“Iraq Vet. I’m hungry and cold. Help me.” On my way to the grocery, stopping for a red light, I donated to a sad-faced man wearing combat fatigues and holding a cardboard sign.
A few minutes later, parked and heading into the store a passing car slowed down and someone waved me over.
“We wanta make it home for Christmas,” an elderly woman, her face sprinkled with burlap-colored warts leans out the window and waves her wrinkled hand at me. “And my daudder and me, we don’t have enough gas money to git back to Liddle Rock.” I sighed, opened my billfold and placed a few dollars into the vein-streaked hand.
“Bless you. That’ll hep us make it on to home. We’re headin’ out now.”
Done with shopping, as I loaded my groceries I saw the same car circling and a hand waving. “I’ve been there, done this,” I said, “I’m kind a tired of it.” I started the motor but leaned my head back for a moment. When I did, as some of us are inclined to do, I hopped onto a sleigh ride of memory.
When brother Alvin and I were growing up it was a tradition in the Brent home to adopt a family for the holidays—our gift to someone less fortunate. My father loved Christmas. A pharmacist by profession, he worked most Christmas Eves until after dark, and it was then, when he got home from work, that we carried decorations, food and presents to a needy family. We quietly left our gifts by the front door, then drove on home. The parents would have known we were coming, but as far as the children knew, Santa Claus had been to see them.
A horn honked. I was (legally-I have a tag) in a handicapped space close to the store. I had been sitting with the lights on and car motor running; someone else needed this space.
“Get off the sled and drive home,” I said. “You’ve got to walk Roo Roo, and then feed she, and Petey Poo.”
***
Back home and done with the dog walk and feedings, I lit the artificial fireplace logs, turned on the Christmas lights, and then plugged in our aging Santa Claus. This artificial Santa in the Brent’s Drugs goes back to the early ’50s. Many years later, when he retired from the drugstore and was brought to our house, we would all hold our breath to see if he would still nod and reach out his hands in welcome. His crimson suit is faded, the velvet nappy, his beard tinged with black specks but after a brief hesitation and a deep creak, Santa came to life. He once again nods, and begins his yearly ritual of rolling out his elbows, bending from the waist, and bowing.
Christmas can be enchanting but it can also be a sad, nostalgic season, thinking of and missing our loved ones who are no longer with us. With Santa Claus creaking and with the sweet magic of Christmas tree lights brushing the room, I place pictures of my precious ones who are gone on the coffee table. My mother and dad; husband, Willard; my girls, Tootie, Pat and Brent. As I watch the squeaking, bowing Santa, I hop back onto the sled and return in my thoughts to so many memories.
For a few brief moments, they’re Home for Christmas.
How blessed I have been.
My cell phone dings, interrupting the reverie. I don’t recognize the number but answer anyhow.
It’s a call from a chain shop; the third and final notification. According to the records I charged $222 on their store card — if I don’t pay immediately they will turn it over to a collection agency. I’ve been through the same spiel before. This is a scam; one of the few I haven’t fallen for. I don’t have their card and the name they have on the bill is my maiden name—Brent.
“No, no, no. Ho, ho, ho, and a bottle of rum,” I say to the recorded voice on the phone, then click the number off. “I think I’ll finish my sleigh ride with a cup or two of eggnog.”
I walk to the kitchen and open the fridge.
Oh glory. I forgot to buy eggnog.
I say a non-Christmas word, unplug Santa, hop off my sled and return to the grocery.
Eggnog in hand and leaving the store I hear ringing bells. But I’m in a hurry and keep walking.
A car pulls over. An elderly woman, her face sprinkled with burlap-colored warts leans out the window and waves her vein-streaked, wrinkled hand at me. I shake my head, no. As they slowly drive past I notice the car has a Mississippi tag. Not Arkansas.
“Ho, ho, ho. I’m going home and plug Santa Claus in,” I say.
I check my billfold. Still have a little cash.
“Christmas Eve will find me, where the lovelight gleams.”
I turn back to the chiming bells and drop a small wad of dollars into the Salvation Army bucket.
“Merry Christmas,” the lady swinging the bell says.
“To you too, young lady. And, thanks for all y’all do for others.”
