Chicken Soup for the Soul Christmas (15 page)

Benjamin Disraeli

Christmas with my brother, Ken, was always a magical time. He never got “too cool” for excitement over the holidays the way the rest of us did. Ken was born smack in the middle of my parents' twelve kids. He was born a month early in an era when pediatric intensive care units weren't what they are today. Halfway through the delivery, the doctors realized the umbilical cord was wrapped around Ken's throat, cutting off the oxygen to his brain. By the time he was in the doctor's arms, it had been cut off long enough to leave him with cerebral palsy, mild retardation, and profound deafness. But God is good, and he formymore than compensated for Ken's handicaps by lavishing on him a sparkling personality, a zest for life, and a childlike faith that worked like a magnet to attract everyone around him.

Because my brother, Mark, was born less than a year after Ken, and my sister, Gail, had been born ten months earlier, babying Ken was not an option. He was part of the gang from day one, and although he didn't walk until he was twelve, he never had trouble keeping up with the rest of us, or the passel of neighborhood kids and cousins who hung around our house.

In the hospital, the doctors had advised my parents not to even see Ken, to place him in a special home and forget they'd had him. They predicted he'd never walk or talk, never feed himself, and wouldn't live past his tenth birthday. Ken was seven by the time I was born, and I'm glad the doctors never told him any of that. The Ken I knew was lean and taut, feisty and impish, and ate anything that didn't eat him first. He loved a party, loved being the center of attention, and loved everything to do with Christmas.

One of my favorite Christmas memories was a year when our grandparents sent us a new swing set. From first glance, Ken was fascinated with the slide. He spent the holidays on the ground offering a blow-by-blow commentary as the rest of us slid down. He'd squeal with delight as we began to slide, throw his head back and laugh when we landed with a splat at his feet, then chase us on all fours, trying to grab us and tickle us before we could crawl back up the ladder and out of reach. He never tried to traverse the ladder himself, though. His scrawny, twisted legs just didn't work that way.

The day the rest of us started back to school, Mama knew what she had to do. She bundled up Ken, took him out to the backyard, pointed him toward the ladder, and began to pray. “Okay, Lord, Ken wants to go down the slide. I'm gonna need all the help I can get to let him try.”

Years later, she told me how hard it was watching him climb and fall, climb and fall, again and again. He tore both knees out of his pants, cut one elbow, and bloodied his forehead. One particularly bad tumble left him rocking on the lawn, crying and holding a knot on the back of his head.

The neighbor to the back of us came to the fence and yelled at my mama, “What kind of woman are you? Get that baby off that ladder!” Mama told her as nicely as she could that, if it bothered her, she'd have to close her curtains and stop watching. Ken had decided he was going down the slide, and down the slide he would go, no matter how long it took him.

By the time the rest of us got home from school, Ken was black and blue, but smiling from ear to ear. Not only could he get up and down the slide with lightning speed, but heaven help the kid who got in his way.

That was a generous gift my grandparents sent us that year. I'm sure it set them back a bit. But the real gift came from my mom, my mom who loved my brother enough to watch him struggle, and to pray for the courage not to interfere, knowing how important it was for Ken to do things on his own.

That was almost fifty years ago. I wish I knew where those doctors are now. They were so ready to tell us all my brother would never do. Obviously, they didn't know the God we knew. What would they say if they could see Ken now at age fifty-five, living independently and holding down a job? They didn't know back then that God had a much bigger plan for my brother, and they didn't know the mama who loved him enough and trusted God enough to give him the best Christmas present he'd ever receive.

Mimi Greenwood Knight

5
CHRISTMAS
TRADITIONS

H
eap on the wood!
   
The wind is chill;
   
But let it whistle as it will.
   
We'll keep our Christmas merry still.

Sir Walter Scott

Holiday Tale

E
ven as an adult, I find it
difficult to sleep on Christmas Eve.
Yuletide excitement is a potent caffeine,
no matter your age.

Carrie Latet

Like many other people, this time of year is my favorite. People really get into the true reason for the holidays: miracles, good cheer, helping your fellow man. However, others, like me as a seven-year-old boy, only thought of one thing: presents!

Every year the holidays would come, and while my friends had millions of gifts under their trees (and in their living room for my Jewish friends), I would only get one gift. My parents would always say that we could not afford anything else. Besides, that was not the true meaning for the holidays! (As a child, I got sick and tired of that excuse.)

One year when I was eleven, I was more happy and excited than usual during the holidays. Was it because there was world peace? No. Was it because there was less hunger in Africa? No. Or even perhaps there was a cure for a terrible disease? Not even that. It was because I saw
two
gifts for me! What in the world could they be? Sure, I had been extra good during the year, but what in the world did I do to deserve
two
gifts? I really did not care. I was just so excited not to have only one gift that year.

My parents, as well as my other siblings, had gathered together. After we'd said some prayers and sung some songs, we were going to open the gifts. Anticipation was getting to me. My heart was racing. Finally, I was allowed to rip through the first wrapped package. My joy quickly turned to depression when I realized what the first gift contained: a left sock! (I'm sure you can guess what my second present would be: the right sock.)

Years later, as I've matured, I'm not so sure if that story is true or if I've just told it so many times that I
think
it's true. It really doesn't matter. I've learned that what does matter is the holiday spirit: helping others, being appreciative, and showing kindness and love. But before I take too much time in writing about the holidays, I better make sure I get down to the department store to buy my daughter a holiday present: a pair of socks. One can never forget a great ritual!

Michael Segal

The World's Biggest Table

C
hristmas is sights, especially
the sights of Christmas reflected in
the eyes of a child.

William Saroyan

It was the biggest table in the world, and it was filled with brightly wrapped Christmas presents. The gifts were piled so high they formed a peak in the middle of the table. This was truly a miracle to the eyes of a child.
How
did they get there? Who were they for? Was it possible that one or
maybe two were for me?

This was the Christmas Eve tradition in the basement of my maternal grandparents' home for as long as I could remember. Though it is now over fifty years since my childhood, the memories are vivid and endearing.

My grandparents' home was the family meeting place for Sunday dinners and all holidays, birthdays, anniversaries, christenings, weddings, funerals—you get the picture. Grandma cooked, and her five sons, two daughters, their families, and extended families ate. Christmas Eve was the culmination of the year's feasts.

Though my grandparents' home was large, all meal preparation, eating, and socializing took place in the basement. There was a full kitchen, bathroom, small seating area, and the biggest table in the world. Now, remember, my memory of this table is from the perspective of a very young child. However, as I look back, it had to be a very
big table to seat the number of people in the family.

The furnace was in the middle of the basement. In a vain attempt to hide the furnace, my grandmother had placed her curtain stretcher in front of the furnace. The curtain stretcher always had a lace curtain stretched from end to end that was held to the easel by small nails around the frame.

Family and friends began arriving early on Christmas Eve. The adults drank homemade red wine (prepared by enterprising neighbors) and exchanged stories. They toasted to each other's good health and wished each other well.

The children (siblings and cousins) grouped together on the far side of the basement, trying to figure out where the presents were and what they would receive. We played games, ate, and ran around the basement. Our parents, aunts, uncles, and grandparents ignored us, knowing there was no place for us to go, or to get into trouble, for we were rarely out of their sight.

Grandma called us to the table, and Christmas Eve dinner began with a hearty antipasto. Platters filled with roasted peppers, hot peppers, fragrant cheeses, lettuce, and artichoke hearts were passed. The passed platters were followed quickly with baskets of hot Italian bread and homemade bread sticks.

The antipasto was cleared from the table, and the pasta was next. Grandma preferred regular spaghetti—nothing fancy like linguine, fusilli, or ziti. She thought thin spaghetti wasn't “real,” so we feasted on regular spaghetti topped with a delicious marinara sauce and lots of parmesan cheese.

Throughout the dining experience, conversation continued, and with the addition of more wine, our voices grew louder. The children sat at the end of the table on benches brought in from the outdoor picnic table. We were seated closely to make maximum use of the benches. Since we weren't trusted to pass the heavy platters, our dishes were prepared by nearby adults.

Fried fish and steamed shrimp filled the next course, accompanied by fresh vegetables cooked to perfection. More bread, more wine, more conversation . . . what fun and noise! Hours passed, and it was time for dessert.

The children were given ice cream in cups, topped with whipped cream and a cherry. The adults enjoyed espresso coffee with plates of fresh fruit and cheese. Soon, plates of Italian pastries filled the table—cannoli, napoleons, rum cakes, and cookies topped with pignoli nuts. Diet? What is a diet?

The children soon tired of sitting and were excused from the table. The women cleared and washed the dishes, while the men began loading the table with gifts that appeared mysteriously. Since the children were busy in another part of the basement, they were not paying attention to the ever-growing gift table. “Children, close your eyes,” one of the adults would announce. We stopped playing and quickly closed our eyes.

“We will come and get you, but you must keep your eyes closed. Okay?”

“Yes, yes, our eyes are closed.We are ready!” we shouted in unison.

As we were led to the table, the overhead lights were turned out. As we opened our eyes, the lights went on, and there was the treasure. The biggest table in the world no longer held food, but instead gifts piled high to the ceiling. What wonder! What more could any child want? This was truly a dream come true.

And then it began. Gifts were passed out by one adult after another to each other and to the children. Most presents were real, but some adult gifts were gags—fun packages presented from brother to brother or sister to sister-in-law containing an item that represented a private joke or an inappropriate style, size, or color. Everyone laughed and eagerly awaited the next presentation.

Hours passed, and the table was still piled with gifts.

“Let's take a break,” said one of the aunts, “and sing some carols!” The basement filled with the glorious sounds of family singing. Even if you did not know the words, you hummed along just to be a part of the fun.

We began opening the gifts again. As we received a special toy or game, we wanted to play. We would back away from the table and sit on the floor to see how our toy worked or our doll cried. Some of the smaller children began to fall asleep. Grandma would put two or three chairs together, place a blanket and pillow on the hard surface, and create a makeshift bed in the middle of all the chaos.

Soon, the last few gifts remained, and one of the uncles would announce, “We always save the best for last and the best for the best! The best wife, mother, mother-in-law, and grandmother in the world now gets her presents.”

Until that moment, I did not realize Grandma had not received any of the presents. She received her gifts at the end of the evening. That was also a tradition—a tradition that was kept until her last Christmas Eve.

The biggest table in the world was now empty—no food, no gifts, nothing on the table. The tablecloth was removed for cleaning and ready for the next day's meal. Some of us went home; others stayed at our grandparents' home for the night. All of us returned the next day for Christmas dinner.

Many years later, when my grandparents had passed away and their home was torn down to make way for a newer home, I wondered what ever happened to that table. No one seemed to know for sure. It didn't matter. I knew where it was. The biggest table in the world lived in my memory forever.