Long ago and far away, Christmas was fun. That was a few lifetimes ago, when I was shorter, younger, and not responsible for making it happen.
As a kid, Christmas is done unto you, and that makes it magical. The not knowing, the suspense, the anticipation, it’s enough to keep you up all night on Christmas Eve. Certainly not what your parents want because they still have miles to go before they sleep, and surprises to keep.
Before going to bed on Christmas Eve, I’d check the presents under the tree very carefully, practically photographing their position in my mind. Oh, yes, I had them memorized, including the tags with the names of lucky recipients and the givers – people like Mom and Dad and Aunt Rebecca, Grandfather and Grandmother. None, I noticed, were from Santa.
It was my job to put out a plate of homemade cookies for Santa Claus on the mantelpiece, plus a glass of milk, because everyone knows cookies taste better when dipped in milk.
My mom was partial to making sugar cookies, complete with sugar sprinkled on top, and we were all partial to eating them. It was a sacrifice to leave a few for Santa, but then, with all that getting in and out of the sleigh, he needed the energy, didn’t he?
It never occurred to me to wonder if reindeer ate cookies. I thought of them, naively, as something like camels, always patient, just waiting, chewing their cuds, and wearing a harness, ever ready for the journey, never complaining. Maybe that’s why one of the Wise Men rode a camel on the journey to Bethlehem.
At the age of seven, I was sure my time had come. This would be the Christmas for a bike, a genuine full-size two-wheeled bike. Yes, Santa got my letter, had to be, since it wasn’t returned. I even specified a color, red if you please.
You never know, delivery might occur early and so, I searched the entire house for weeks before Christmas, looking for clues. A bike, after all, is pretty big. If it were there, hiding in a closet, I’d have found it. But no, nothing.
On Christmas Eve, we all went to midnight mass at the naval base in Jacksonville, Florida. It is where my Dad was stationed at the time. We lived on the base. I remember the chapel was full of people, all in coats and it was quite warm. There was the smell of incense and many pots of poinsettias. I felt the emotion, and saw some tears, including to my surprise, my Dad, when the chaplain gave a sermon and talked about all the service men and women overseas who couldn’t be home for Christmas, but how important it was they did their duty. We service people were extended family. The ones not home for Christmas were greatly missed and there was always the underlying fear that someone you love might not come home at all.
Then we were home. One last look at the tree, and the presents under it, before bedtime. No bike. No new presents. I put out the plate with four sugar cookies and a glass of milk next to it. Oh, and I wrote a note telling Santa these were for him. Off to bed.
I fell asleep having bizarre thoughts like maybe Santa was riding my bike instead of taking a sleigh, and he’d knock on the door in the morning. I hoped the bike had a light so he could see at night.
The next morning we tumbled into the living room, barefooted, pajama clad, eager, laughing, and even a little shoving going on.
I looked first at the mantelpiece. The truth lies there. To my amazement, and I was awed by this every year, the glass of milk was empty. Three cookies were gone and a bite taken out of the fourth. Santa had been there!
As double proof, there was one small present on the top of the pile that was addressed to me from Santa. It hadn’t been there the night before. This happened every year, a present from Santa, and it arrived as a surprise on Christmas morning. Years would go by before I realized that the handwriting on the card looked a lot like my Dad’s handwriting. Perhaps he was taking dictation.
We tore through the presents with reckless disregard for recycling wrapping paper or ribbon; something worth doing that didn’t take hold until I was much older. My Mom made a list of who gave what, a list needed for thank you notes. Yep, those were the days when people actually wrote thank you notes.
At one point, my Dad left the room. I was already looking around, but no matter how many times I scanned, the room, no bike in sight. Well, it wasn’t my year. Aunt Rebecca sent a sweater in my favorite shade of turquoise and Mom got paints and brushes for her budding artist daughter. I was grateful, but . . . you know. I started tracing patterns on the rug. I missed the fact that people were nudging each other and giving knowing looks. They knew what was coming.
My Dad came through the door wheeling a full-size genuine bicycle and said “Look what I found outside the front door’.” It was a brilliant shade of blue and even had a basket in the front. One speed, but hey, that was a lot of speed in those days.
I jumped up, screaming, ready to ride, or I should say, ready to try and ride, fall off, try again. My mother wisely made me get out of pajamas and into pedal pushers.
We all went outside our quarters. A long driveway led to the main road. Since it was a naval base, fully enclosed with a fence, there was very little traffic.
Dad adjusted the seat and handlebars. No helmets required then. I still remember the rush of pushing off, standing up, and sitting on the seat. It was a pretty wobbly ride, but I made it down to the end of the driveway without falling off. Brakes were not levers on the front. You simply stopped the pedals, actually moving backwards. It worked.
My Dad made me go up and down the driveway, getting the hang of turning around at the end. Everyone else lost interest and went back inside.
Up until that morning, my world had consisted of the house and the driveway. I had to play within sight of the house. To my total surprise, Dad said I’d passed the bike test, and would I like to ride out on the street? Go ahead, take a spin.
My world got a whole lot bigger. I wheeled up and down the streets with their houses called quarters, then past the barracks, the administration offices. Wow. Freedom. Amazing. Little did I know, until my Mom told me years later, that Dad had already spoken to the guards at the gate and told them two things:
1.I was not allowed to ride the bike off base.
2.If they wouldn’t mind, please keep an eye on his daughter.
What to me seemed like total freedom was actually a very controlled situation where many eyes looked out for me and traffic, of course, was at a very minimul level.
The gift of a bicycle is a life-changing event. Sometimes even today, grown up, ever so adult, riding around on a real blessing, a 21 speed bike with lever brakes, it amazes me the leisurely, lovely pace that riding a bicycle gives you – a world view quite different than that seen when whizzing by in a car at 40 mph.
And the view of Christmas is different too. As an adult, I confess that I miss the fact that Christmas isn’t done unto me any more. The days of being a child are gone, and with it a certain magical anticipation.
For me, with the kids grown and away, and not being in the income bracket to buy the entire world a bicycle, it all comes back to the kitchen. Think about the people who have to work that day – policeman, firemen, emergency workers, 911 employees, hospital personnel, you name it. Think of the people who have no Christmas – the homeless living in cars or the woods, the dispossessed, the men, women and children in transitional housing, those in halfway houses. Look around; you can make a list pretty quick.
A hot meal, cooked with love, served with laughter and respect, is a gift you can give, if not on Christmas, then the day after. For many reasons,including failed expectations, Dec. 26 is a really blue day for a lot of people.
Don’t
forget to take them sugar cookies and milk. Santa would approve.
Lucy Tobias is a freelance writer and artist living in Ocala, Florida. She is currently working on a book entitled “50 Great Walks in Florida”.