Winter Soon

Go outside. Onto your front porch or into the parking lot. Breathe. In through your nose. Do you smell it? The barky, brownish-gray scent of smoke? Someone nearby must have lugged a portion of their woodpile inside and arranged it just so in the orifice of their hearth. Perhaps they then sprinkled it with a handful of fallen leaves from an oak or maple, pressed a button, and Floom! Flame emerged from a long-handled lighter. Created coziness.

            Inhale again. Is there something else? Indeed there is--the fragrance of the clouds when they prophesy, “Snow soon.” I love that ice-blue perfume, grin as it stirs remembrance on the inside of me. Do the math. Smoke somewhere + snow soon = my happiness.

            I’m craving another scent and I know how to make it happen. I enter my house from the evening dog walk and search determinedly for a box of matches. Here they are. So much better than a book of them. Uniform and diminutive, stand-at-attention-wearing-red-hats, suicide bombers. One or more of them will sacrifice themselves in the fire for the greater good—my olfactory pleasure.

            The lid of the candle jar settles on the entryway’s tabletop with a hula hoop’s 'round and 'round frenzy followed by a metallic Ca-lank! A pale redhead skitters across the strike strip then Fuwah! Becomes a brilliant, quivery tulip of light. Petal points twitch and sway when the furnace exhales with a grunt. Down into the charred jar I tuck my flame-bearing fingers. Kiss the black-blossomed wick with orange and purple. Invisible wafts of butter, yeast, and cinnamony sweetness rise. So does a corner of my mouth.

            I hurry to the entrance and unchain, unbolt, swing back the old, carved door. Elbow open the newer, top-to-bottom-glass storm door. I restrain the latter with my hip. Notice the slap of straight bitter cold on my left cheek. Relish the golden dry house heat on my right. I gather the night again. In through my nose. Fill my lungs completely with the knowledge of fire somewhere, snow soon, and imaginary treats baking. This, these, I love.

*The Best Christmas Eve Ever--Part One"

It was snowing for real now. Cottonballs from the sky. I sprinted over to Dart Drug for a bag of kitty litter—emergency traction for the car, just in case. Back at the apartment I filled my Jazzercise water bottle and grabbed a Snickers bar—emergency sustenance for my stomach, just in case. In my bedroom I threw my afghan over my shoulder—the one Mom made me when she learned to crochet.

            “That should be good,” I told the door as I locked it.

            Back outside my breath came out in little cloudy mushrooms as I scraped and brushed ice and snow off my blue Toyota. As I waited for the windshield to defrost, I examined the blackened palms of my French’s Mustard yellow gloves. They’re wrecked. My mouth pulled to the side for a moment, then up into a grin. There’s always after Christmas sales.

“Hello?”
            “Sis, it’s me. I’m here in D.C.,” my brother had said when he called.
            “Since when?”

            “I took the train from Charlottesville this morning. Thought I’d come up and surprise Amy and her family.”
            “Oh.” So you won’t be alone on Christmas Eve.
            “They want you to come out,” he said. “Amy’s family says no one should be alone on Christmas Eve.”
            I looked up at my bangs. “They said that?”
            “Yeah. I’m going to put Amy on. Get a pen and paper. She’ll give you directions.”

The Toyota crept from Route 50 to the Beltway. Past Fair Oaks Mall, then to an exit. Further still. I glanced in my rearview mirror. All I could see were the parallel black lines my Toyota tires had carved in the pillowy snow.
            “Usually I’m scared to drive when it’s like this,” I said to no one. “But that’s when I’m going to work. This is different.”

            I was headed for Christmas in the country. Surely, a country Christmas would be different. Better.
            I checked my odometer and slowed down. The turn should be— Oh, there it was. The private road wasn’t paved but it had been scraped recently. Bet they have a John Deere something or other for times like this.
            I cracked the window so I could hear the silence. Country silence is quieter than city silence. I imagined the world wrapped in Santa’s beard or in the wool of one of the sheep in the Christmas story.
            I shivered. Rolled up the window. The road seemed to go on forever.

            “Am I lost?” I asked the windshield. “Maybe I took a wrong turn. But—”

            Then I saw the light or rather, the lights. Dim golden polka dots lined both sides of the road up ahead. I pulled over. To see what exactly would make that kind of glow. My boots made a squawnky sound on the packed surface. The light, I discovered, came from deep bowls made of ice. Someone had snuggled them down into the knee-deep snow, about one every ten feet. Each bowl held a creamy, chubby pillar candle. The flames shimmied and bowed in the snow sequined night.
            I stood and peered up the road. Where did that come from? At the top of the hill was a house, grand and lovely. Greenery and a red bow adorned the outside of every window. A candle flickered on the inside of each as well.
            I decided to walk the rest of the way so my tire tracks wouldn’t defile the perfect snow in front of their house. Before I set out, I brushed the snow from my pants and tucked them inside my boots. Puckered my lips and applied Cherries in the Snow lipstick. I flipped up the velvet collar of my dress coat to keep the back of my neck warm, plunged my hands deep in my pockets, and headed up the hill.
            As I neared the house, my brow scrunched. I’ve seen this place before. Then I remembered where. The scene reminded me of a snow globe I’d purchased at the Christmas Shop in Manteo, North Carolina. I smiled, at the thought of the Outer Banks. And summertime.

            When I was about fifty yards from the house, I stopped. Watched the plume of my breath appear every thirty seconds or so.

            “What are you waiting for?” I asked the night. After a few minutes, it occurred to me I was wanting someone, the family who lived on top of the hill maybe, to lift the edge of the glass dome and let me in. Into their world.
            I was twenty feet from the porch when the front door opened. The silhouettes of my brother and a young woman filled the doorway. His buzz cut and her mass of flame-colored waves were backlit. I don’t know why, but I didn’t say a word. I hung back in the shadows by the side of the road watching them.
            “She’s here! She’s here!” I heard Amy say. “Her car’s out there. But where’s she?”
            “Hallo!” my brother called.

            “Hallo!” the echoes multiplied through the woods behind the house.
            I stepped into the porch light shine and waved. “Merry Christmas!” I said. My greeting went far, in every direction, in the navy night.
            Amy waved excitedly like it would bring me to her faster. I climbed the steps and she threw her arms around me while I was stomping the snow off my boots.

            “I’m Amy,” she said. “Merry Christmas to you!”

            I smiled into her hair. I’ve never met you, but you sure do seem to like me.
            Inside the front door, my brother lifted me in a bear hug. Beside him, Amy counted on her fingers.

            “Coat, slippers, cocoa.”
            I tilted my head. “Hunh?”
            She spoke slower. “Give John your coat. Change into slippers. Get cocoa from my mom.”
            I handed my brother my coat. Added my boots to the line against the wall. There was a basket of slippers, all colors and sizes, tags still on, behind the door.
            I stooped. “I’ll take . . . fuzzy and red, size small.”
            When I straightened, John and Amy had disappeared and there was Mom.
            “You’re beautiful,” came out of my mouth before I could stop it. Amy looks just like you.
            “And you,” she said, as she pressed an oversized mug into my hands.
            I stuck my nose close to the marshmallows and felt steam collect on my cheeks. I lifted my chin but kept my eyes closed. I inhaled.
            “What do you smell?” Mom said.
            My face squinched in concentration. “A peppermint at the bottom of the cocoa. Pine. A wood fire. Paperwhites. Wassail maybe? Or are there oranges studded with cloves?”
            I opened my eyes. She was still smiling. “You should be a sommelier.”
            “A some of what?”
            She chuckled and tucked her arm inside mine. “A sommelier—sort of a wine expert,” she said. “You have an excellent nose.”
            We walked down the central hallway. Suddenly she stopped and turned to face me. 

            “Where are my manners?” she said. She rested her hands on my shoulders and kissed the air beside each of my ears. I caught a waft of her perfume—peonies and vanilla maybe.

            “Welcome, and Merry Christmas, dear.”
            I peeked into a room. “Where is everyone?”
            “You mean, your brother? And Amy?” she said. “Probably under the mistletoe somewhere. We’ll find them. Sooner or later. Would you like a tour?”
            I nodded, my eyes huge. “Yes, please!”

*Prelude to the Best Christmas Ever*

It was a Christmas Eve in the 80s, my first one after college.  My roommate had headed home for the holidays at noon—his home being Moundsville, West Virginia.  My boyfriend would celebrate the Feast of the Seven Fishes with his family that night, then he'd get up early the next morning and drive three hours, probably way too fast, so we could be together before noon on Christmas Day.  

            Around six that evening, I wiggled into my winter coat.  Slipped my feet into duck boots which were knockoffs of the real ones you can order from Lands’ End. I tied the long laces in double bows, tucked a scarf around my throat, and ventured outside to inspect the silent night. 

            Out in the cold, I shuffled through the snow. Tried to make a solid line with my feet instead of a dotted one.  As I balanced on the curb at the edge of Route 50 in Fairfax, Virginia, my breath seemed like a diaphanous megaphone.  Go team, I breathed. I mean, go me. Nowhere. I lifted my chin. The street lights each had halos.  Rainbowy. Shimmery.

            I faced left toward Fairfax Circle then right toward Washington D.C..  I began to count cars. One. Two. Three.  Big gap. That one turned before it passed me. I waved at the fourth one.  Five minutes later I abandoned the car count.
            I squinted across the way. Tried to see inside the slightly fogged windows of the Dart Drug.  Only the manager was there.  He looked lonely too. Even with a Santa hat on.
            I tilted my head back.  Sighed.  No stars.  City lights and puffy snow clouds concealed any and all heavenly bodies. 
            I glanced over at Dart Drug again.  The lights on the Christmas tree in the window winked at me.  Seemed to flash the rhythm of Jingle Bells--Blink, blink, bliiiink.  Blink, blink, bliiink. 
            The star on top of the drugstore tree was big.  Too big really.  It looked like it was fashioned out of gold foil, studded with yellow mini lights.  As I stared at its five points, it seemed to shoot out light beams.  I had a thought.  Star light.  Star bright.  First star I see tonight.  I wish I may.  I wish I might.  Have the wish, I wish tonight.

            I narrowed my eyes and focused intently on the star.  "I wish . . . I wish I wasn't alone on Christmas Eve."  I said it out loud, so whoever was in charge would hear me.  I waited.  I expected.  Zilch.

I plodded back to my building.  Outside my door I stomped snow and ice clods onto the coir doormat that proclaimed, "'Tis the season!"  Inside the apartment I left a trail of hat, boots, mittens, muffler, coat. Who cares?
            In the kitchen, I watched my reflection in the window as it filled a mug with half water, half skim milk.  The Times Journal cup disappeared inside the microwave.  A finger pushed Beverage then Start.  The image girl leaned against the cabinet.  Drummed her fingers on the counter.  Startled when the microwave dinged.  Three scoops of International Coffee powder, hazelnut flavor, went into the mug.  The reflection paused its stirring. Tasted. Added another spoonful of mix.  Hummed a song from Mary Poppins.
            I tilted my head at image girl. She seemed tired. Or sad. Before she turned away.
            I opened the fridge and grinned.  "You’re still here," I said to the can of whipped cream.  I shook it then sculpted an ascending spiral on top of the steaming foam.  I took a step toward the fridge, whipped topping in hand. I paused. Glanced left and right. As if. I giggled and opened wide. Aimed the whipped cream nozzle at my uvula and sprayed until it sputtered. 
            In the dining area, I sank into one of the two folding chairs beside the card table.  Hummed "I'll Be Home for Christmas" in between sips of fake coffee.  When it was gone, I swirled my finger around the inside of the mug to collect the hazelnut dregs.  Slurped my finger as I relocated to the sofa.

            I plopped my feet on the Ikea coffee table and stared at our tiny flashing Christmas tree in the corner.  It wore only two things—multi-colored lights and white snowflakes.  I'd snipped the snowflakes out of a couple sheets of Xerox paper I brought home from work. 

            "Note to self, " I said to the empty room. "Get Christmas decorations for next year. Real ones."  Maybe boyfriend and I'd order Poinsettias or Mimosas at Sunday brunch before we shopped.  Cocktails always seemed to help us locate better bargains.
            I stirred my bangs with a puff of air.  If I went to bed now, night would go faster and  morning would come sooner.  I glanced at the VCR under the TV.  Not even nine o’clock.  Pa-thetic.  I rocked myself up and off the sofa and headed back to my bedroom.

            I was stepping out of my jeans when the phone rang. I straightened, one leg in, one leg out of my pants. The clanging ricocheted around the room.  Sounded sort of like a Salvation Army bell being rung really fast, pause, really fast.  I considered not answering it.  Maybe I want to be alone on Christmas Eve, just to know what it feels like, just this once. 
            "Hello?"

*The Worst Christmas Ever*

I knew I was in trouble when my husband questioned the pile of packages by the front door.

            “I have a good excuse,” I said.

            One of his eyebrows arched. “Really?”

            Both of my eyebrows went up. “Really,” I said. “These are the Christmas presents I bought and wrapped for your mother to give the kids.”

            “She already did that .”

            My heart hiccupped. I squinted. “She did? Why?”

            “’Cause she wanted to.”

            “But, this is how we always do things. She buys. I fly.”

            “Not this year.”

            Inside me, my holiday spirit engine gasped. Shimmied. Chugged, then stopped. The Christmas carol soundtrack in my head ceased. The skippy spring to my step flattened.

And then it happened again. We stepped into my mom’s house less than a week later and her hearth was smothered with red and green packages adorned with smooshed and pointy pre-tied bows.

            My breath caught. My eyes widened. The two shopping bags of packages I was carrying dropped to the floor with a thunk and a rattle.

            “Uh . . . Mom? Did you forget how we do things—you buy, I fly?”

            She beamed from her lavender recliner. “I don’t know what got into me. One day I felt a burst of energy. And there was this great sale at the mall and . . . “

            For the second time in seven days my holiday spirit engine faltered. I stared at the fireplace for a few minutes—almost hypnotized by the blueish yellow flames that danced around the fake logs.

            “They got double presents,” I said, without moving my lips.

            “Excuse me?” Mom said.

            I walked down the hall to the bathroom and washed my hands. Put on sweet pea-scented hand lotion. Tried on every shade of lipstick on Mom’s vanity. I lowered the toilet lid and took a seat. I counted on my fingers. They got presents from my mom. They got gifts from his mom. They got stuff that I bought them from my mom. They got stuff that I bought them from his mom. They got presents from us. They got toys from Santa.

            I stood and surveyed my reflection in the mirror. Leaned forward and tugged my eyeskin to make the wrinkles disappear. I sighed. My mom was happy. Mother-in-law was too. The kids were ecstatic. And he was thrilled. Husband adores giving and receiving gifts. “Can’t take it with you when you die.” That’s one of his favorite sayings.
            I grinned at myself. "Faker," I hissed. Everyone was giddy with holiday joy but me. All the stress I’d put myself through—making the lists, checking them twice. Shopping all over hell’s half acre and the Internet. Wrapping, hiding. I didn’t need to do any of it. Well, I didn’t need to do half of it. I’d put myself out, way out, for nothing.  All that Advil gone to waste.

            And that’s not all. The double presents thing? It fed the fear inside me. The fear that all the gifts, the mile high stack of gadgets and sweaters that no one really needs, would make Christmas Day into Stuff Day. I worried that the intense focus on buying, giving, getting, repeat, would take the attention off little Lord Jesus asleep on the hay.

            Back in the living room, I sank into the sofa beside husband. He shushed me as I mumbled, “It’s gonna be Stuff Day, not Christmas Day.”  He stroked my back. Massaged my shoulders. Murmured, “There, there. Everything’ll be all right.”

A few nights later we gathered in the foyer. Donned hats and coats, mittens and gloves. Prepared to go to the last holiday party of the season—Christmas Eve at my mother-in law's. One of our children dawdled. Or whined. I don’t remember which. I snapped at her. A little too loud, a little too mean.

            All of a sudden the front door whooshed open. Frigid night air rushed the room. Husband slammed the door and turned to me, his eyes squinty and small.

            “Shut. Up,” he said. “You’re going to ruin Christmas Eve for everyone.”

            All three kids gawked at me, my husband, each other, then the floor. I winced and inspected my boots. I knew I deserved it. Not in front of the kids, but still . . .

            Husband stomped out into the night to start the car. After a few minutes, the kids followed. I locked the front door and slunk down the steps. It was bitter cold with no snow. There would be though. Eventually. I could smell it.

            I climbed into the SUV. Flipped my seat warmer on. The silence was too quiet, even on the Silent Night, so I pushed the stereo knob. Charlie Dodrill sang. To me. “I am under the impression that it’s all for me.” I rubbed my thighs with my Granny Smith apple green gloves and waited.  For someone to say, “Hey, he’s singing your song.”

            At husband's mother’s house, the kids raced up the sidewalk to get at the warmth, the seven fishes, and the gifts inside.  Husband gathered my sour green apple gloves into his black ones. I lifted my chin cautiously. Noticed the solidness of my breathless diaphragm. His mouth pulled to one side. “Sorry,” he whispered. I blinked slowly. “Me too.”

I realized something. A few days later. That particular Christmas Day was not Stuff Day. It was Grace Day. The day three kids received way more than they expected, way more than they needed. And they rejoiced. With hoots and hollers and declarations that this indeed had been the best Christmas ever.

*The Coldest I've Ever Been*

The coldest I've ever been was not December 27, 2009 when I watched my husband officiate the Music City Bowl.  Sitting for three hours inside the Tennessee Titans' stadium in a windchill of 17 degrees makes a body cold, to be sure.  But I've been colder.  In the 70s.
           

In the 70s, I liked to hear the WKEE dj who lived inside my clock radio say, "Cabell County" in the list of school cancellations.  I'd hit the off button and roll over and dream about--  What was the oldest Partridge brother's name?  Not Danny. The other one.

The smell of Maxwell House would waft under my door, and I'd know Dad was up.  I'd slide my feet into slippers, slip my arms into my robe, and join him in the kitchen.  He'd look up from his dippy egg and grin. 

"Gonna sleigh ride?"
           

I'd smile back.  "Yep."
           

I'd open the cabinet over the stove and survey the collection of cereal--Cheerios, Frosted Flakes, Sugar Pops.  Usually I picked Cheerios.  Added a teaspoon or two of sugar and a big pour of milk.
           

Dad would push his chair back from the table and carry his dishes to the sink.  He'd run water over his plate so the yolk streaks wouldn't turn to Super Glue.  Then he'd pat me on the back, always too hard.   I'd arch to soften, or avoid altogether, the blows.
           

He'd put his cheek to mine, his Abe Lincoln beard scratchy.  My nose would wrinkle with the combination of his morning and Maxwell House breath.  My mouth was full, so I'd make the brusha-brusha-brusha motion with my hand.  He'd make an almost fist, breathe into it, and sniff.  Then his eyebrows would go up. 

"Right."
           

Before he left to walk to work, he'd come back in the kitchen and exhale in my face.  Colgate breath.  Minty fresh.  Much better.  My mouth was still full, so I gave him a thumbs up.

After I slurped the sugary milk dregs, I'd put my bowl in the sink.  Then I started collecting.  Socks, long johns, jeans--two pair. Turtleneck, sweatshirt.  Hat, scarf,  gloves.  Baggies and rubber bands--one for each foot.  The plastic bags were key.  They keep the feet dry.  Wet cold is way chillier than dry cold.  If your feet are dry, you can stay out at least an extra hour.
           

Next stop was the basement, for foot and outerwear--always my brothers.'  No way my coat and boots would fit over all my sleigh riding gear.  I'd root through the shoe pile under the stairs, looking for the Scotchguarded, stubby-toed hiking boots with red laces.  I'd grab my middle older brother’s arctic parka.  The fur trim almost always kept the snow spray off my face.
           

Into the garage.  More choices.  I'll take the . . . silver disc and the  . . . newer Flexible Flyer.   Its runners had been waxed recently.  All set.  To the cemetary.  No need to tell Mom.  It's where I always went when it snowed.

It was the best of snow days.  It was the worst of snow days.
           

The snow had a crisp, like potato chips, top.  Like it had snowed, drizzled, then froze.  If I was super careful, I could walk across the surface and not fall through.   The trick was weight distribution.  You had to center yourself over your feet.  If you dug in a heel, you’d crash through.  Ka-runch. On a good day, I could go six or eight steps without a breakthrough.
           

Us neighborhood kids had anticipated this cold snap.  We prepared for it too.  After school the day before, some of us tromped over and used a chubby stick to jam the water pump at the top of the hill where the road goes down to the giant, open Bible made of granite.
           

The day before, it'd been almost 40.   The water had gushed willingly.  Today it wasn’t even 20.  The water refused to flow.  Instead, it looked like a white paper towel tube coming out of the forest green, goose-necked faucet.  The road reminded me of the powdered sugar glaze on my mom's Bacardi rum cake.  Shiny.  Slick.  Speedy.
           

I smiled and rubbed my gloved hands together.  It's gonna be so fast.
           

After the faucet inspection, I walked back up the hill to where I'd left the sleds.  I picked up the reins of the Flexible Flyer.  Sitting, or on my belly?  On my belly.  I trusted my hands more than my feet when it came to steering.
           

I pulled the sled three feet back from the edge so I could get settled before I--  On your mark . . . get set . . . went.  I eased my Michelin-man self, tummy down, onto the Flyer's slats.  I put the rope under me, so it wouldn't get caught beneath the runners.  I put my hands at opposite ends of the guide bar.  Before I geronimoed, I pulled my muffler up over my mouth and nose 'cause I hate freezin' cold snow powder in my face.  Hate it!
           

When you ride a roller coaster, you're scared in the line.  At least I am.  Then, you're anxious as your car climbs the first hill.  That’s how I always feel, like there's no turning back now.  And then you're at the peak, and your stomach jumps up to keep your sternum company.  Then all h-e-double toothpicks breaks loose.  Speed.  Wind.  Adrenalin.  Bugs.  Fear.  Joy.  It's over?  Already?  Let's do it again!

Not this time.  I hunched and scooted and jerked my way to the precipice.  I paused to look at the gleaming ribbon of silver.  I considered the way it dog-legged to the left, halfway down.  Wonder how the Flyer will steer on ice? 

"Cowabunga!" I shouted to the edges of winter as I oomphed myself from flat to steep.  


It happened so quick.  I didn't get to enjoy the stinging, alarming velocity before the pain, the burning pain, set in.  The steering of the Flyer on ice?  It didn't happen.  The ice flung me down the hill so fast, by the time I approached the bend and needed to steer, it was too late. 

The Flyer slammed into the curb and stopped.  I, however, kept going.  Across the crisp, like the top of creme brulee, but cold not hot, snow.  The parka's hood flew back.  The scarf on my face abandoned ship, and the sandpaper-rough ice crust razzed my face. Took off a layer of skin on my right cheek and jaw. 

I don't know how long I laid there, motionless, like one of those baby harp seals whose eyes say, "Please don't let mean, greedy men kill me."

After awhile, the burning on the right side of my face turned to stinging.  Then it prickled.  Then itched.  Isn't this what they say frostbite feels like?  And then people's toes and fingers fall off.  Is my cheek gonna fall off?  

I lifted my face off the ice layer.  My eyes got big when I saw the pink print it left.  I rolled onto my back with a groan.  My neck and shoulders ached from the Flyer's violent kiss with the curb.  Wish the snow was soft like when it first falls and you run outside to make snow angels.

My stomach rumbled, and I opened my eyes.  I was so cold.  A jarring shiver started in my gut and shimmied up to my teeth, making 'em clack.  Sounded like the Mexican Hat Dance.  I squinted at the sky.  What time is it?  I shook my head to ease the crawling of my face skin, but it didn't help.  I reached a glove up to scratch and felt a tearing.  The fringe fibers of my scarf had mated with the beginnings of the scabs on my cheek.  My face would not surrender the muffler without more pain.  More blood.

My breath caught.  I sniffed.  My lower lip trembled.  I'm gonna be ugly.  The salt from my tears insulted my abrasions.  It'll probably leave a scar.  I've not been loved yet, and I probably never will be now.  I'll have to become a nun like Sally Field or Maria, in The Sound of Music.  The wimple will cover the thickened, angry pink skin.  That is, if I don't freeze to death first.  After all, this was the coldest I'd ever been.

The Coldest I've Ever Been

The coldest I've ever been was not December 27, 2009 when I sat watching my husband officiate the Music City Bowl.  Sitting for three hours inside the Tennessee Titans' stadium in a windchill of 17 degrees makes a body cold, to be sure.  But I've been colder.  In the 70's.

In the 70's, I liked to hear the WKEE dj who lived inside my clock radio say, "Cabell County" in the list of school cancellations.  I'd hit the "off" button and roll over and dream about . . . What was the oldest Partridge brother's name?  Not Danny. The other one.

The smell of Maxwell House would waft under my door and I'd know Dad was up.  I'd slide my feet into slippers and slip my arms into my robe, and join him in the kitchen.  He'd look up from his dippy egg and smile.  "Gonna sleigh ride?"

I'd smile back.  "Yep."

I'd open the cabinet over the stove and survey the collection of cold cereal--Cheerios, Frosted Flakes, Sugar Pops.  Usually I picked Cheerios.  Added a teaspoon or two of sugar and a big pour of milk. 

Dad would push his chair back from the table and carry his dishes to the sink.  He'd run water over his plate so the yolk streaks wouldn't turn to Super Glue.  Then he'd pat me on the back, always too hard.   I'd arch to soften, or avoid altogether, the blows.

He'd put his cheek to mine, his Abe Lincoln beard scratchy.  My nose would wrinkle with the combination of his morning and Maxwell House breath.  My mouth was full so I'd make the brusha-brusha-brusha motion with my hand.  He'd cup a hand, breathe into it and smell.  Then his eyebrows would go up.  "Right."

Before he left to walk to work, he'd come back in the kitchen and exhale in my face.  Colgate breath.  Minty fresh.  Much better.  My mouth was still full so I gave him a thumbs up.


After I slurped my sugar and milk dregs, I'd put my bowl in the sink.  Then I'd start collecting.  Socks, long john bottoms, jeans--two pair. Long john top, turtleneck, sweatshirt.  Hat, scarf,  gloves.  Baggies and rubber bands--one for each foot.  The baggies were key.  They kept the feet dry.  Wet cold is way chillier than dry cold.  If your feet were dry, you could stay out at least an extra hour.

Next stop was the basement, for boots and coats--always my brothers.'  My coat and boots wouldn't fit over all my sleigh riding gear.  I'd root through the shoe pile under the stairs, looking for the Scotchguarded, stubby-toed hiking boots with red laces.  Geof's arctic parka was my #1 coat choice.  The fur trim almost always kept the snow spray off my face.

Into the garage.  More choices.  I'll take the . . . silver disc and the  . . . newer Flexible Flyer.   All set.  To the cemetary.  No need to tell Mom.  It's where I always went when it snowed.


It was the best of snow days.  It was the worst of snow days. 

The snow was the kind with a crisp, like potato chips  top.  Like it had snowed, then drizzled,  then froze.  If I was super careful, I could walk across the top and not fall through.   The trick was weight distribution.  You had to center yourself over your feet.  If you dug in a heel, ka-runch.  You went crashing through. I could go six or eight steps without a breakthrough.  

Us neighborhood kids had anticipated this cold snap.  We'd prepared for it too.  After school the day before, some of us had tromped over and used a chubby stick to jam the water pump at the top of the hill where the road goes down to the giant open Bible made of granite. 

The day before, it had been almost 40.   The water had flowed willingly.  Today it was not even 20.  The water refused to flow.  Instead, it looked like a solid white paper towel tube coming out of the forest green, cast iron, goose-necked faucet.  The road looked like the powdered sugar glaze on my mom's Bacardi rum cake.  Shiny.  Slick.  Speedy.

I smiled and rubbed my gloved hands together.  It's gonna be so fast.

After inspecting the faucet, I walked back up to the top of the hill where I'd left the sleds.  I picked up the reins of the Flexible Flyer.  Sitting, or on my belly?  On my belly.  I trusted my hands more than my feet when it came to steering.

I pulled the sled three feet back from the edge so I could get settled before I . . . on your mark . . . get set . . . went.  I eased my Michelin-man self, belly down, onto the Flyer's slats.  I put the reins under me so they wouldn't get caught beneath the runners.  I put my hands at opposite ends of the guide bar.  Before I geronimoed, I pulled my muffler over my mouth and nose 'cause I hate freezin' cold snow powder in my face.  Hate it!

When you ride a roller coaster, you're scared in the line.  At least I am.  Then, you're scared as your car climbs the first hill.  Least I am.  No turning back now.  And then you're at the peak and your stomach jumps up to keep your sternum company.  Then all h-e-double toothpicks breaks loose.  Speed.  Wind.  Adrenalin.  Bugs.  Fear.  Joy.  It's over?  Already?  Let's do it again.

Not this time.  I hunched and scooted and jerked my way to the precipice.  I paused to look at the gleaming ribbon of silver.  I considered the way it snaked to the left, halfway down.  Wonder how the Flyer will steer on ice? 

"Cowabunga!" I shouted to the edges of winter as I oomphed myself from flat to steep. 

It happened so fast.  I didn't even get to enjoy the stinging, alarming velocity before the pain, the burning pain, set in.

The steering of the Flyer on ice?  It didn't happen.  The ice flung me down the hill so fast that by the time I approached the bend and needed to steer, it was too late. 

The Flyer slammed into the curb and stopped.  I, however, kept going.  Across the crispy, like the top of creme brulee but cold not hot, snow.  The parka's hood flew back.  The scarf protecting my face abandoned ship and the sandpaper-rough ice crust razzed my face. Took off a layer of skin on my right cheek and jaw. 

I don't know how long I laid there, motionless, like one of those baby harp seals whose eyes say, "Please don't let mean, greedy men kill me."

After awhile, the burning on the right side of my face turned to stinging.  Then it prickled.  Then it itched.  Isn't this what they say frostbite feels like?  And then people's toes and fingers fall off.  Is my cheek gonna fall off?

I lifted my face off the ice layer.  My eyes got big when I saw the pink print it left.  I rolled onto my back with a groan.  My neck and shoulders ached from the Flyer's violent kiss with the curb.  Wish the snow was soft like it usually is.  Like when you lay down to make snow angels. 


When I opened my eyes again, my stomach was rumbling.  And I was so cold.  A jarring shiver started in my gut and shimmied up to my teeth, making 'em clack.  Sounded like the Mexican Hat Dance.

I squinted at the sky.  What time is it?  I shook my head to ease the crawling of my face skin but it didn't help.  I reached a glove up to scratch it and felt a tearing.  The fibers of my scarf had mated with the beginnings of the scabs on my cheek.  My face would not surrender the scarf without more pain.  More blood. 

My breath caught.  I sniffed.  My lower lip trembled.  I'm gonna be ugly.  The salt from my tears insulted my abrasions.  It'll probably leave a scar.  I've not been loved yet and I probably never will be now.  I'll have to become a nun like Sally Field or Maria, in The Sound of Music.  The wimple will cover the thickened, angry pink skin.

That is, if I don't freeze to death first.  After all, this was the coldest I'd ever been.

The Best Christmas Eve Ever

It was snowing for real. Cottonballs from the sky.

I ran over to Dart Drug to buy a bag of kitty litter—for the car, just in case. Back at the apartment, I filled my Jazzercise water bottle and grabbed a Snickers bar—for my stomach, just in case. Went back to my bedroom and threw my afghan—varying shades of blue in a mountain range pattern—over my shoulder. That’s as far as I went with regards to safety measures. I was in a hurry. When you want something as bad as I did, you throw caution to the sled dogs.

I was excited. My breath came out in little cloudy mushrooms as I brushed and scraped snow and ice off my blue Toyota. I looked at my French’s mustard yellow gloves and frowned. Wrecked. My mouth pulled to the side for a moment, then up into a smile. After Christmas sales.


“Hello?”

“Sis, it’s me. I’m here in D.C.,” my brother had said when he called.

“How? When?”

“I took the train from Charlottesville this morning. Thought I’d come up and spend Christmas with Amy and her family.”

“Oh.” So, you won’t be alone on Christmas Eve.

“They want you to come out,” he said. “Amy’s family says no one should be alone on Christmas Eve.”

I looked up at my bangs. “They said that?”

“Yeah. I’m going to put Amy on. She’ll give you directions. ‘kay?”


 I drove Route 50 to the Beltway. Then to an exit. And then some more. I looked in my rearview mirror. All I saw were the parallel black lines my Toyota had left in the powdered sugar snow.

It occurred to me that usually I was afraid to drive in the snow, especially if I was going to work. But tonight was Christmas Eve, and I was going to Christmas in the country. Surely, Christmas there would be different . . . better . . .

 I turned right onto their private road. It wasn’t paved but it wasn’t terribly bumpy. Seemed like it had been scraped recently. Bet they have a John Deere something or other for times like this.

I turned off the radio and cracked the window so I could hear the silence. Country silence is quieter than city silence. That night it was if the world was wrapped in Santa’s beard or in the wool of one of the sheep in the Christmas story.

The road seemed to go on forever. I was getting to the point where I thought maybe I’d taken a wrong turn. Then I saw the light. It was golden and dim. I squinted. What makes that kind of light?

 As I got closer, I saw that the light was lights and they were coming out of the ground. I pulled over to the right and shifted into park. Set the emergency brake. I got out. In the headlight glow, I saw that the light came from bowls, made of ice, holding creamy, chubby pillar candles. Their flames shimmied and bowed to the wind.

I looked up from the ground lights and peered up the road. Where’d that come from? I guess I’d been watching only what my headlights illuminated. At the top of the hill, was a house, very grand and beautiful. There was greenery and a red bow on the outside of every window. There was a candle on the inside of each as well.

I decided to walk the rest of the way. I didn’t want my tire tracks to mess up the perfect snow in front of their house. I got back in my car and flipped down my visor. I watched myself put on Revlon Cherries in the Snow lipstick. I turned the velvet collar of my dress coat up to keep the back of my neck warm.

I walked up the road towards the house. I squinted at it. I’ve seen this house before. Then I remembered where. It looked like the inside of a snow globe I’d seen at the Christmas Shop in Manteo, North Carolina.

When I was about fifty yards from the house, I stopped. After a minute or two, it occurred to me that I was waiting for them to lift up the edge of the glass dome and let me in. Into their world.

I was twenty feet from the porch when the front door opened. My brother and his girlfriend filled the doorway. His buzz cut and her mass of flame-colored waves were backlit. I don’t know why, but I didn’t say anything. I stood in the shadows by the side of the road, watching them.

“She’s here! She’s here!” I heard Amy say. “I can see her car out there.”

“Hallo!” my brother called. “Hallo!” the echoes multiplied.

I stepped into the porch light glow and waved. “Merry Christmas!” I said. My greeting went far, in every direction, in the navy night.


Amy waved excitedly like it would bring me to her faster. I climbed the steps and she threw her arms around me. I’ve never met you, but you sure do seem to like me.

 Inside the front door, Amy held her hands out. “Coat, slippers, cocoa.”

I tilted my head. “Huh?”

 She spoke slower. “Give me your coat. Change into slippers. Then get cocoa from my mom.”

I handed her my coat. I added my boots to the line beside the door. There was a basket of brand new slippers, all colors and sizes, on the other side of the door.

I bent down. “I’ll take . . . fuzzy and red, size small.”

When I stood up, there was Mom with a mug of cocoa and a smile.

“You’re beautiful,” came out of my mouth before I could stop it.

“And you,” she said, as she handed me my cup.

I stuck my nose inside and felt cocoa steam collect on my face. I lifted my head but kept my eyes closed. I inhaled.

“What do you smell?” Mom said.

My face squinched in concentration. “A peppermint at the bottom of the cocoa . . . pine . . . a wood fire . . . paperwhites . . . wassail maybe? Or is it oranges studded with cloves?”

I opened my eyes. She was still smiling. “You should be a sommelier.”

“A some of what?”

She chuckled and tucked her arm inside mine. “A sommelier--sort of a wine expert,” she said. “You have an excellent nose.”

 We walked down the central hallway. Suddenly she stopped and turned to face me. “I’m sorry,” she said. She put her hands on my shoulders and kissed the air beside each of my cheeks. I smelled her perfume—Ralph Lauren’s Lauren. “Welcome, and Merry Christmas.”

I looked away from her eyes. They looked like swimming pools and I felt like I was falling . . .

“Where is everyone?”

“Probably under mistletoe somewhere,” she said. “We’ll find them. Sooner or later. Would you like a tour?”

I nodded, my eyes huge.


We ended up in the kitchen. “Does every room have a fireplace and a Christmas tree?”

“Just about.”

“And nativities,” I said. “Do you collect them?”

“We do.” She picked one up and put it in my hand. “This one’s from Israel, like Jesus.”

“It’s beautiful.”

I sat in front of the fireplace in the kitchen ‘til my cheeks burned. I put my fingertips to them. Hot. Dry.

 “Come here,” Mom said.
 
I joined her at the island in the middle of the kitchen.

She patted the marble surface. “Put your face here.”

The marble instantly soothed. I flipped my face to cool the other cheek. I stroked the chilly top. “Italian?”

She nodded.

I looked up at the soaring ceiling with its tic, tac, toe beams. “I feel like I’ve been here before.”

She gazed up too. “Do you get Metropolitan Home magazine?”

My mouth fell open. “Wow!”

We were silent for awhile and it was fine.

“When I grow up, I wanna be just like you.”

 She smiled a little.

 I bit my lip. “Did I say that out loud?”

 Her smile grew.

 I put my face back on the marble. “Sometimes I think I have Tourette's.”

 She reached across the island and rested her hand on my hair. “You’re so much like your brother.”


I sat up when Amy burst into the room, in song. “Here we come a caroling . . .” She looked at Mom, then me. “It’s time! To the music room.”

 I looked at Mom. “You didn’t show me that one.”

 She shrugged. “I knew we’d end up there eventually.”

My brother stood behind Amy at the island. Amy drummed her fingernails and took turns staring at me, then Mom.

The side door to the kitchen opened and a sparkly wind blew a man in. He was tall and his cheeks had been whipped ruddy by the wind.

 He looked around the room and then his eyes camped on me. “Welcome, and Merry Christmas!” He squinted. “You’ve got your brother’s blue eyes.”

 He turned to face my brother. “The fireplaces are hungry,” he said. “We must appease them.”

Together they went out into the night.


Amy and Mom led me down a back hall. “Was Dad a Marine or a model?” I said to their backs.

“A lot of the first. A little of the second,” Amy said over her shoulder.

 “Really?”

 “Really.”


You know you’re in a rich person’s house, when there’s a music room. And, you know you’re in a rich person’s home when just about every wall is glass and you’re not cold, even in the dead of winter.

 We stood around the grand, not a baby, piano and sang every Christmas carol in the hymnal. Mom played beautifully. Her fingers had perfect piano playing posture. Amy sang beautifully, her voice a sweet, clear soprano. When she sang O Holy Night, I almost cried.

 “It’s time,” Dad said when there were no more songs to sing.

 I looked from face to face. “For what?”

Everyone followed him into the room with the biggest fireplace of all. The furniture was Shaker—elegant but not soft, so I opted for a floor cushion the size of my car.

 When everyone was seated and staring at him, Dad began. “And it came to pass in those days, that there went out a decree from Caesar Augustus that all the world should be taxed.” He recited the whole thing from memory--no notes, no Bible.

 The fire warmed my cheeks. The story warmed my heart. After he said, “But Mary kept all these things, and pondered them in her heart,” he reached into a basket beside him. He took out a candle and lit it from the fireplace. He handed it to me. He did it four more times, one for each of us.

 It’s perfect. I didn’t think this night could get better, but now it is.

 We sat in our little circle, each of us staring at our flames. We watched them flicker and bow. I let a drop of hot wax splash into my palm. I pressed a finger into it, to make a print. I smiled.

I glanced at my watch. Midnite, on the dot. I closed my eyes and sighed. I opened them when I heard Amy sing.

“Silent night. Holy night. All is calm. All is bright.” One by one, we joined her. I looked up at the ceiling. Adopt me. Please.

Part of me didn’t want to leave, but part of me did. I wanted to stay with them forever, but I also wanted to go home and write everything down. So I wouldn’t forget. Ever.


When I got out of the Toyota back at my apartment, I saw a basket on the back seat. There were presents in it. I carried it inside and put the packages under our little tree. I unplugged the lights and headed back to my bedroom.

Five minutes later, I came back out. I plugged in the tree and sat cross-legged beside it in my pajamas and robe. I opened the presents. They’d given me the slippers I’d worn. And, there was a pair of beautiful, fuzzy mittens. In a box the size of a coffee cup, I found the nativity from Israel. I stroked the smooth wood.

I looked up at the white paper star on top of the tree. “Star light. Star bright,” I said, then I stopped. I picked up the little wooden nativity and cradled it in my hand. “Actually, I don’t want to make a wish. I want to say thanks. No one should be alone on Christmas Eve, and I wasn’t. And Christmas in the country? It was different . . . and better."


Every Christmas season, I think of that night. The memories are treasures to me. I don’t remember what the people looked like so much as I remember how they made me feel. Even though I wasn’t part of their family, they treated me like I was. Even though I wasn’t a believer, they treated me like I was.