A Million Little Pieces Of My Mind

But topping all other events, and mounting in an ever-rising crescendo, came Christmas. Floated in on a note of tingling expectation, and scarcely pronounced as other sounds were, this single word was sufficient to start in motion an overwhelming torrent of physical and emotional activity.

Noel.

The first warning usually came in the form of a tiny sound breaking in upon the quiet of a gray November afternoon when the family would be engaged in reading the Sunday papers or in taking after-dinner naps. A light tapping on the dining room door—ever so faint—repeated several times, had the effect of an electric current upon all youngsters present. The elder would lay aside the paper, cock aside an ear in that direction, place a finger on lips and nod wisely in confirmation. Of course! It had been Santa Claus listening in outside, having come around for an early check on good and bad children. If the slightest doubt remained, a dash into the outer halls and a futile search through them must convince one that no other than that august presence had been there but a minute before. The wheels had been set in motion, the spell woven.

Not until many years later did a growing mind associate with these early tappings a visit from an uncle which always seemed to have occurred about a half-hour after the excitement had subsided.

Next in logical sequence, came the evening shopping trip. From its resting place in the closet emerged a brown leather traveling bag. A trolley ride brought mother, aunt and myself to a large department store, crowded and gaily decorated. Here I was led to some innocuous spot (such as the stocking counter) and kept there by one watchful relative while the other took the brown bag and vanished, in a most disconcerting way, amid the maze of counters and shoppers. After a brief wait, the shopper's reappearance brought some little ray of hope, enhanced by the knowing looks exchanged by the grown-ups and the twinkles in their eyes. But hope had been raised only to be dashed to the ground. The adults would trade places, and I again would have to wait quietly—perhaps now at the stationery counter—while the other took a turn shopping.

Upon testing its weight, I did, however, note with satisfaction that after each voyage the leather bag would have become slightly heavier. Towards the end of the evening, too, its sides began to strain over bulges which I patted speculatively. As a grand finale, we would climb upon high stools to sip beef tea or hot chocolate. I kept my eye on the luggage tucked beneath the counter at our feet, now and then giving it a secret little kick in the hope that the clasps and lock which were apparently ready to burst open would do just that and reveal at least some of the tantalizing contents.

A much simpler approach, of course, would have been to just leave me at home. But this I could never endure—each tiny ounce of anticipated joy must be savored. My wheedling and coaxing always won out. I was taken along, even though my presence complicated matters.

For a long while, the packages found beneath the tree and the contents of the shopping bag were two distinct and separate phases of the Christmas episode. Just when, in the blur of association, they merged into one and the same thing, I do not know.

About this time each year, a hall bedroom which was not in use suddenly became forbidden territory: "Santa's Workshop". Into it the brown bag disappeared after its shopping tour. The door remained locked till after Christmas, yet activity was certainly going on! A sound of movement could be heard whenever some grown-up remained closeted within. A strange odor of paint seemed to drift from the keyhole, too. And, coincident with these events, familiar objects began to disappear. Jenny, my rag doll with the tin head, just couldn't be found in any of the usual places. When it was time to put the bisque doll, Pinky, to bed, no carriage was there to cradle her. Even my little red rocking chair was missing. Puzzling and strange! Very, very strange—like so many things that were happening these last few weeks.

Slowly the days passed (far, far too slowly for fast-beating little hearts). Slowly, too, but surely, additional signs began to appear. Rehearsals started for the Christmas play; and, finally, the play itself was presented, when familiar classmates, no more angelic than oneself, took on a strange, unearthly appearance. Heads ordinarily flanked by stringy locks were now surrounded by bobbing curls. Grimy, fidgety hands shone with cleanliness and reposed (for a while, at least) in graceful positions. Plaid skirts and middy blouses were exchanged for flowing white cheesecloth robes and the trembling creatures within fairly staggered beneath glistening wings edged with tinsel, the hallmark of celestial inhabitants.

Packages from distant friends began to arrive. The turkey must be carefully selected and its necklace of fresh cranberries strung. Nor could the steaming of the plum pudding be omitted. Holly wreaths appeared in windows. The pungent scents of fir and pine permeated vegetable stores, schools, churches. Tall forests seemed to spring up out of familiar sidewalks as the trees stood awaiting the selection of buyers. Oh, joy unbearable! The day was nearly here! Could one possibly wait any longer?

At last! Christmas Eve, at twilight, became unlike any other day the year round. Each task was performed with finesse and delight. Long stockings fastened above the kitchen stove were tested for security, a tall white taper was lighted and placed in a window, the sky above was scanned for any trace of fast-travelling reindeer, the dining room was cleared as if for Sunday. All was now ready, not a detail forgotten.

Brushed and scrubbed to a painful luster, I was popped into flannelette nighties and tucked into bed early—fiercely determined not to close an eye the whole night long. I intended only to wait and listen and watch. A long silence followed. Someone cautiously peeped in at the bedroom door. Then there were footsteps; hurried, yet soft, continuous sounds kept up beyond a drowsy consciousness. I remembered I was going to stay awake. To wait…to listen…

My eyes opened slowly. Darkness. Silence. Suddenly I realized that hours had passed. I leaped out of bed and dashed to the kitchen. The stockings bulged queerly. Oh, joyful day! It was true. Santa had come! I rushed into the parlor. A softly shimmering tree towered there, and piles and piles of packages rested beneath it. There was the missing Jenny, a rosy glow upon her freshly painted cheeks, a new set of rice teeth showing between her parted lips, her tin head sewn securely back upon a body newly dressed in gingham. And Pinky, a black curly wig replacing her worn golden curls, peeped out from her carriage, now adorned with luxurious robe and pillows of satin. How lovely my little red rocker was, now with a cane seat and red leather back reinforcing its aging frame! (Would that we, too, might be withdrawn to "Santa's Workshop" for rejuvenation when time and cares have had their way with us!)

It must have been all of five a.m., but the whole family was astir. A hurried dressing and a hasty exit through the heavily locked outer doors brought us into the silent street. Night was still with us, but a chilly dawn already streaked the east with blood-red streamers promising snow.

At church the statues of the shepherds knelt motionless before the manger, fir trees banked around them. The first Mass began. Deep, deep, deep into the hearts of young and old sank the profound peace that is Christmas.

Afterward, we returned home to the color and excitement, the tinsel and glitter, the gifts and the goodies. We could barely touch our favorite breakfast of sausages and pancakes swimming in syrup and butter. After what seemed like an eternity we left the dishes unwashed and hurried into the parlor.

The long-awaited moment was here. From stuffed stockings tumbled oranges, nuts, small toys, and notions. Faster, faster flew the ribbons, tags, and papers until the very furniture was snowed in under a blizzard fantastic: dolls, paint sets, candies, wooly nighties, a white fur muff and scarf, perfumes, handkerchiefs, pocketbook and cash, knitted slippers, skates, games, sweaters, gloves, a brown teddy bear, a camera…

For a fortnight afterward the kitchen would lose its prestige, the parlor having been transformed into a fairyland. Here I would spend long hours beneath the spreading branches, reading books, playing games with friends, tasting nuts and sweetmeats, and examining my gifts again and again.

But on Christmas night, an enchanted circle formed around the tree: the nearest and dearest, the thoughtful and laughing, the youngsters, the aging. Of the latter, each, in her heart, was remembering other Christmases. Each, in the wavering shadows, seeking: seeking, as though on this night of nights, drawn from afar by the magnet of love, the presences missed might return to hover unseen in the glow of the tree.

With what care had the candles been set that no flame might reach a branch! One by one they were lighted, a sheet spread beneath catching the wax as it dripped. Just as a precaution, a filled water pail, damp cloths and a broom were kept nearby. How red the isinglass glowed in the rounded sides of the stove! Hot toddies and caraway cakes were passed out, with hot lemonade being the beverage of choice for the children. Someone began to softly hum a carol. Soon everyone was singing; before the candles had burnt down to their holders, a full chorus enveloped the tree.

The hands of the clock pointed to ten. It was over! But each night till after the New Year, the same routine would be followed with one group of guests or another. Yet, it would not be quite the same. Only Christmas touches the heart.