holiday

Christmas

Do you believe in Santa Claus? No, not the man in the red suit with black boots, white hair and beard who drives a sleigh with eight tiny reindeer, but that which he embodies. You know, the Spirit of Christmas? The time and moment when smiles are plentiful and kindness flows and the world glistens and sparkles with beauty. Well, I do. The Spirit of Christmas is very real to me and will forever be because on one particular Christmas Eve, that wonderful and glorious spirit proved itself to me.

The decorated tree boasted lights and tinsel, candy canes and chocolates and waited to stand guard over the gifts it knew would lay at its feet. It had snowed and the winter wonderland reflected all the lights and glistened with untouched beauty. We had a few small gifts, but the rest had to wait until closer to Christmas.

Christmas is a season of joy and laugher, lights and wonder, miracles and love, but there are times when tears and sorrow weasel their way in and dim the splendor. On one particular Christmas our bank account was raided, our Christmas money was forced to cover the bills and there was no pay day to offer assistance and AER said it wasn't considered an emergency. Our daughter was five and there's something difficult about telling a child Santa can't make it.

I asked family for help, but none had any funds to spare and when at the far corner of the States, you're kind of alone. I filed the typical report with the bank and police, but saw little hope in recovering that $200.00 in time to rescue Christmas.

We took what little we did have, the three main things from Santa, and waited for some miracle of an extra bit of funds, but when military, there is nothing between the 16th and Christmas. Christmas Eve, we tucked our little angel into bed, our feigned smiles an effort to hide what we knew would face us in the morning when we were forced to explain that somewhere another child needed Santa more. I hoped our big bright blue eyed, blonde haired angel she had the heart we prayed she did.

The freshly falling snow lost its wonder and no longer glistened. The multitude of lights lost their color and no longer sparkled. The world turned black and white with shades of gray. My heart lost hope.

Seated on the floor at the base our little five foot plastic tree, decorated with lights galore, tinsel, candy canes and chocolates, I scattered what little we had beneath the tree. When I looked up, my heart shattered. The star leaned forward and peered down at me from above as if to ask where were all the gifts. I cried and never more in my life than at that moment did I wish the man in red suit was real and would magically appear before me. My husband put his hand on my shoulder, but the ring of the phone sent his dashing into the kitchen to answer it before woke our sleeping angel.

He never said a word as he hung up, raced back the hall and down the stairs. Within minutes, he strode down the hallway with two huge thirty-three gallon trash bags and a grin bigger than any I'd seen in a while. He set those bags beside me. I asked, "So who was on the phone?"

He said, "Just a man who said open the garage door, laughed ho, ho ,ho and hung up."

We opened those precious dark bags and laughed as wrapped presents addressed to our angel poured out. I couldn't count because there was no name for that wonderful gift, no amount of words could have uttered enough gratitude, no amount of shed tears could have fallen. Yes, the Christmas Spirit was real and rescued my five year old angel for me. In the bottom of the bag was an envelope. We hoped it was something telling us who did this so we could thank them, but all we found was a simple Christmas card with good old St Nick winking on the front. Inside was a printed message that said: Merry Christmas to you and yours.

Color flooded my word as lights sparkled, snow glistened and my heart celebrated.

We never did figure out who our beloved Santa was that year, but we'll never forget that special someone who reached out when we needed them most and gave what no other could.

By the way, that little girl does have a heart and it's one of the biggest hearts I've ever seen.

Halloween

My most humorous Halloween moment came a book and coincidence over two decades ago. I do not scare easily, but when I look back on this night, I smile. I was bored and picked the first book off the nearby bookshelf. Salem’s Lot. As of today, I’ve seen the movie numerous times and never once was affected, but I cannot make it through that book. I can’t pick it up.

Mistake number 1-I started that book on a night when hubby was working. Mistake number 2-I was alone. Mistake number 3-I sat in a comfortable chair beside the back door. Mistake number 4-my imagination can run wild. Mistake number 5-coincidence is not funny.

Note. The chair sits beside the backdoor, which leads to a carport where a 1973 Oldsmobile CS faced the door to the outside utility room. It’s late. It’s dark. It’s not Halloween!

I was about maybe a third of the way into the book when something scratched the concrete wall behind me. I stopped reading and listened. Silence answered. I shrugged, considered it a fluke and continued reading. A few more pages flipped and the noise returned for a mere second. I put the book down, checked behind and under the chair thinking a mouse was busy. Nothing. I walked through the quiet three bedroom house. Nothing. I turned on the porch and carport lights and looked out the windows. Nothing. Again, I shrugged it off, picked up my book, sat and read. Not more than five or six pages and that disturbing noise returned. Never, never get angry at something you can’t see.

I stood up, tossed the book in the chair and reached for the backdoor knob. The carport light blew. My heart skipped a beat. I locked the door. All the doors and even checked the windows. There was nothing to be seen outside of the house or in. My heart raced at the not knowing what lurked unseen in the cover of the night. I reminded myself I was a grown woman and had no reason to fear the dark and should keep reading. Somehow I didn’t quite believe my words. I again sat and read. I hit a spot in the book that, since I was already on edge, spooked me.

The most eerie thing in the dark of the night at that moment was the slow, deliberate, almost calculated, scratch that crept from the top of the wall down. I dropped the book, dashed across the room and stared at the door. I can’t tell you how many times I repeated the phrase I am not afraid, but I did it the entire time I hunted the flashlight and opened the backdoor. The scratching came from within the utility room. It was a slow, tortuous grind. I turned off the flashlight so I was harder to see.

I debated for sometime on how to open the utility room door. Do I jump in front of it, sling it open and duck, leap into the room? I opted to swing it open. For every action, there is a reaction. I swing open the door, the door banged the wall, swung back and slammed shut. A loud solid thunk resounded from within the utility room. Then all went quiet. In a now or never moment of fear, I grabbed the knob, yanked open the door, reached in, flipped on the utility room light and yanked my hand back. Nothing happened. The idea something inside waited for me to stick my head through the open doorway brewed, but curiosity won. I peeked, slowly, ever so slowly into that small 12x8 room.

I closed my eyes, drew a deep breath then reopened my eyes to access the grinning creature. The slow, torturous scraping occurred because the drywall ceiling board released its hold and slid down the cinderblock wall to rest on top of the washing machine. The thunk was when the ceiling board landed on the washer. I scowled at my foolishness and made a note to have hubby fix both the carport light and the ceiling in the morning. The book was promptly returned to its sacred spot on the bookshelf.

No, this was not a scary tale from around a campfire. It was the first and last time I ever tried to read the book Salem’s Lot.