by Rita Klundt
I was twelve years old that Christmas. I know that because it was the first year we lived in our house on Veerman Street. The house still smelled of new carpet, and my bedroom furniture had yet to be stained or scratched. Back then, I had more drawer space than I had socks, underwear and old T-shirts. It was also the first winter I walked more than a mile to school. That year, it seemed colder and windier than usual.
My Christmas wishlist in 1967 started out brief. Very brief. One more pair of blue jeans and a game. The jeans my mom and I had shopped for in late August were still in style, and they fit, but I never seem to own enough jeans. I was too big for toys, but Twister was a big deal that year.
Among our circle of friends and acquaintances, we were one of only a few two-income families. Mom had just started her new job, which meant a bigger paycheck, and we’d heard her tell Dad that she was going to make sure we had a good Christmas before she got serious about decorating the walls and paying down the mortgage. Well, let me tell you, that was great news to the four of us Lisanby children.
And then, we heard her tell Dad, “Howard. Now that I’m working, I think you should do some of the shopping. Why don’t you get the kids a present from just you?”
“I can do that,” he answered.
Secretly, we all hoped Mom would offer him suggestions, but I will admit that a gift with my Dad’s forethought, time and effort would be intriguing. Where Dad lacked asensitivity to popular culture and trends, he had (and still has) a spirit of generosity. My wish list grew and my Christmas expectations elevated to somewhere near spectacular.
The presents began to accumulate. Big packages with bows and tiny boxes, too. But for the longest time, (possibly more than a week) none of them were tagged with my name. Yet, I wasn’t worried because Mom reassured me, “Yours is coming!”
At every opportunity, and with people who didn’t care to hear, I shared how I was going to have a “very merry Christmas.” Mom was a good secret keeper, but every glance that she exchanged…it didn’t matter with whom, I just knew… it must have had something to do with my Christmas.
Mom had agreed to do a Christmas program recitation of the Christmas Story that she hadn’t done since she was about twelve years old. Only in hindsight can I understand the additional stress that caused her during the Christmas season. Shortly after Thanksgiving, she had started re-reading Luke 2:1-19 every evening. Sometimes aloud. Every evening, starting with verse one, Mom would recite as much as she could. Then she would hand off her Bible to one of us kids, or Dad, and have us check her memory.
We were in the living room the first time I heard her recite all nineteen verses without error or hesitation.
Luke 2:1-19 (KJV):
And it came to pass in those days, that there went out a decree from Caesar Augustus that all the world should be taxed.
(And this taxing was first made when Cyrenius was governor of Syria.)
And all went to be taxed, every one into his own city.
And Joseph also went up from Galilee, out of the city of Nazareth, into Judaea, unto the city of David, which is called Bethlehem; (because he was of the house and lineage of David:)
To be taxed with Mary his espoused wife, being great with child.
And so it was, that, while they were there, the days were accomplished that she should be delivered.
And she brought forth her firstborn son, and wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger; because there was no room for them in the inn.
And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night.
And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were sore afraid.
And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people.
For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord.
And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger.
And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying,
Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.
And it came to pass, as the angels were gone away from them into heaven, the shepherds said one to another, Let us now go even unto Bethlehem, and see this thing which is come to pass, which the Lord hath made known unto us.
And they came with haste, and found Mary, and Joseph, and the babe lying in a manger.
And when they had seen it, they made known abroad the saying which was told them concerning this child.
And all they that heard it wondered at those things which were told them by the shepherds.
But Mary kept all these things, and pondered them in her heart.
Whether it was a Sunday morning or evening, I can’t say. But I’ve never been more proud of my mother as I was to hear her tell the story of Jesus’ birth. Mom, even with her beehive hairdo stiff with hairspray, came close to convincing me (and the rest of her audience) that she’d been a first person witness to events that had happened two thousand years earlier.
Presents tagged with my name were among the last of gifts Mom wrapped and placed under that scrawny aluminum Christmas tree which was decorated with nothing but store-bought ornaments. No homemade popcorn strings or cotton balls and pieces of felt that had been glued together by a first-grader, approximating the imageof a “snowman.” You might remember those shiny aluminum trees…the ones with a separate device that rotated a disc over a lightbulb. It lit the tree with an alternating hue of red, green, blue and yellow.
Finally, one small package, wrapped without the benefit of a box or bow had my name on the tag. It was a pair of knee socks. At least that’s the best I could guess based on size and feel of the contents. Then, a bigger box with a ribbon and bow drew my attention.
I picked it up and shook it. No noise. It was heavy. I held it up to admire the quality of the wrapping, and the light from our living room window hinted of some writing on the manufacturer’s box. Not wanting to spoil Mom’s surprise, I returned the present back to its original spot near the tree. That’s when I realized I could read the lettering if I pressed the paper against the box, and turned it at an angle to catch the sunlight coming through the window.
I saw a large “S”and a small “e.” It’s a sewing machine! I hadn’t asked for one, but I had taken an interest in sewing, and Mom had noticed. She had taught me some simple stitches, how to read a pattern and had allowed me to practice sewing straight seams on her machine.
The impulse to hug her neck was restrained because ruining Mom’s surprise wasn’t something I should do. But I did announce my expectations to friends at school and church. They (the ones who weren’t jealous of my expensive gift) celebrated with me.This was going to be the best Christmas ever.
In our family, we take turns opening gifts. The youngest opens one gift first, then we go according to birthday, and repeat the cycle until all gifts are open. Everyone has the opportunity to offer and receive their thank yous that way. And we all have a personalized strategy for selecting which present is opened first, last and in between.
Delayed gratification can sure be sweet, so when it was my turn to open a gift, I opened the Twister game first. I’d been correct about the socks. At least they were knee socks, and dark colored. Not white or the kind that easily slip to your ankles before lunch time. Mom had made her practical gift more acceptable by tucking some dollar bills between the cardboard tag and the socks. We all knew to watch for cash. It was the way Mom equalized the number of gifts with how much she’d spent on each of us. She was a stickler for fairness.
Several passes around our circle came and went without much excitement for me. I remember wishing I’d properly rehearsed surprise at the opening my new sewing machine.It would be a present worthy of some drama. But I managed a pause and to gather a thought while my big sister, Jan, lifted the gift and placed it on my lap.
I began ripping at the wrapping paper, without noticing the picture on the box. “It’s what I’ve always wanted. How did you know?”
The pleasure on my mother’s face told me that my acting was believable. But the writing on the box was clear. I saw the big “S” and the small “e.” Only, the proportion of the letter sizes was all wrong, and the words sewing or machine were nowhere on the box. Instead, the word read “Oster”—as in the brand name of a hair dryer. My “sewing machine” turned out to be one of those big, shell type hair dryers, typically seen in a beauty salon.
I should probably tell you that, like many of my friends, I had long, straight hair, and I liked it long and straight. I’m a low maintenance kind of gal. Wash it, comb it and go. From my perspective, it was a useless gift.
A bit of hope wafted between my head and heart with remembrances of other gifts that Mom had creatively disguised by using strange boxes and packaging, but this box was stapled and still sealed from the factory. Mom couldn’t have repurposed this box. Then, I thought maybe the hair dryer was intended for my older sister, Jan, but mom said nothing, and my hair dryer was the last gift in a box big enough to be sewing machine.
I hadn’t rehearsed for this moment. I doubted my happy smile fooled anyone and was grateful for everyone’s attention to turn toward Jan while I waited for my last turn. Dad’s gift.
All four of us were saving Dad’s gift until last. I think that might have been at Mom’s suggestion. My joy had been deflated. My Christmas was now significantly less than spectacular. And my “less than” turned to devastating when I saw how Dad had spent his hard-earned money. The clothing box was stamped with the logo of the town’s most exclusive lady’s dress shop. The price tags were intact, supporting Dad’s legacy of generosity while adding to the travesty of my Christmas 1967.
Mom gave me one of her “looks,” so I knew not to let Dad see my disappointment or blurt out what I was feeling. I placed the white furry hat on my head, pulled the tabs over my ears and tied the strings (with white balls on the ends) under my chin. My siblings snickered. I pulled the matching muff from the box and lifted the string over my head, allowing the muff to hang loosely at my waist.
“You put your hands in there,” Dad said. “You won’t even need gloves!”
Again, there were more snickers. The fur was soft, the kind your cheeks beg to stroke, but what would my friends think? My new hat and muff stayed in the box for my entire winter break from school. I played around with my hair dryer…putting rollers in my hair, and actually enjoyed reading while hot air from that big, clunky “hood” warmed my head. I made sure Mom saw me trying.
I went to church with curled hair, and the compliments were nice, but having to wake up an hour early to hear a few kind words? Really? It wasn’t a sewing machine, but Mom’s gift had provided a believable excuse for not wearing Dad’s.
I knew what it was that had robbed my Christmas of its joy. It was a hasty, unfounded and ill-gotten expectation.
I’ve had half of a century of Christmas’ since then. But that hair dryer, hat and muff are most memorable. They sold in my first garage sale sometime in my late twenties. I recall feeling a pinch of guilt at letting them go. As I make this personal experience a public one, I remember the rest of the story:
I didn’t tell Mom, and I tried not to let her see my disappointment with the hair dryer. However, she might have known. That was the year she took me to the fabric store and, for the first time, let me pick a pattern and all the notions for making myself a skirt.
I denied that it was cold and windy enough to wear my hat and muff to church, except for once. That Sunday, I placed it on my head as we left home, without tying the strings, and once we were in the church parking lot, I removed it and stuffed it inside the muff. I blamed the static fly away and abnormal crease in my hair on the wind.
Dad had already left for work when it was time for me to leave for school in the mornings, and Mom drove me to school. If I took my furry hat out the door, it was tucked inside my muff. Dad usually arrived home in the afternoons before me, so on those really cold days, I’d slip my hat on as I neared home so Dad would see that I was wearing his gift.
Then, one afternoon a gust of wind smacked my face as the school door slammed behind me. It was a cold and moist smack…the kind that freezes on your eyelashes and burns your cheeks. I was proud, but not stupid, so I pulled my hat and muff from my school bag. This time I tied the strings.
Tears formed and then froze on my face as I walked home. I used the furry muff to wipe them away. They started because of the cold and blowing snow, but before too long, I was crying for how much my mom and dad loved me and had wanted me to have a wonderful Christmas. Why had I cheated and peeked? I’d received everything on my Christmas list and much more! With each swipe over my eyes, that soft muff reminded me of what I had done to ruin my Christmas.
The cold, wet wind was merciless. I walked fast and looked down, using my hat as a shield. I was crying hard enough that I could barely see the sidewalk, and not yet half-way home. When I heard a car horn, I raised my head for a quick look. Dad’s van. He passed by me, then turned around.
“Cold out there,” he said.
“It’s not that bad,” I replied. “But I’m glad you came to get me. My feet got wet and my toes feel like they could break off.”
Dad suggested I should have some new boots, and offered to take me shopping. He said he knew just the kind I needed, and exactly where he could take me to get them.
“Can we go another time?” I asked. “Right now, I just want to get home.”
Wet Feet 