Thursday, December 14, 2006

Ramble from Phair

It's time for a special holiday themed ramble from Phair.
At some point in 2005, I did a ramble which included references to Christmas' with my Dad. A reader emailed me to thank me for the ramble. She liked the piece because it was about my Dad and our way of celebrating an important event in our lives; Christmas. The reader went on to tell me her family tradition did not include Christmas and that she lost her Dad while she was young. Still, something about the ramble made her feel good. She asked that I ramble more about the subject in the future. So, tonight is a ramble at special request...but with a little shift of focus.

Christmas is the season of hope and love; an ancient promise fulfilled. My earliest memory of the big event was my Mother's annual announcement sometime after Thanksgiving Dinner was devoured to the barest bone.

"IT'S GONNA BE A FRUGAL CHRISTMAS!"

Mom would always say it with such a stern look on her face that our overfilled bellies would almost turn. All seven of us stared back silently at her in a gravy stained apron, mock polyester turtle neck sweater and matching Capri pants. Her hands were balled fists on her hips waiting for one of us to protest her pronouncement. Nobody ever did. She would turn on her heel and head for the kitchen when my Dad made his way into the living room from places unknown (usually the basement due to a blown fuse).

"Matt, Thom, clear the table. John, Joe, wash the dishes for your mother!" he directed as he settled down to sit crossed legged on the floor. "Mark, get Sorry so we can have a game with the girls."

My sister and I were the girls. We were the youngest two of the seven and followed five and eight years behind the youngest boy, respectively. My father realized very early that my sister and I were going to be the last of his children...ever... and he allowed himself to enjoy fatherhood as he never did before. He took time to play with us, to show us, to teach us, to do all the things he didn't get to do with his dad because the man died too soon and all the things he couldn't do with his sons because he was struggling just to survive with a young family.

Getting back to Mom. She was always the realist in her relationship with my father. He handed her his paycheck and expected she'd take care of everything. AND...she did. Rent, heat, lights, phone, tuition, food, and holidays, Mom could stretch a dollar from sea to shining sea. If Dad's pay was not enough then Mom worked two jobs and sometimes three. Mom's primary job was as a soloist for a church. She'd do the early morning Mass Monday to Saturday for $1. If it were a funeral then it would be $5 just like her Sunday Mass pay. Funny that the same church that is giving our government a bad time about fair and decent wages saw fit to pay my Mom only $1.57 an hour knowing she had seven kids to support. If you think we ever got a free turkey at the holiday then think again.

"IT'S GONNA BE A FRUGAL CHRISTMAS!"

I can remember waking on Christmas morning 1971. My little sister was lying in the bottom bunk next to me and our brother Mark was snoring in the bunk above us. The house was sleeply quiet. I shifted a bit to wake Mary. Her eyes snapped open. That's the kind of sleeper she was then and is today.

"Christmas," was all I needed to say.

Mary rolled over and fell out of bed, sprawled on the floor. I jumped out after her and grabbed her by the arm. If somebody was getting into trouble for being up then I wanted company. Our feeted pj's betrayed any attempt at stealth as we raced for the living room. The tree glowed before us with lights inherited from our long dead, unmet Papa my Mom still cried about missing. Beneath the shining tree were stacks of wrapped and unwrapped gifts. There were treasures from our aunts and uncles and friends of our folks and friends of our grand folks and, of course, Santa Claus. Mom and Dad never got credit for any gifts until after our Confirmations. Even then Santa still got partial credit until the family's youngest member turned thirteen.

There were skyscrapers of gifts from one end of our living room to another. My sister was shivering so hard at the sight that I wrapped my arms around her to calm her... or maybe myself. My parents came in shortly after our arrival and called for our brothers. It still makes me misty eyed to think how long my Mom and Dad laid snuggled together waiting in their bed not ten feet from where my sister and I shivered in awe. Once my brothers raced into the room, chaos ensued. Mom was the referee while Dad got breakfast rolling. Toys were scattered everywhere.

We had finished with round one of eggs, bacon, and toast when Mom stood up and glared at my toys.

"Where's the puppet?"

"HUH?" It was the most intelligent answer I could grunt around a swallow of scrambled egg.

Mom then looked at my sister. She was ignoring her breakfast too feasting on her gifts instead.

"No puppet?"

For the first time in my life, I thought my Mother was going to cry. She gazed around the room with a look of panic. She stopped briefly on my arrogant brother as he sized up himself in his Nehru Jacket. (SIDE NOTE: Mom worked overtime renting TV's in hospitals so he could have that coat and the jerk only wore it once.) Then she turned to her reliable guys, the oldest and his Irish twin.

"Matt, Thom, I think Santa dropped something on the stairs!"

Mom's voice was never sounded like panic. She was in control of all things with just the strength of her will. That's who she was. So, to hear Mom sound shrill and to see the older boys jump like that we little ones moved this fast! ZIP. Thom corralled us at the front door of the apartment. Matt disappeared briefly then brought in a white plastic bag; all crunchy and punchy.

"Santa dropped a bag. That's all. It might not even be for you two," Thom cooed in our pink ears as he tickled and distracted us. He would have been a fine politician, my Thom.

"Girls, come here!" my mother bellowed. We were released from Thom's hold to barrel to our Mom's chair where she clutched the bag to her chest. "As you might have guessed, Santa brought only some of your gifts. Dad and I got you something's too. But...I really wanted you to have these."

She held out a Bert and Roosevelt Franklin puppet. I grabbed Bert and my sister grabbed Roosevelt. Somehow, I ended up in my Mom's lap which was usually a bad place to be but I kept saying, 'thank you.' She held me close and whispered, "I'm sorry."

For the longest time, I didn't understand what my mother was sorry about.

My sister and I were stunned when we discovered, quite by accident, frugal meant economical or sparing expense. My Mom worried that her gifts were lacking. But, she could not have been further from the truth. In fact, if you asked either my sister or me what our heartfelt response to the word frugal is then the answers would be; abundant, lush, extravagant, rich, full, happy. Yes, our frugal Christmas' were deliriously happy.

We were lucky enough to be able to tell this to our parents years before their deaths. As adults, we laughed about the vocabulary confusion; language versus reality. As a family, we've adopted the word frugal as our family catch phrase for wonderful things.

So, on behalf of my sister, my brothers, and me, we wish you a frugal holiday season,

phair
www.phair1.com


E and I both loved that Phair chose to share this memory. Please take a little time to let her know how much we all appreciate her gifting us with these rambles.

Tamara

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