Christmas Eve was my favorite holiday. Unlike most families, Santa Claus always came to our house first so we got our presents before we went to bed. He would just open the door and walk in (even I knew he couldn’t come down a chimney with a roaring coal fire going in the stove)carrying a big red bag filled with presents. Good thing, too, because I just don’t know how anyone could fall asleep knowing there would be presents when they got up the next morning.
Our house was always full on this night. All my aunts, uncles and cousins would be there. Well, my Uncle Don always got there late, after Santa Claus had already come and handed out our presents. I guess him being a preacher was the reason. Maybe some of his church family needed to talk to him the night before Jesus’ birthday. I always thought it was sad that Uncle Don never got to see Santa Claus but he said that it was okay, he didn’t really mind.
“Glora Lynn, hold up your present so I can take a picture.”
“Yes Momma.”
“Ted, what’s that you got? Oh, a cap gun! Hold it up and let Aunt Midge take your picture.”
Only after all the kids had opened their gifts would the adults open their own. The women would be oh so gentle with the wrapping paper because Mommy and Mamaw said “Save the paper! We can use it again.” The men were like big kids, ripping the paper off and throwing it in the floor until their wives or mother told them to stop it.
Well, I guess that as far as Santa was concerned I’d gotten both things I’d asked for but he was wrong. Not that I’d ever point that out to him next time I saw him. Hey, I might’ve been slow but I wasn’t stupid.
In my letter I’d written that I wanted a cowboy suit. I asked Momma to write that I didn’t mean a cowgirl suit, even though I was a girl. I just knew that Santa would understand the difference and I’d been proven right when I opened my last gift.
The one thing that Santa had gotten wrong, and I could understand how it could happen, was that he gave me a nurse’s kit instead of the doctor’s kit I’d asked for. I suppose that Santa just got that all mixed up. But it was funny how he got the cowboy suit right but not the doctor’s kit. Oh well, I’d work with what I had. I’d use my medical knowledge on my family using the nurse’s kit but I’d know in my mind I was doing it as a doctor.
It was as I was checking Benny’s throat and looking in his ears with my stethoscope (wasn’t too bright, was I?) that Mamaw told us the soup was on. The soup was vegetable beef, my favorite, with macaroni as big as my finger.
After we ate supper, the women talked about what all they were doing for Christmas dinner. As they talked we kids ate a piece of apple pie. It wasn’t my favorite like chocolate was, but it was pretty good.
The men ate quickly then loaded the cars with each family’s gifts. With the last bite of pie each father said, “Let’s get going. It’s beginning to snow again and the roads will get worse.”
The women never drove in bad weather, leaving that in the capable hands of their husbands. “Oh, we’ll have a white Christmas!”
I didn’t get a chance to give Benny his diagnosis before they left to go home. Too bad since I was pretty sure he had malaria. Not long after they left our branch of the family tree was in bed.
“Momma, will you tell me a story?”
We both had on flannel nightgowns and warm socks. It was a little hot now since we’d put all the shredded gift paper in the stove but we would wake up later with our teeth chattering if no one got up to stoke the fire and bank it with coal.
She turned to me in the bed and even though we were sweating, she draped her arm across my body. Because Mamaw and Papaw were already asleep in the other bed, she put her lips close to my ear and whispered.
“Once upon a time there was this beautiful little redheaded girl and she…”
The stories always started this way, with the little girl that was me, involved in some wondrous adventure. Sometimes I was fighting a big, bad wolf, other times I saved the world. No matter the circumstances, the tale always ended with the little redheaded girl victorious. This may be the reason I grew up to be a writer.
But it wasn’t the story that was most important to me. Truly, I can’t even remember any of the stories now. It was her holding me close, the love in her voice, the tender touch of her fingers as she’d stroke my face that last in my memory. This was the time of my life that I loved Momma the best.
So who cared if Santa gave me a silly ol’ nurse’s kit instead of a doctor’s bag when God had given me such a wonderful mother?
Gloria Teague-LaFollette girl
www.gloriateague.com
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