I love Christmas movies and stories on Hallmark. I am a sucker for the lessons they teach and the beauty they share. In this crazy mixed up world, it is refreshing to watch them during this season.
A few years ago, I wrote several short vignettes that are what I call "fictional memoirs." They are based on many true events that happened in my mother's family. The stories my mother used to tell me are ingrained in my heart, and none of them more special than the one you are about to read.
I had the series of vignettes made into a book called "Reflections From My Mother's Kitchen: A Journey of Healing and Hope." This is one of the tales. I hope you enjoy it, for it is my Christmas present to you, dear reader. If you do like it, perhaps you will let me know. Or you may want to read the rest of this book which is available on Amazon as a paperback and e book. I will leave details at the end.
Some of you may already recognize parts of this from other stories or blogs I've written. Let the magic of a special Christmas Eve warm your heart....
Blessings.....Karen Malena
Christmas Angel
December, 2000
The first flakes of snow began to fall on
the early December morning. A week before Christmas, and winter seemed late
this year; it had held its icy fingers off a little longer than usual.
I
curled up on my couch, a soft, multi-colored afghan pulled around me,one of my
angora cats resting peacefully on my lap. The other lay nearby, two green
slitted eyes blinking lazily at me. I resigned myself to the fact that today
would just be a leisurely day on my sofa. Several of my favorite DVD’s lay
nearby, ones I had watched many times.
One of my small, artificial Christmas
trees glowed in tiny white lights, Victorian ornaments dangling from branches
covered in fake snow. The larger tree, in the corner of the room, held a mishmash
of decorations from many years past. On one branch, a construction paper snow
man my son had made in Kindergarten sat watch, his shiny sequin buttons
sparkling as the multi-color lights bounced off him. On another, an ornate
birdcage with two love birds sitting on a swing, welcoming my husband and me
into a new home which dated back several years. Bits and pieces of each of our
pasts scattered about the branches. So many memories.
The curtains were open to the day before
me, skies gray and overcast. The forecast called for a couple inches of snow,
and I pouted over this. I was supposed to help my mother bake Christmas cookies
today but snow and my car didn’t get along. I drove an old, small Chevy
Cavalier, and it didn’t do well on slick roads. I had promised Mom days ago
that I would be there and I didn’t want to disappoint her.
It was a yearly ritual, the baking of the
Christmas cookies. Mom could really use my help, but knowing her, she was up
early, already starting without me. I picked up my cell phone and dialed her
number.
“Hey, Mom, how’s it going?” I closed my
eyes waiting for the guilt speech to begin.
Instead, she surprised me. “Hi honey. I was
watching the forecast just now. Supposed to only get an inch or so of snow by
later today. You still coming out? Got a pot of coffee on just for us.”
What could I say? “Yes, of course I’m
coming, Mom. I’ll be there in about an hour or so.” I clicked off my phone and called out to my
husband.
“Steve, I think I’m going to Mom’s today
after all.” I gently nudged my cat Bella aside. She was sleeping so soundly,
she didn’t even stir. Her brother, Rocco perked his head up, watching me.
Steve strolled into the room, still in his
flannel Steeler PJ’s and yawned. My heart still tugged in my chest at the sight
of him. Jet- black hair and lean body.He smiled that crooked smile of his at
me.
“Do you want me to drive you there, Kate?”
He walked over and pulled me gently off the couch wrapping his arms around me.
Such a good man.He would do
this, I knew it. Saturday, his precious day off from teaching, and he would
take me to my parents knowing how important it was to me.
“No, you and Mark finish decorating the
outside today, okay?” I stole a kiss then, a delicious warm kiss. My husband
grabbed me tighter for a moment.
“Hmmm, maybe I won’t let you go after all,” he said, stroking my cheek gently with
his hand.
Our son walked into the room. “Hey, it’s
snowing! Yipeee!” He rubbed his eyes sleepily, and then looked
over at us. “Gross,” he said, making a funny scrunched up face.
Mark was eleven years old, and like any young
boy, the sight of our affection caused him to vocalize his feelings at our
apparent indiscretion.
I wiggled out of Steve’s grasp and grabbed
my son, making smooching noises in his ear and kissing his cheeks.
“Yuck, Mom, stop it. Okay, I give up,” he
said, collapsing onto the Lazy Boy recliner, his long, skinny feet dangling off
the side.
“You boys gonna be alright today without
me?” I slipped into my scuffed winter boots, which lay next to the couch.
“We’ll manage somehow,” Steve said,
pouncing on Mark and tickling him until he giggled so much he could hardly
breathe. “We men folk are a tough, rugged bunch, right buddy?” Steve mussed
Mark’s wavy hair making it stick up in different directions. “Give me your
keys, Kate, I’ll clear off your car and warm it up for you,” Steve said with
one final tickle at our son. He slipped into his corduroy jacket and a pair of
old tennis shoes he kept by the side door. “You sure you don’t want me to take
you?”
I handed him the car keys, weighing the
situation. If Steve drove, he’d be stuck there for hours on his day off. He had
paperwork to catch up on, and I knew he wanted to string the rest of the pastel
twinkle lights around our porch.
Mark would definitely get bored at some point,
even though my father amused him with his craft kits and old video games. Dad
had kept the old Sega game system which had been my brother Matt’s. My father
and brother had bonded for hours over Sonic the Hedgehog and Galaga. Now Dad
and Mark played those same games.
“No, I’ll be okay,” I said. Igathered up
some of my own bakeware, red apron, holiday CD’s, and kissed my men goodbye. I
said a little prayer, and then backed out of the driveway.
It was snowing pretty heavily as I entered
the tollbooth on the turnpike. I rolled my window down for the ticket and a
gust of air swooshed snowflakes into the car, chilling me. Since I had no CD
player,I fidgeted with the radio stations, trying to find classical Christmas
music instead of the modernized versions of old carols. Steve wanted to install
one in my old vehicle, but seriously, I knew old Bessie probably was going to
give up the ghost sooner than later, and I didn’t want to spend money on
something frivolous. The radio was fine.
The drive wasn’t nearly as bad as I’d
expected. Salt trucks dotted the highway, and most other people drove as
cautiously as me. I pulled triumphantly into my parent’s driveway within an
hour, proud of myself for not missing this special baking day over a few inches
of snow.
I walked the sidewalk to their house,
wistfully remembering the decorations of holidays past. The front yard had held
a large sleigh, fake presents and several plastic reindeer. The porch had been
home to a huge, outdoor manger scene. ThenDad would wrap strands and strands of
the colorful, old time Christmas lights around every bush in his yard and every
window in the front of the house. The big lights nobody used anymore which had
been hot to the touch, practically a hazard, but no other lights had compared
to their vibrant colors. Now, one small snowman stood sentinel, crooked black
hat perched atop his head, carrot nose and button eyes. It made me feel sad thinking
about my parent’s ages now, and how much effort they had put into the holidays
in their younger years. I felt the imminent approach of my own passing of time.
Since my father’s heart surgery a few years
ago, my brother Matt didn’t allow Dad to do much of anything. He scolded him
when he caught him shoveling snow, or tinkering with gadgets out in the garage.
Dad had felt useless at first, and then he discovered crafts.
I smiled to myself thinking of Dad’s new
hobbies. He had taken over my brother’s old bedroom, cleared it of almost everything,
even the bed. Tons of craft items, parts to miniature classic ships, pieces of
balsa wood planes, and my father’s newest passion, dollhouses, covered all
surfaces of the room.
The
dollhouses were a bonus for him since they took much longer to build. Dad was
obsessed as he lovingly and carefully planned the individual rooms of each
small home. He went as far as printing up tiny patterns of wallpaper on the
computer, pasting them to the walls and hand crafting small wooden furniture items.
Some of these were several stories high, and they took up the whole card table
Dad used as his workstation. Mom thought they were a waste of time and swore
she was going to get rid of all the “junk” in there. Dad told her to just close
the door and not let it bother her.
I tapped the front door with the tip of
one snow boot, my arms loaded with the items I’d brought with me. After a few
minutes, Dad appeared.
“Well, look who’s here,” he said, opening
the door and taking the baking pans out of my arms. “Ellen,” he called out. “It’s
our daughter.” He winked at me.
Mom walked into the room and I had to
laugh. She had a bright red sweatshirt with Rudolph the reindeer and his red
nose as a large pompon. On her head was a fuzzy pointed Santa Claus hat.
“You like my festive look?” Mom asked. “Your
father thought I lost my mind this morning.”
“No, I’d have to say you look pretty
merry, Mom. Come on, let’s get started.” I walked into the kitchen, the warm,
wonderful kitchen with its old-fashioned appliances and laid the rest of my
things down on the table. I noticed Mom didn’t have anything ready for our
baking projects.
Her freshly perked coffee smelled heavenly,
and I poured a cup for each of us.
“So you decided to wait for me for a
change?” I couldn’t resist a small dig. “No guilt speech, come on, Mom, you’re slipping.”
“Ah, my hip’s killing me today,” she said,
limping over to the table and sitting down. “Every time the weather changes
drastically, it really pains me.” She pulled the Santa hat from her head and
laid it on the table, sipping her coffee.
There it was again. The inference to her age
and all the wonderful nuances it brought on. I didn’t like it, none of it. I
didn’t like worrying over her and Dad and I certainly didn’t like thinking of
myself as becoming older and all the changes it would bring. I’d heard horror
stories of hot flashes in some of my friends, night sweats, throwing covers off
in the middle of deep slumber, and being unable to fall back asleep for hours
after an episode. No, at forty, I wasn’t crazy about this new impending time of
life.
Dad walked in just then, and before I had
a chance to sit, pulled my arm. “Come here, Kate, I want to show you my latest
creation.”
“Ray, she’s got things to do in here,” Mom
cranked at him. “Stop bugging her about your stupid dollhouses.” Mom’s mood was
certainly in contrast to her cheerful garb.
Ignoring Mom, I followed Dad into his
world of miniatures. My mouth dropped open when I saw the latest Victorian
dollhouse. Three stories high, a turret, bay windows, shingled roof, and wraparound
porch, it had to be the best one ever.
“Wow, Dad, this is amazing.” I walked
around it several times taking in the detail. It wasn’t completed yet, but I
could see what it would become. Small pieces of furniture lay scattered nearby
on the work table, spidery webs of hot glue still stuck to them.
“Look at this, Kate,” Dad said, handing me
a small fireplace he had painstakingly put together. Tiny real wood logs sat
inside of it and a façade of bricks covered the outside.
I marveled over his patience and skill. Now
this was something I could feel good about. Dad hadn’t let his age get to him. When
confronted with limitations, he simply found new endeavors he could pursue with
gusto. I wanted to be just like him.
Kissing Dad on the cheek, I stood there a
minute longer.
“What was that for?” he asked. A sweet
smile lit up the handsome face I knew and loved so well.
“That was for you, Dad. I’m so proud of
you.”
I
rejoined my mother in the kitchen. Her coffee cup sat empty and I poured her
another.
“So, what shall we start with today, Mom? Do
you want to make pizzelles and lemon knots or something easier first?” I donned
the familiar red apron, and without thinking, perched the Santa hat atop my own
head. “There, now I’m feeling Christmassy.” I fiddled with the CD player,
choosing some of the oldies Christmas music first. Dean Martin’s voice crooned
softly from the speakers. I began to hum along.
Mom and I spent the next five hours
putting together our usual array of goodies. As always we made the traditional
Italian pastries, but also chocolate chip oatmeal cookies for Mark and sugar
cookies for my brother and his girlfriend.
It was six p.m. when I finished washing
the last of the bowls and baking sheets, drying them carefully and putting them
away. Mom was exhausted, I could see it in her eyes, but we’d had fun.
“You want to stay for dinner, honey?” she
asked. “I have a roast in the fridge from last night. I could warm it up for
you.”
“No thanks, Mom. I really have to head
home. The roads are clear, and I don’t want another wave of snow to hit. We’ll
see you for Christmas Eve dinner. And remember, I’m bringing most of it. You
take it easy this year. You deserve it.” And I kissed the top of her head. After
saying my goodbyes to Dad, I left, feeling a wonderful sense of accomplishment.
·
* *
Steve’s blazer practically sagged to the
ground filled with all the presents and containers of food. I had been up since
five a.m. on this glorious Christmas Eve, putting together old favorites and
some modern foods I knew my husband and son would eat. Two crock- pots and five
large Tupperware containers later, we were ready to set out to my parents. We
made this journey every year, eating until we felt we’d burst, and then opening
presents together. Since there were so many other relatives to visit, this
night had remained a special tradition in my family.
Mark’s eyes were huge as we entered my
parents’ home late that afternoon. Their tiny Christmas tree that stood on one
end table may have looked scraggly, but the mountain of gifts sitting on the
floor beneath it did not. My parents came through again, generous souls to the
end.
My brother Matt and his girlfriend Tina
arrived a few minutes behind us. Matt was a big guy, almost six feet tall, the
giant of our petite, Italian family. Dad joked for many years that Matt had to
be the mailman’s son. Tina complimented my brother well. A talkative girl with
an easy-going attitude and infectious laugh, we all liked her. They had dated
for several years now, and I thought it was only a matter of time before they
married.
I missed Matt, and was so glad to see him.
Our work schedules prohibited us from spending quality time together.
“Hey sis,” he said, crushing me in one of
his huge bear hugs. “Missed you, little one.”
He smelled of Polo cologne, something I
always loved, that piney, woodsy scent. Tina hugged me next and we broke into
fits of giggles as she whispered what she’d gotten my brother for Christmas.
“Okay, everyone,” Mom said. “Enough of
this hugging and affection and let’s head into the dining room and eat. I’m
starving.” She had the red Christmas sweatshirt on again, and the Santa hat.
Though the dining room was small, Dad had
put the extra leaf into the old mahogany table to accommodate all of us. Mom’s
best Christmas dishes adorned it, sparkling crystal goblets which she only took
out this time of the year.
I finished up in the kitchen, reheating
some of the foods I’d made earlier and plugged in the crockpots, setting them
to high.
We always ate buffet style, but first we
gathered at our places around the dining room table, holding hands and bowing
our heads. All eyes looked to Mom.
“Father God,” she began, “I want to thank
you for another year of this family being together. I want to thank you for
each and every one of us gathered here tonight. Thank you for our children’s
safe arrival, the wonderful meal we are about to eat, the love this family has
shared through the years and whatever adventures may lay in our futures. We
give all praise and glory to you, in your Son’s name. Amen.”
With that, we lined up in the kitchen and
one by one took turns scooping linguini and clams, smelts, haddock, shrimp
cocktail and vegetable lasagna, the meatless dishes which made the substance of
an Italian family. The chicken cutlets I’d made for my husband and son sat alone
in a glass baking dish, and the two heathens proceeded to load their plates
with them and side dishes of potatoes and vegetables. I threatened Steve for
years if he didn’t try some of the fish dishes, he might be facing eternal
damnation. Apparently, the meat lover he was, he didn’t believe me.
Later, as the men cleared dishes from the
table, we girls organized the presents in the living room.
At seven o’clock that night, we began our
family ritual. Each person took a turn opening one present at a time. This
usually took hours. One by one, we oohed and aaahed, complimenting one another
on such thoughtful gifts. Nobody could outdo my brother though. Matt made
mental notes all year long when talking with any of us, and always chose the
most amazing, thoughtful items.
He watched our father’s face carefully on
the last colorfully wrapped package. Inside was another wrapped box, a little
smaller. Through several layers of paper, a thin, rectangular box was finally
revealed. Matt leaned in closely. When Dad opened the lid, I saw his eyes open
wide in wonder and surprise. He pulled a watch from the box, and lovingly held
it in his hands. A tear slipped out of one eye,
“What the heck?” I asked. No present I’d
ever gotten Dad had even come close to this type of reaction.
“Do you all know what this is?” Dad asked.
After taking turns shaking all our heads, he told us.
“This is a watch I had as a little boy. My
older brother got me one just like it when I was ten. It’s a Lone Ranger watch.
See, it has a picture of the masked man sitting on his trusty steed, Silver.” He
gazed at it like a lover. “I lost mine when I was a teenager. I never had the
heart to tell my brother. It meant so much to him at that time saving up money
to get me something so special.” Dad’s voice trailed off and he sat quietly. Apparently
the memories made him feel like a little boy once again.
“Matt, that’s awesome,” I said. “How do
you find this stuff?”
“EBay, sis,” he said. “I’ve been looking
for one for years.”
I watched Mom out of the corner of one eye.
She looked tired. I got up to bring in the huge platter of cookies we’d baked
together. Offering one to her first, I asked, “Did you have a nice time
tonight, Mom? You were a little quieter than usual.”
“I was just thinking,” she said. “Did I
ever tell you all about the Christmas Eve when I was ten? The night we had a
special visitor?”
“I don’t think so, Mom,” I said. Knowing
it was time for one of her long, unusual family tales; we settled in and waited
for her to begin. . .
·
* *
In 1941 times were tough and money was
tight. The war had been raging for a little over a year across the ocean. Now
it threatened America as well. Families said goodbye to young sons, watching
them head overseas one by one, not knowing if they’d ever see them again. FDR
was president, radio was king, big band music was in full bloom and the country
was finally emerging from the Great Depression.
In the small steel town of Ambridge, Ellen
Romano, ten years old, carried her coat and schoolbooks on an unusually warm
December day. It had been a little disappointing since snow hadn’t fallen yet,
and she worried it wouldn’t be a white Christmas. With only two weeks to go, it
had been such a strange winter.
Ellen walked past the newly- built middle
school at the corner of the long hill leading to her street. A few kids stood
around outside playfully jabbing at one another, girls flirting with boys and
vice versa. Ellen waved to a girl she knew.
She approached her own block, taking her time,
all the while watching for signs of her father’s car. She breathed a sigh of
glorious relief when her house was in view. Papa’s old Dodge wasn’t anywhere in
sight. Maybe he’d work late tonight and they’d have some peace. God knew it had
been tough recently. With money so precious and tight, and her father’s
gambling, they had to make due many times with much less food on their table. And
if Papa lost in his card games, and his drinking worsened, he’d take it out on
their family. Many nights Ellen lay in bed unable to sleep, fingers plugged in
her ears, her father’s angry voice
bellowing, and the sound of a slap, or of a piece of overturned furniture. Many
nights, she held onto her sister, Claire as they waited for the blessed silence
which would finally come. But when Papa finally passed out from drunkenness,
the heartbreaking sound of their mother’s sobs would begin.
Her mother’s careworn face broke into a
smile as Ellen walked through the door. Mama had a huge apron tied around
herself, flour up to her elbows, and a hair net pulled over her short curly
permanent wave.
“How was school, cara mia?”Mom asked. “What did you
learn?” Ellen pulled a chair from under the kitchen table and sat looking at
her mother. Her brother and sister weren’t home from high school just yet. This
was precious one on one time with Mama.
“Oh, Mama, I learned how to multiply numbers
today. I’m getting so good at it,” Ellen said reaching for a small pinch of her
mother’s dough and making a little ball with it.
“That’s good then,” Mama said. “I didn’t
have the opportunities you do when I was your age. I had to quit school to help
take care of my brothers and sisters. You kids are so fortunate today.” Mama
plopped a huge slab of dough onto her floured board. “I’m trying to get some
ciambelles made for Christmas Eve dinner at Aunt Angie’s house. You know how
much your Papa loves them.”
Ellen groaned inwardly. Papa was coming to
Christmas Eve dinner then. He had missed several years in a row, preferring to
spend the special night playing cards with a bunch of other drunken men down at
the local S.O.I. club. He hadn’t had the decency to show up for their dinners
before. No matter. Christmas Eve was such a warm, wonderful night. So many of
her cousins, aunts and uncles would be there, gathered at Aunt Angie’s house. There
would be laughter, stories, games, and a small gift stocking for each small
child filled with an apple, orange or some type of fruit, nuts or maybe even a
small trinket. Oh, Ellen couldn’t wait.
·
* *
A few days before Christmas Eve, it hit. One
of the biggest snowstorms ever.With it being an unusually balmy winter, the
snow was a complete surprise and Ellen awoke to the brightness of the morning,
huge, fat flakes cascading outside her window. She jumped up in the flannel
nightgown she wore, running over to the window, wiping at the frosty pane with
her sleeve for a better view.
Her sister Claire rolled over in bed,
clucking her tongue in anger. “What’s wrong with you, little girl? We have at
least another hour to sleep.” Claire pulled the bed covers over her head and
sighed.
“It’s here, Claire! The snow has finally come! Oh, I’m so happy,” Ellen said, doing a little
dance around the room.
“You won’t be so happy when you wake Papa
up,” Claire mumbled from under the covers. “He was up pretty late last night. Hush
up.”
Nothing could stop her glee at this moment.
Not even her father.
A little later, Ellen and her sister sat
in their tiny kitchen eating bowls of Cream of Wheat. Mama was a little quieter
than usual. She had dark circles under her eyes and her hands shook as she
served her girls.
“What’s wrong, Mama? Where’s Tony?” Ellen
asked, referring to her older brother.
At that, she saw Mama’s face grow pale. “Shhh,
quiet, young one,” Mama said. “Your brother got in big trouble last night. I
let him sleep in today.”
Apparently, Tony had gone out late with
his friends. He was sixteen years old, and turning into a regular night owl. He
and the boys played cards sometimes at each other’s houses. But last night, he
hadn’t been home by his usual curfew of ten p.m. Papa sat up waiting for him
and when Tony strolled in at midnight with the smell of whiskey on his breath;
their father had almost killed him. He had beat Tony with his belt, while Mama
tried to intervene. It had been no use, and when Papa was done, Tony defiantly
looked at him and said, “See, now I’m just like you.” Their father had gone to
bed then, apparently exhausted from his murderous rage.
“So you see, girls,” Mama said. “It’s not
such a good day for me. My dear son, my poor boy.”
Ellen got up from her place at the table
and hugged her mother. Mama, always a little embarrassed by the show of
affection, brushed her away.
“Now girls, go. Have a good day at your
schools. When you come home tonight, we’ll finish our meal preparations
together for Christmas Eve, okay?”
Ellen buttoned up her coat, grabbed her
books and looked at her sister. Claire appeared to be lost in her own world. As
the girls left, they walked in silence for a while.
“I heard the fight last night,” Claire
said unable to look at her sister. “I’m so glad you were fast asleep. I don’t
think you could have taken it, Ellen.” Claire pulled her threadbare coat a bit
more tightly around herself shivering. “Papa’s so mean. I hate him. Sometimes I
wish he’d die.”
“Oh, Claire, you mustn’t say such things. It’ll
come back on us.” Ellen quickly said a prayer and made the sign of the evil eye
at her sister.
Both girls walked on in silence, Ellen
kicking up tufts of snow before her.
In school though, Ellen couldn’t shake her
own bad feelings. Why? Why did Papa have
to be so mean? Her good brother didn’t deserve the beating he’d gotten last
evening. He was always such a great young man. So what if he messed up one
time, didn’t their stupid father do that when he was young?
And what about Mama? Ellen had seen her
father on several drunken occasions grab his wife and shake her, while she and
her siblings sat cowering in fear. She’d remembered hearing stories of Papa’s
father, a hostile, bitter man who ruled his wife and children with his hateful
fists. Was it any wonder her father could be so unkind then?
God, if you’re there, please show me a
sign. Show me some type of kindness or let me know you hear me. We can’t go on
like this. I’m so afraid, God. Please, please help Papa to change.
Later that night, Tony sat at the kitchen
table while Mama was rolling out homemade pasta noodles. He helped her cut the
long strands into thin strips. When Ellen walked through the kitchen door, she
ran to her brother, squeezing him tightly. And when Papa came home from the
steel mill later, he was reserved. There was no talk at the family table during
supper, just the scrape of forks against plates in the silence of the kitchen.
·
* *
The snow continued into Christmas Eve. At
least eight inches lay on the ground, the sparkling diamonds of crusty snow in
piles.
Ellen, Claire, Mama and Tony trudged the
five blocks to Aunt Angie’s house. Papa, the only driver in their family was
asleep from working a late night shift and would join them afterward. Each of
them carried satchels filled with foods and baked goods Mama had prepared. They
wore their warmest winter coats, rubber galoshes and mittens. It was still
snowing lightly as they approached Angie’s home; beautiful fat flakes with lacy
patterns landing on bushes. To Ellen, absolutely nothing could steal her joy on
this late afternoon.
Uncle Eddie and Aunt Ida were just
arriving when they reached the house, followed by their children, Annie, Patsy
and Bobo. Grandma Adelina leaned heavily on her cane, as Uncle Eddie carefully
guided his mother-in-law across the snowy path. “Come, Mama,” Eddie said to
her, helping her up the porch steps.
Ellen’s favorite cousin, Wally, was
already in the house when she walked through the door. A regular prankster,
nobody could make her laugh the way he did. He was one year older, but so small;
people usually mistook him for a young child. Wally was the third of four
children, Aunt Angie’s favorite. He sneaked behind Ellen when she entered the
kitchen with her parcels.
“Boo!” Wally said, laying his hand on
Ellen’s shoulder. Ellen jumped and screamed, almost dropping the bag of
homemade cookies.
“Silly goose,” she said. “I knew you were
there all the time.” She went up to other aunts and cousins, handing over all
she’d been carrying as Mama and Claire walked in behind her.
There had never been anything like the
foods prepared in Aunt Angie’s kitchen. Artichokes in olive oil, pasta with
tuna sauce, baccala fish, smelts, fried green peppers and roman beans. Ellen’s
mouth watered as she looked at the feast spread before her. Mama brought struffoli,
little dough balls soaked in honey, ciambelles, hard Italian biscuits and a
huge bag of wine cookies, flaky on the inside and a bit crispy on the outside. Aunt
Ida pulled homemade bread from her own satchel along with soft buns, their
outer edges crusty brown. Wine decanters were placed on the table with a small
bottle of anisette. It didn’t matter none of these people were well-to-do. What
mattered on this night, they were rich in their heritage, love of family, and
anticipation of the birth of the savior.
“Is Sam coming, Louisa?” Angie asked her
sister, after taking her coat and hanging it on the cellar landing.
“Yes, he was sleeping. He should be here
before we start to eat.” Ellen watched her mother carefully as she said this. Nothing
in Mama’s face betrayed her emotions. She was stoic to the last, and nobody in
the family knew about Papa’s drinking and temper.
At six p.m. promptly, the family gathered
around the table for the blessing when Papa walked through the door. He made a
striking figure, coal black hair, neatly trimmed moustache. If she hadn’t been
so frightened of him, Ellen would think her papa was one of the most handsome
men in town. He took his place at his wife’s side, and all were silent for a
moment. Uncle Carmen, Angie’s husband, usually a man of very few words, said
the blessing.
In Italian, Carmen spoke of God’s goodness
and bounty. He thanked Him for providing work for all of them, and warm houses,
food on the table. He thanked his heavenly father for watching over their sons
who fought in the terrible war. He thanked God for his wife and children and
all who were gathered together in their home. When he finished, each man held a
glass of wine before them, and toasted, “salute” to each other.
Aunt Angie set to work, heaping dishes
with steaming foods. By the time the last small child had been served, all eyes
looked to the matriarch of the family, Adelina. She smiled her toothless grin,
and said the words they all had been waiting for: “Mangia, tutti!” Everyone, eat!
Ellen watched her mother out of the corner
of one eye as she wolfed down pasta. Mama seemed content, Papa’s hand rested atop
hers, giving a little squeeze of affection from time to time. Talk was light
and fun, each person adding a little something to the conversation as they
continued their meal.
Cousin Giorgio brought his accordion out
after dinner, while the men retired to the cellar to continue drinking glasses
of homemade dago red. The children helped their mama’s clear the table, putting
away leftovers and helping wash dishes.
Ellen and Wally got the messy job of
bagging garbage to bring out to the tin can behind the house. As they put on
their coats, a soft knock sounded at the front door. Everyone glanced around at
one another, nobody else was expected. Perhaps a neighbor stopping by to wish
them goodwill.
“I’ll get it, Mama,” Wally said, running
from the room.
Naturally, Ellen thought,
anything to get out of helping me. She
dropped the bag of garbage she’d collected, following Wally into the living
room. Wally opened the front door and there, before the two children on the
porch stood a man, shabbily dressed, hardly enough clothing on a night such as
this. Old dungarees and work boots, flannel shirt and no coat. A blast of
frigid air blew into the room. The man stood there, rubbing his hands together,
his rheumy eyes darting between the two children.
The first thing Ellen noticed besides the
strange gentleman, it had stopped snowing. In the glow of the streetlamps, the
last of the fallen snow glistened under the cast of the lights. The next thing
she noticed was not another soul was out. Nobody walking, no neighbors outside
their homes.
“Would you kind folks be able to spare me
something to eat tonight?” The man’s gravelly voice startled Ellen out of her
reverie. Had she heard him correctly? Barely enough to feed all of them and he
wanted some of it? But on the tail end of that thought, Ellen became ashamed. Poor
man looked as if he hadn’t had a meal in a long time.
It was Wally who broke the silence. “Come
in, sir,” he said, motioning for the man to enter. “Wait here.” He and Ellen
ran to the kitchen, breathless with excitement.
“What’s going on?” Angie asked, drying the
last of the metal sauce pots.
“Mama, there’s a man at the door,” Wally
said, catching his breath. “He says he’s so very hungry and would we have
something to spare?”
Ellen stood behind Wally, waiting to see
what the grownups would do.
Aunt Angie broke the silence of the moment.
“Let me go see him.” She walked from the kitchen, her dish towel still clasped
in one chubby hand. Ellen and Wally stood close by.
The man stood perfectly still, his eyes
almost dreamy in the warmth of the home. He appeared to be whispering
something, lost in his own world. Ellen thought he must be feeble or crazy.
“Well hello there,” Angie said, walking over
to the man. His eyes opened wider and a smile broke out on the homely face. It
appeared to light up his countenance, and for a moment, he didn’t seem so
scary.
“I’m so very sorry to bother you tonight,
ma’am,” he said in that growly voice. “You see, I’m so terribly hungry. I
haven’t been home in a while. I just wondered if you perhaps had a little food
to spare.”
It was then Ellen noticed a change on the
man’s face, and how blue and piercing his eyes became as he looked directly at
her aunt.
Angie began to protest for a moment. “Well,
I’m sorry, but we barely have enough for ourselves.” She was interrupted by
Ellen’s mother.
“Nonsense,” Louisa said, putting her hand
on her sister’s arm. “A few of us already packed some things for you.” She
handed a paper sack to the man, its sides bulging, and the heavenly aroma of
the foods pouring from it.
“It’s fine, Angie,” Mama said. “Please,
take it, and have a Merry Christmas.”
Ellen’s heart burst with pride for her
mother, a kind, good woman who would give the last of her own food to another.
“Bless you all,” the man said, accepting
the parcel and holding it tightly as if they’d change their mind and take it
back. “You have no idea how much this means.” He turned to go.
Angie walked ahead of him, and began to
open the door. An icy blast of wind blew into the room, and Ellen wanted to
protest. Couldn’t he just stay there with them and eat his meal? Where would he
go? Did he have family nearby perhaps?
As if he read her mind, the stranger
turned to face Ellen and said the most perplexing thing. “Your prayer has been
heard.” With that, he walked out the door and into the night.
The women went back to the kitchen. They
talked among themselves of the strange man and the odd things he had said. The
sound of the accordion rose from the basement with the voices of their men
singing.
Ellen and Wally looked at one another. “Wally,”
Ellen whispered. “I’m scared. Why do you suppose he spoke to me like that? What does it mean?” Her
curiosity got the better of her and scared or not, she wanted to see where he
was headed. “Let’s walk outside and see where he goes. I’m dying to know.”
The two children slipped out onto the
front porch. It had only been a moment or so since the man had gone. They
peered in both directions up and down the block, across the street at the other
houses. No sign of him. It was then Wally piped up, his eyes widening, his
finger pointing at the ground.
“Look, Ellen,” he said. “Would you just
look? There isn’t a footprint out here, not one. It was snowing earlier, and it
stopped when we were eating.” Wally’s eyes looked about to pop from their
sockets.
“I don’t understand,” Ellen said,
shivering a little in the cold. “What do you mean?” Then it dawned on her. There
would have been some type of footprints on the porch or the walkway which led
to the house. The man had some big laced up boots on his feet, and they would
have imprinted in the snow. “What in the world?” Ellen walked off the porch,
again looking in every direction. No footprints on the sidewalk either way. It
was as if he’d disappeared.
They ran into the house. “Mom!” Wally
screamed. “Come here!” Angie, Louisa and
Ida came into the living room, questioning him.
“No footprints! He just vanished into the night!” Wally tugged at his mother, hurrying her out
onto the front porch.
“Well, I’ll be. . .” Angie said.
·
* *
Ellen lay in her bed unable to sleep
that night. She turned on her side toward Claire and sighed.
“What, baby girl? Why are you so fidgety
tonight?” Claire sat up leaning on one elbow.
“Claire, did you notice how extra kind
Papa seemed tonight? Even though he’d been drinking with the others, he seemed,
somehow . . . different.” Ellen flipped the light switch on her bedside table. “I,
I prayed about him to God today. I, I think He heard my prayers.”
“What do you mean, Ellen?” Claire asked,
reaching for her sister’s hand.
“I think that ugly man who showed up at
Aunt Angie’s tonight was an angel, Claire. I think he came to deliver a special
message to me.”
Claire laughed then. “Nonsense, Ellen, he
was a poor lonely soul, looking for a meal. He probably had a wife and children
in some dirty apartment nearby and shared his food with them.”
“No,” Ellen protested, sitting up and
pulling her hand away from her sister’s touch. “No, it was really an angel. We
learned a bible verse in Sunday school one time. Here, it’s in my notebook. I’ll
read it to you.”
Ellen got up from bed to retrieve her
bible school notebook from the corner desk in their room. She leafed through it
under the glow of the bedside lamp. “Here it is, Claire, look.”
“Be careful to entertain strangers, for by
doing this, some people have entertained angels without knowing it.” Ellen shut
the notebook. “Don’t you see, God answered my prayer.He sent us an angel to
test us, and we passed the test. Mama’s kindness will be rewarded.” Ellen shut
the light and whispered in the darkness. “Did you know he said something to me
before he walked out the door?” When her sister didn’t answer, she continued. “He
said your prayer has been heard.”
“You’re making that up,” Claire said. “You
shouldn’t lie about such things.”
“Ask Wally, Claire. He heard it too. I’m
telling you, the man disappeared, there wasn’t one footprint, and he did say
that to me. And Claire, his face . . . changed. He was so scary looking when I
first saw him, and when he spoke to Aunt Angie and thanked Mama, his face
became almost beautiful.”
“You read too many stories and listen to
too many radio shows. Get some sleep. We’ll talk about it another time.” Claire
lay back down and turned her back toward her sister. Ellen lay there a while
longer, silently giving thanks to God for hearing her prayer. She just knew
things were going to get better with her Papa. Why else would God send His
messenger to them?
·
* *
My mother finished the tale, wiping her
eyes with the sleeve of her Christmas sweatshirt. I got up, fished a Kleenex
out of the box, and handed it to her. I sat next to her, hugging her tightly. Nobody
spoke for a few minutes.
It was then my son piped up. “Gram, did
your father really change after that night? What happened?” He sat on the edge
of his seat, and it made me feel good knowing he’d listened to her story so
carefully and perhaps had been touched by it.
Mom looked up, a smile playing at the
corner of her mouth. “Well, yes, he did. It wasn’t big changes at first, but
little by little we all noticed something different about him. He stopped
gambling after that Christmas, which was a pretty big deal for him. I overheard
him talking with my mother late into the night after the New Year that he’d had
a dream of some sort, a vision perhaps of himself as a lonely, old man without
his family. All his money was gone, and we were all gone as well. He said he
saw himself in a filthy, roach-infested apartment, cold and scared. I think the
dream terrified him, and I have no doubt it was another intervention by my
‘angel’. He was much kinder to my mother after that, but he still drank at
times though. I guess some things were easier for him to work on than others.” Mom
reached for the platter of cookies, biting into her ciambelle, the crumbs from
the crusty biscuit falling into her lap. She absently brushed them away and
sighed.
“I believe you, Gram,” Mark said. “I heard
that same bible verse in church one time. Wow, you were pretty lucky. I’ve
never had anything that neat happen to me.” Mark got up and reached for his
favorite cookies, piling them onto a small paper plate I had laid near the
platter.
We all sat there content in the company of
our loved ones. Mom’s story had touched each one of us I could tell. Faraway
looks on faces, reverential silence. It was the best Christmas story we’d ever
heard.
*****
At ten minutes to midnight on New Year’s
Eve, my husband and I sat with our crystal goblets of Asti Spumante near us. The
last embers of the fire Steve had built earlier glowed in the darkness, the
smell of the wood smoke lightly in the air. The Christmas tree lights twinkled
in the dimness. Mark lay on the lazy boy recliner, fast asleep. I thought back
to the past year and all that happened. I felt blessed, warm and loved. Steve
traced the top of my hand lightly with the tip of one finger.
“What are you thinking about, beautiful?”
he asked.
“Just how blessed we are, and how grateful
I am for you, Mark and my family.”
The ball began to drop on the television
set before us, the last numbers of the old year ticking away. Steve raised his
glass, clinking it to mine and we took a sip as Auld Lang Syne played in the
background. We put our glasses down and kissed long and hard as the new number
of the year flashed on the TV, 2001. We’d come through Y2K and all the fear the
media had thrown at us surrounding the possible meltdowns and madness that was
supposed to happen. 2001, a year filled with promise and hope. I just knew it
would be a great one, monumental.
Please contact me at scoutfinch15003@yahoo.com
