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!