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