***
In the 1960s, Dayton’s department store in downtown
Minneapolis had a shopping area set up just for kids. When I was five, my mother listed my gift
recipients, put money in an envelope, and sent me off with my personal shopper,
who led me through a screened off area where I selected presents. I bought ladybug soaps for my mom and watched
as they were carefully wrapped and labeled.
The story goes that on Christmas morning, I rushed past my own Barbies
and games toward the presents for others I couldn’t wait to give. My mother kept those soaps, unused and dusty,
until she died.
***
When I was nine I got a record player, a brown plastic case
that snapped open like a suitcase to reveal the turntable. Dad took me to Delphi’s Wynkoop Pharmacy to pick out an album, my very
first. It was 1967 and I selected a
compilation album with “Hey Jude” and “123 Red Light.” That year Dad filmed a home movie of all of
us dancing in the living room. I looked self-conscious but happy.
***
Our newly reduced family sat on the floor around the
Christmas tree, my sister, 12, myself 16, and mom. My
father had died two days earlier and we had a brief respite from the constant
stream of visitors bringing their shock, grief, and casseroles to our door. Apparently
people were staying home Christmas Day. We chose the presents from Aunt Mary to
open—the best ones—first. Mom pulled out a pretty white shawl. “Where will I
ever wear this now?” she asked with a crack in her voice. It was the only time I saw her cry during
that entire time.
***
My mother lay in the living room in a hospital bed, hooked
up to oxygen at the highest setting. A fellow teacher came over to bring a Night Before Christmas book. “What day
is it?” Mom asked. When told it was Christmas Eve, she said, “That’s a good day
to go.” Within a couple hours her
breathing changed and she didn’t appear conscious. Now in our forties, my sister and I stayed up
all night talking to her, thanking her, assuring her we would be fine. Toward morning Lori went to bed, exhausted. A while later some movement caught my
attention; Mom had raised her head, opened her eyes and was looking directly at
me. I shouted for Lori, who ran back and
we each took her hand. One tear rolled
down her cheek as we also cried. Mom gave a shrug, sighed, and was gone. Light streamed
into the window. It was 8:15 Christmas morning, the end of an era.
***
Brian and I call the boys into the living room to open
presents. This family doesn’t take turns. Everyone tears into his own stash and
thanks you are murmured. I’m not even sure what anyone gets. After 15 minutes, I clean up the ribbons, boxes, and papers and stack
each person’s gifts. Each year Brian writes a beautiful note to his sons. These
cards do not contain money. They read them and say thanks but usually leave
them, no sentimental scrapbooks for these young men. Still, they know their
father loves them, and perhaps that I do too.
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