It is a sunny, cold December morning in California. Dad is finally home. I am a curious seven year old full of unanswered questions. Where has Dad been? Why don't Mom explain? When I grow up I discover that 1954 is the year of my veteran father's break down and involuntary stay in a psychiatric hospital. At seven, all I know is that he is out of a job, mom is looking for work, and we are “poor.” We are told not to expect Christmas this year. Is Santa also poor? As the oldest, I hold the responsibility of creating a joyous holiday for my siblings tight to my heart.
We bake cookies; we cut out and make paper chains for the tree we found on BLM land up the mountain from our house. This tree looks scrawny in our living room, just as I think our Christmas will be. My grandparents are babysitting my toddler brother while my mom goes to job interviews. I am in charge of my younger sister; Dad, well, Dad is in his own world. I walk down our narrow hallway and hear Dad talking to someone in the bathroom. I catch a glimpse of Dad's twisted face as he stands before the mirror. I love my father fiercely, and know something is wrong.
It is the Fifties, and our small neighborhood is full of children. We all walk the fifteen blocks to our elementary school and we all learn to ride a two wheeler by sharing the same small, training-wheeled bike. My sister and I skip down the street to play with sisters Dawn and Denise. All the adults in the neighborhood treat us well. We don't understand Dad's recent comments about trusting no one. Though kids come to our backyard to climb and swing on our swings or to play dress up, families rarely visit. I am a sensitive, gregarious child who loves school, loves having friends and desperately wants our family to be close and loving.
Mom's usual childlike joy is heavy with quiet despair. Dad isn't himself; he needs a rest. The merriest of holidays are upon us and I have never felt so sad. No ones knows what we're going through, I think. Even Nanny and Grampy, my mother's parents, send disapproving glances Dad's way, which does nothing to add to the mood. But we have a tree and we have cookies and on Christmas Eve we children sit by the huge living room window, wishing for snow and reindeer.
Christmas morning dawns with us slowly sliding out of bed. We hear sounds in the kitchen and smell eggs and bacon frying. Mom's smile greets us as we tip-toe and stand at the entryway. “Nanny and Grampy brought over a bag of groceries last night,” she announces, “and there are some surprises from them under the tree.” We race to the tree to grab the gifts our grandparents brought us. Dad is still in his pajamas, sitting in his favorite brown leather chair, drinking coffee and smoking a cigarette. He gives us a half-hearted smile and a half-hearted Merry Christmas as we reach for our packages. “I feel so awful Santa Claus couldn't make it this year,” he moans. Then suddenly we hear a loud knock on our front door. Dad jumps and Mom wipes her hands on her apron as she unlocks the door and pulls it open. I run to her side. We step out onto our porch and look up and down the street...no one. Then we turn around and notice a sign on our screen door and this string tied to the handle: “Follow the string,” it states.
It's a chilly morning for the San Fernando Valley, and I stand, staring at the sign and at the string. The excitement pours into my body and warms me up. We gather together; even my dad looks amazed. We kids are at the head of our family line and hold onto this thin string: we follow it to our front yard, along the edge of our bushes, around the side bed of roses, across our driveway, up to our garage door. There the string is tied to the handle, which is decorated with a huge red bow. Mom and dad glance at each other, as mystified as we children are. “Well, let's open the garage,” says Dad. Together we all lift on the handle and the garage door swings open. We stand there stunned. Every inch is filled with boxes. We move closer. There are boxes of clothes for each of us and boxes of toys and boxes of canned goods and boxes of children's books. Even at seven, I remember staring at the amazement and happiness on my family's faces and I notice my heart isn't tight anymore, but wide open.
Santa made it after all! We become exhilarated and slightly intoxicated after opening our presents. My parents have a look of pure, unexpected joy on their haggard faces. I catch a glimpse of a tear on my Dad's cheek. We troop back and forth into the house carrying armfuls of clothes and toys. I would never forget this particular Christmas. It is the beginning of a difficult childhood with a depressed and sometimes violent father. But this Christmas, when Santa truly does not forget us, gives me a hope and a belief in human kindness that cuts through my father's cynicism.
It isn't until I am a teenager that I discover what really happened; I am sitting in the kitchen as my mother prepare dinner. Somehow our conversation veers back through Christmases of long ago. Mom reveals what she eventually found out after that wondrous extravaganza. Our family's name was submitted by a neighbor to a local church and the members gathered all the boxes for us. I am dumbfounded by this generosity from total strangers. Throughout my growing-up years, my father constantly tied to make strangers our enemies. A knowing smile crosses my face. My father is not as wise as I think. I can feel the pull of that simple string on my fingers and the memory of how this thin piece of twine gave our family the greatest joy in a dark time. I will always be eternally grateful.
© 2011
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