Jacquie’s Christmas Miracle - A New Beginning

con't from COMING HOME ...

Soon, the warmth of the kitchen and stuffed with good food, starts us yawning.  We suddenly realize how late it is and troop up the stairs, towards bed.  Clyde’s room awaits him, as if he’s never been away.

Tomorrow will be here sooner than we know!

* * *

Sun shining through the window early the next day, awakens me and Bill.  With all the excitement last night, we forgot to pull the shade down.  Oh, well, there’s a lot to do today.  I’m so thrilled that Clyde is home and I think of all the fun we’ll have decorating the tree.

Running to Clyde’s room, I jump on his bed, waking him up, provoking a threat of retaliation, “I’ll get you for that, pipsqueak . . . see if I don’t!” 

“Lazy bones, lazy bones, get up, get up!  We have the biggest Christmas tree in Toronto to decorate.”  Swinging his arm in front of his bleary eyes, he makes out the time on his wrist watch.  Then, making good on his threat, he bounces me onto the floor.  Landing with a thump, I shriek, jump to my feet, and pull him off the bed.  “So there, Mr. Pilot Man. . . gotcha back!”

The smell of strong coffee percolating throughout the house draws us downstairs and we pile into the fragrant kitchen.  I love the smell of perked coffee in the morning.  It’s the best smell in the world. 

Breakfast is leisurely; bacon and eggs and french toast fill our bellies.  The coffee pot is quickly emptied.  Father keeps busy preparing his famous concoction of ground coffee, salt and a few choice pieces of eggshell, which he had asked mother to keep aside from breakfast.  He rinses the shells, places all the ingredients into the perforated grey metal basket, in a precise order and fills up the pot with fresh, cold water.  Pure ambrosia!  

Mother does the dinner dishes, left in the sink from last night.  The rest of us chatter away at the table, our heads propped on fisted hands, listening and laughing. 

After placing the last clean dish in the drain board, Mother sits down at the table.  Father pours her a cup of fresh perked coffee.  Wrapping her hands around the warmth of the cup, Mother gratefully inhales the scent of the aromatic brew. 

Pushing back our chairs, Bill and I get up, grab tea towels and start drying the dishes.  We put them away, as Clyde clears the table.  After filling up the sink with the breakfast dishes, he grabs the broom and begins to sweep the floor.  As Mother starts to get up from the table to wash the new batch of dishes, Bill says, “Sit down, Mother, you’ve done enough.  It’s our turn now.” Mother sighs with good-natured exasperation and does as she’s told. 

After clearing up, we go to the foyer and stare at the tree.  Looking at its size, Bill suggests, “Let’s leave it here.  There’s lots of room for it.” 

“But we always put it in the living room” I insist.

“Well, it doesn’t have to be in the same place every single year”, Clyde argues. 

Pushing my lower lip out, “No, it has to be the living room!”

  

Sighing, Clyde and Bill lug the tree into the living room and try to stand it up.  As expected, the ceiling is too low.  “See, told you we should leave it in the foyer.  There’s plenty of room there.  The ceiling goes up two stories.  Now we hafta lug it back.”  Bill starts dragging the tree back to the foyer.  In protest, I yell, “It’s got to be in the bay window, in the living room.  Let’s fix it.  We’ll make it fit!”   In the end, tradition wins out.

Clyde and I tramp out to the back yard shed and rummage through Father’s sparse tool bench.  “Ah ha”, I crow, pulling a rusty buck saw from the bottom of a heap and we run back to the house.

Clyde mans the saw, which lurches and twangs through the tough trunk.  The screeching, as it draws back and forth through the wood, makes my teeth hurt and I flee to the peace and quiet of my room.  Clyde yells up the stairs, "Chicken", and makes loud clucking noises.  I venture out to the top of the stairs and watch as he flaps around the living room, hands tucked into armpits, elbows pumping and knees bobbing and I start laughing.  My mother swats Clyde with a damp tea towel and his tomfoolery comes to an end - the squealing starts again.  I hastily scoot back into my bedroom to escape the ghastly noise.  

Soon Bill calls up the stairs to me, “Jacquie, the Christmas tree is up now.  It’s safe to come out.”  A lovely sight greets me when I walk downstairs.  What must be the most beautiful Christmas tree in all of Toronto, fills our bay window and barely clears the ceiling.  Fresh pine fragrance fills the room and drifts into the hall.  Grandma’s hand-embroidered tree skirt spreads over the wooden stand; a colourful field of red, green and white.  Though it may not be the tallest Christmas tree in the world anymore, it is the most beautiful.

Father brings up boxes from the basement, containing our Christmas decorations.  Some have been collected over generations and handed down by family members, others given by treasured friends.  I open the boxes and unpack the beautiful ornaments.  There are glass balls, glittering with gold and silver, crystal bells, miniature soldier boys gleaming red, gold and black; hand crocheted stars in blue, green, yellow, violet, indigo, orange and red – a rainbow of colours.  Each piece finds a special place on the branches.  Dozens of Santa heads add a jolly touch with his red-cheeked, smiling face.

Exquisite sterling silver candle holders are gently clamped to the branches.  Each holder, which reminds me of a fluted sea shell, shimmers gently.  The white and red candles are held steady by prongs.  “Make sure you set the candles straight”,  Mother cautions.  "The wax has to drip into the holder, not onto the rug. And, remember to blow out the candles when you leave the room.” 

In the kitchen, Mother and Bill make pot after pot of popcorn, setting our mouths watering.  Munching the still-warm kernels, we wait for the morsels to cool enough to string on strong white thread.   Clyde and I create extra-long garlands, which he winds ‘round and ‘round the tree.  Next, my personal favourite – red and white stripped candy canes.  Mother buys pounds of them at the neighbourhood candy shop.  Replenishment is usually required three or four times before Christmas day, as they seem to mysteriously disappear.  Sticking one in the corner of my mouth, hook end in, I set to work putting the remaining ornaments in place.

 The second-to-last task is the careful placement of hundreds of silvery tinsel icicles. Clyde hands me the boxes and, as he leaves the room, says, “Jacquie, you’re the only one with the patience to hang these properly.  Call us when you’re finished . . . going for coffee.

Time passes as I carefully position the shiny strands, one-piece-at-a-time.  I step back and view my work, shifting a glass ball here, a glittering spiral there, to better catch the light.

I call out, “Everyone come in the living room, please.  It’s time to place the angel.”  I unpack the very last ornament with reverence.  The room is hushed as I carefully lift the beautiful white angel out of her protective wooden box. 

I hand the angel to Clyde.  He carries a well-worn Chippendale armchair over to the base of the tree, cautiously steps onto it, leans over and reaches up.  The angel’s base slides over the top most branch.  He must stretch to straighten her out and smooth her feathery wings. 

How elegant she is!  Ivory coloured satin flows from her porcelain shoulders and gold thread peeks through lace.  Her luminous face glows in the lamp light.  Delicate hands hold a dove; a symbol of peace at this, the end WWII.   

After the candles are lit, we all gather round.  Standing in a semi-circle, we link our hands and admire our wonderful tree.  Flickering candles light up the face of our angel. 

We lower our heads and remember, in silence, those many brave men and women who will never come home again.  We pray for the families they leave behind. We are thankful that our brave men are safe, and home for Christmas.  Truly my Christmas miracle.

I know not with what weapons World War III will be fought, but World War IV will be fought with sticks and stones. 

                                - Albert Einstein                                     

Jacquie’s Christmas Miracle - Coming Home

I know not with what weapons World War III will be 

fought, but World War IV will be fought with sticks and stones.    Albert Einstein

Shadows play hide and seek in the bare tree branches, as the long reach of a frigid mid-December evening creeps up on dinner hour. 

Where is Father?  He’s usually home for supper by now. 

Frozen rain tip-taps on the window pane and I can hear my mother muttering to herself in the kitchen, as pans rattle and pots bang.  Strangely, the pitter-patter of the sleet seems to keep rhythm with the clatter coming from the kitchen.

I can tell Mother’s quite worried about Father.  He’s almost as punctual as the 5:20 that clamors past our house every day, except Sundays and Christmas Day. That coal-fed locomotive belches clouds of white steam and shakes the pictures right off the wall sometimes. 

She doesn’t want to worry me, the daughter she still refers to as “The Child.”  I am Jacqueline Alicia Byrnes, newly married 19 year-old woman.   Mother tries to disguise her concern by making extra food for dinner.  I wonder what she’ll make tonight?   Tinned peas, sliding around the crinkle-cut carrots?  Mother tries, but she really isn’t a very good cook.  But then, as Father always says, he didn’t marry her for her cooking.  Father likes to say this with an exaggerated wink, as he makes smacking noises with his lips.  I was in my teens before I figured out what Father meant by that, after overhearing one of my suitors debating with his pals about who was more stacked – my mother or Betty Grable.

I wander through the sitting room into the kitchen and ask my mother if everything’s okay.  She looks right at me, but I get the feeling she doesn’t really see me, as she mutters, “Hmm, I wonder if I have enough eggs to make a chocolate cake?”  Oh, hey, maybe she’s making an extra special goodie tonight instead of a vegetable.

Edging out of the kitchen, I settle on the window seat in the living room, cozy blanket wrapped around my shoulders.  My breath fogs up the leaded, glass pane in front of me.   Freezing rain beats a staccato tattoo on the bay windows, which surround me on all sides.  I peer through the blackness.  The street light in front of the house refracts into thousands of broken multi-coloured spears.  I’m getting anxious about Father.  It’s almost 6:00. Father is always home by 5:45. 

I’m startled out of a daydream when the front door bangs open and father stomps into the foyer, causing the lacy window curtains to fly in the breeze. 

“Gosh dang it,” he grumbles under his breath.  Slush from his galoshes spreads a pool of dirty water across the gleaming rose-tinted marble floor.   Hearing the door smack against the wainscoting, mother runs into the hall.   

“Dear . . . we were so worried!” 

Father glares in her direction, then snaps, “Darn fools! Two young numskulls carrying a huge Christmas tree, stopped traffic in all directions at St. Clair and Vaughan Road. . . never seen anything like it.  The tree was easily fifteen feet long . . . sagged in the middle. . . took me ages to get through the intersection.” 

Mother lets out a relieved whoosh, happy at his arrival.  She fusses over him, and helps him out of his damp overcoat.  She blocks his black Homburg, with its snazzy red and blue feather on the side, so that it’ll dry in its proper shape.

Father swats the air, “Stop your dithering, Mother.  Jacqueline, run and fetch my slippers, please.”  

Lickety split, I run into the sitting room, snatching up his red plaid slippers from the hearth, where Mother has them warming by the crackling fire.  Running back to the foyer, I nearly slip in the puddle Father has made.  Swinging my arms, I manage to keep my balance, and place his slippers on the floor.  He steps into them, exclaiming, “Ah, that’s better.  Thank you.  My feet are freezing.”   

Mother hangs up Father’s overcoat.  Taking his red cardigan off the hook on the back of the closet door, she holds it up while he shrugs into it.  As he fastens the buttons, he sighs with pleasure at its warmth. 

Mother pats him on the shoulder.  “You sit by the fire, dear, while I finish getting dinner ready.”  She mops up the foyer floor with a rag and then heads back to the kitchen. 

Father shuffles into the sitting room and, with a soft grunt, settles into the hunter green velvet wing chair.  He pulls the chain on the Tiffany table lamp and opens The Toronto Telegram with a whispery snap.  Sinking lower in the chair, Father elevates his slipper-shod feet onto the ottoman, bringing them closer to the flickering fire.  I’m glad that Father is safely home.  

I go up to the room that I share with my husband, Bill, who should be home from work very soon.  I want to bring my diary up-to-date.  I am so very behind in my daily observations.

I’m preoccupied with my thoughts, when I hear the front door bang open again.  Who can that be?  Taking the stairs down, two at a time, I almost collide with Mother on the bottom landing.   We grab onto each other, trying to steady ourselves and manage to stay on our feet.  Father hurries into the hall from the sitting room to see what’s going on.

Open-mouthed, we stare at the largest Christmas tree we have ever seen, as it inches its way into the foyer, bushy end first.  My husband, Bill, is trying to hoist and pull at the same time and can barely hang on, as someone at the other end pushes really hard, with loud grunts emanating from the porch.  Bill’s khaki Air Force pants are tucked into black winter galoshes, which slip-slide on the marble floor.   

Recently mustered out of the Air Force ground crew, after serving three years servicing fighter planes, Bill now works, on and off, for the Toronto Island Airport, keeping much smaller planes operational. 

Who, I wonder, is on the veranda, at the other end of the tree?  Whoever it is, is very quiet, aside from the grunting noises, at least compared to Bill, who’s yelling directions, “No, the other way, you idiot . . .  pull back just a little... stuck on the door knob.”

Finally, the tree moves.  Mother and I stand on our tip toes, trying to catch a glimpse of the mystery man but all we can see is a blue-

gray Air Force service cap and the occasional flash of high, black boots, gleaming with polish, slush sliding off.  Father is quiet; apparently dumbfounded by the shenanigans.   Evergreen branches screech and snap, sending needles flying, as the tree is finally dragged through the doorway.

Bill braces the bottom part of the tree, as the mystery man pushes it up into a standing position.  Reaching high, in through the branches, Bill grabs the trunk and keeps the tree steady.  The mystery man steps into view.  Mother and I shriek and run to the man, throwing our arms around him, hugging him so hard, he shouts, “Have mercy!”

Father, uncharacteristically quiet, suddenly strides forward, grabs the man’s hand and says, “Welcome home, Son.” 

It’s my brother, Clyde.  Tears of joy splash down mother’s face and mine.  First my husband, Bill, made it home safely from the war and, now Clyde, a Group Captain, on leave from the Air Force.   

Just as things begin to settle down, mother and I stare at each other, come to the same realization, at exactly the same time and we start to giggle.   Father gives us a puzzled look. His eyes dart between the Christmas tree and the two young men dripping in the foyer and the giant Christmas tree.  His flabbergasted expression tells me he also realizes who the two “numskulls” are!

Grabbing Bill and Clyde in a hug, Father’s shoulders start to shake.  I wonder if he’s hiding tears.  Apparently not, for a moment later, roars of laughter burst out and echoes from the marble foyer throughout the house. 

Slowly the laughter fades; our stomachs ache; emotions still so close to the surface.   The hilarity settles.   Mother and I glance at each other, lips twitch, I giggle and the merriment starts all over again. 

Wiping her face with her apron, Mother says, “You boys must be cold and wet!  Take off your overcoats and hang them up.  I’ll put on the kettle.” 

Clyde takes the tree from Bill and props it in a corner of the foyer.  In the process, he knocks askew Great Uncle Harold’s portrait.  Uncle Harold’s frowning countenance seems even more severe given the mishap, but we pay little heed.

Gravitating to the warmth of the kitchen, redolent with the good smells of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, we settle around the life-scarred oak table.  Mother fills up the kettle, places it on the stove and it soon whistles merrily.  She spoons fragrant tea leaves into a cheery yellow teapot.   When she adds the boiling water, sweet-smelling vapor rushes into the air. 

Pouring tea into Clyde’s cup, Mother asks him, “How did you manage to get home for Christmas, Clyde?  In your last letter, in November, you thought you wouldn’t get home until spring?”

Clyde’s baritone voice sounds tired as he replies, “My commanding officer has been asked to put a unit together, which will act as consultants on a new fighter plane design.  He requested that I head up the team and I’m here to start the selection process for personnel.  Among others, we need men who know airplanes inside and out, for ground crew.  I thought of Bill right away.”   

Mother and I exchange hopeful looks.  Steady employment has been scarce since Bill mustered out. 

Mother bustles around the kitchen, lifting pot lids and tasting the food, then announces, “Dinner’s ready.”

I jump to my feet and begin setting the table.   Mother dishes out supper and ravenously, we all tuck in.  

Over dinner, Bill and Clyde swap military tales. Some make us laugh, some are sad.  Occasionally, Father shares a story from the war he served in – WWI.  Father’s stories reveal a side I haven’t seen before.  Mother and I sit quietly at the table, sandwiched between our men, content to listen.  They relive good times and bad, sometimes falling silent.  They remember the men who served alongside them, some who have never returned.  Friendships, forged under the fire of war, will last forever. 

Soon, the warmth of the kitchen and stuffed with good food, starts us yawning.  We suddenly realize how late it is and troop up the stairs, towards bed.  Clyde’s room awaits him, as if he’s never been away.

Tomorrow will be here sooner than we know!

DEAD … AGAIN

“The reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated.”  Hmm, ponders Isabella, who said that? Oh yeah, Mark Twain.  

She stares fixedly at the local news rag, mesmerized.  The obits were plentiful today and longer than usual, especially the one about her.  It must be a slow news week. 

Thoughtfully, Izzie pops another piece of the warm, buttery croissant into her waiting mouth, chews slowly,  dreamily and savors the rich taste. Puddles, the dog, sits quietly beside her, waiting for her bit.  Izzie absent-mindedly tears off a piece and pauses, reading on. Puddles gently nuzzles the morsel from Izzie’s hand.  As it starts to fall, she manages to catch it in her eager mouth with a quick mid-air snap.  Her eyes roll up in quiet, doggy ecstasy.

‘Isabella (Izzie) Korman (nee Piccolo), in her 72nd year, after a courageous battle with cancer, passed away peacefully surrounded by her husband and children on Saturday, March 13, 2010 at Southwest Health and Wellness Centre.eWeW   Izzie, cherished wife of Harvey Korman Sr.  Devoted mother of 5.  Sons Harvey Korman Jr., (Harriett), Herman Korman (Hermione) and Harry Korman. Daughters, Rachel Kraftsman (Ralph) and Rebecca Karly (Richard).’   

By the time I reach this point in the obit, I know that there has to be another Izzie Korman in my town and since I've lived here pretty much all my life, how come I’ve never bumped into her or even heard of her?  I know my town is biggish (about 40,000) but it's not that big.  Obsessed now, I wonder, “How could that be?  She was even the same age as me.  We should have crossed paths at the senior’s centre.  Everybody over 60 went there. Maybe she wasn’t a joiner?” 

Not understanding what is driving her, a strange compulsion makes Izzie finish reading the obit, every single word of it, which had so caught her eye –  

‘Adoring and proud grandmother of Roberto, Rachel, Reuben, Rick, Kimberley, Kacie, Katilynn, Kailee and Kassandra.’

“Whew”, thinks Izzie, counting out loud, “nine grandchildren.  They must have kept her happy…And broke.”  On she reads, unable to stop. 

‘Fondly remembered by her brothers and sister and their families:  Peter Piccolo, Pearl Pantalone, Paul Piccolo, Percy Piccolo, Parker Piccolo and Phillip Piccolo.  Predeceased by her parents, Raphaela and Kobe.  Isabella’s loving memory will live on forever in the hearts of the Piccolo and Korman families and her many, many close friends. Isabella will be remembered for her major contributions to the life and work of The Meeting Place Prayer Circle and to the community of Aurora.  

The family wishes to thank all those who have reached out to us over the last few months and offered love and support.  Friends may call at the Thomas Funeral Home, 530 Go Home Lane North (northeast corner of Go Home Lane and Yonge Street) Aurora, 905-772-2154 from 2-4 and 6-8 p.m. Thursday, March 18, 2010.  Funeral Service in The Meeting Place Prayer Circle (32 Church Street) on Friday afternoon March 19, 2010 at 1:00 p.m.  Internment Queen City Cemetery.  In memory of Izzie, donations to The Meeting Place Prayer Circle, in lieu of flowers, would be appreciated by the family.

Sighing heavily, Izzie leans back and as she slumps down, plops her head on the cushy sofa back.  Three cats, sleeping cozily entwined into one big fur ball in the bay

window, grumble at the intrusion of Izzie’s head coming ‘that close’ to them. They stretch out, languidly, hooking gnarly claws gently into Izzie’s silvery nimbus.  “Be still”, say they.  “We’re trying to nap.”  Izzie sits quietly, contemplating her navel. The catchy 70s (or was it the 60s?) phrase pops into her head as she stares down at her stomach, and she laughs softly at the silly expression which was so popular with the hippies, ‘back in the day’.

Closing her eyes, Izzie thinks back to the heyday of the second half of the last millennium and a small smile curls up the wrinkled edges of her generous mouth. Snippets of the more memorable moments run across her memory like a movie…  

There's a light over at the Frankenstein place (the Rocky Horror Picture Show)

They're creepy and they're kooky. Mysterious and spooky. They're all together ooky.  The Addams Family.

Elvis the Pelvis

45s and 8 track tapes

                        
                         Plop, plop, fizz, fizz, oh what a relief it is

                                                 

Sock it to me baby - say Goodnight Dick

Oh, so many funny and now melancholy memories.  The ‘movie’ hip-hops like the energizer bunny, sometimes going into slo-mo mode…

Women's lib

Never trust anybody over 30 

  

                                           Peacenik, beatnik

  

Drive-in restaurants and waitresses whizzing from car to car in their lace-up roller skates, trays balanced perfectly on stiffly tented fingers.

A lil’ dab’ll do ya

Love means never having to say you’re sorry

I love you more today than yesterday and less than tomorrow

Bright pink Double Bubble bubblegum, 2 for a penny and the teeny tiny comic

Black balls

Chocolate cigarettes which you could actually make ‘smoke’ with 

Flower Power

Car 54 where are you?

As the show plays on, Izzie settles deeper into the pillowy softness of the sofa, the newspaper clutched in her left hand.  Gentle wuffles come from her partly open mouth and Puddles lays her head on Izzie’s well-padded thighs, sighing with contentment.

Backward the movie spins into the 50s…

I Love Lucy

Here’s looking at you, kid

Gunsmoke 

  

                                      Phyllis Diller and Fang 

                                          
                                             Girdles

 

  

Studebakers (the car not the bar)

Queen Elizabeth 

As the 50s slowly fade into grey and the 40s start playing, Izzie settles even more deeply into the sofa, and maybe something a little more than just sleep.  Her breathing slows until it’s barely discernible.  Her right hand gives just a little twitch and her right foot moves in sync. 

Puddles lifts her head and stares quizzically at her mistress and best friend, sensing something amiss.  She nuzzles Izzie’s hand, the one that twitched.  It doesn’t twitch again.  It doesn’t do anything.  Puddles lifts her head to the heavens and howls and howls.  With a sudden start, Izzie’s eyes pop open and she exclaims, “Oh, Puddles, thank goodness you were here to wake me up.  “I think I was almost Dead” and then her eyes light on her doppelganger’s

obit… Again!” 


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