiny post, you position this lever to the ON position, that’s when the turntable starts turning. Then you lift the needle-arm and put it onto the 45 or the LP. You have to be really gentle otherwise you’ll scratch the record or break the needle.”
I listened more intently than I’d ever done before and parroted back an abbreviated version of instructions, “Latch, lower, snap, slide, position, put — do it all gently. Got it.” I reached out a trembling hand for the skinny present being offered. I could tell by its size and flatness that it was a 45 record. I tore the Christmas/birthday paper away with one pull and read the label, “Glen Campbell’s, Wichita Lineman?” — I said my next words in my head — “What the ever loving fuck!? Who the ever loving fuck!?” I probably said something more age-appropriate, but you get the point.
My brother, Donnie, left the room in a fit of laughter, and headed to the serenity of his bedroom. He stopped laughing when I followed him upstairs with my record player in tow, set up shop outside his bedroom door, unlatched the cover, lowered the turntable, and let Glen Campbell have at it. I played that song over and over and over, again.
I have absolutely no proof, but I always suspected Donnie broke the needle on my new record player. (If he was the saboteur, I wish to God he broke the damned 45). Because I didn’t follow the operational suggestion to be ‘gentle’ and broke the damned needle on the first day, I had to wait a week before I was allowed to walk to Zayres to buy a 10 pack of record player needles.
While I was there, I bought my first ever Gary Puckett record. I raced home, locked myself behind closed doors and listened to the leader of the Union Gap sing about a young girl and woman. One of which I was, and one of which I was becoming. Listening to Mr. Puckett sing about what was waiting on the other end of puberty, made me want to become his Woman, Woman.
And. This. Just. Happened.
This year there were no bikes or record players waiting under the Christmas tree. In fact, the thing I wanted most on my last Christmas was the gift of human contact. The embrace of family members — some who drove a few miles to see me, and others who traveled the Eastern Seaboard to give and receive a hug.
Had I not been diagnosed in November, my brother and sister-in-law would not have driven from Georgia to Massachusetts for Christmas. They always celebrate the holiday down south, choosing to make their annual trek north during summer months, so we can all bask in the warmth of family love on the sandy beach in Wells, Maine.
This year my 66 year-old brother did the 1,055 mile drive to ensure that I’d get the ultimate combo Christmas/Birthday gift ever!