Once Upon a Christmas Read online

  Christmas was drawing near, and Sister Rose was having trouble recruiting mass servers for vacation weekdays. She was having even bigger trouble finding someone for the six a.m. Christmas mass in the convent chapel. Serving six a.m. mass in that small chapel, with that small altar, with Sister Rose, your other teachers, the high school sisters, and even Sister Fortunata, the principal of the whole school watching your every move, was not an appealing beginning to an elementary school boy’s Christmas morning. In addition, servers in the convent chapel worked alone with the priest—one priest, one altar boy, and about twenty School Sisters of Notre Dame in full dress uniform. Merry Christmas!

  One by one, “Acolytes in the Service of the Lord” proffered their excuses:

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  “I gotta go to church with my family on Christmas, Sister.”

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  “At six in the morning we’re openin’ presents at my grandma’s sister.”

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  “My Ma’s singin’ in the choir at midnight mass, and I gotta hear her sing, Sister.”

  •

  “I think we’re gonna be gone for Christmas. Maybe to Menominee. Or Peshtigo, or somewhere else.”

  I listened to Sister Mary Rose counter-argue, urge her boys to remember the grace that comes with doing the Lord’s work regardless of inconvenience, and finally plead for some boy to assist Father at six a.m. Christmas Mass in the convent chapel. Suddenly, I, without good reason, wanted to be that boy. Perhaps it was the same spirit that prompted me many years later to agree to be president of my condominium association. I raised my hand and volunteered, “I’ll do it, Sister.”

  Later, when I told Ma and Pa at the supper table about my volunteering, I couldn’t help but wonder why I had done such a foolish thing. Pa wondered, too, and he pointed out it was still “dammed dark” at five in the morning when I’d have to get up, and it would likely be “snowin’ and cold as an Eskimo’s ass.” I can tell you I was plenty worried, but saw no way of backing out of my responsibility. That would probably be a sin no priest could ever forgive.

  My mind left that problem when Ma asked what I’d like Santa to bring me that year. I didn’t really still believe in Santa Claus, but then again I didn’t completely not believe either. The religious teaching I was receiving was a lot about miracles and the importance of accepting the miraculous on faith, so sometimes I just stretched my faith a little to get Santa under that net, too.

  Right off, I stated my strong and hopeful desire for a dog, a dog to play with now that Grandpa and Cat were gone and I had no brothers or sister, a dog I would take complete care of so my parents wouldn’t have to do one little thing for it, a dog with short hair that wouldn’t fall out and get into customers’ fish fries.

  Pa asked how I’d feel if “Old Whiskers” brought me a BB gun instead. I thought a moment before I answered, because a BB gun would be a whole lot better for shooting river rats than a sling shot. And I didn’t want how I answered Pa’s question to cut me out of both. So I said slowly, “Well, a BB gun would be … second.” Then I said fast, “But a dog would be first. One with short hair.”

  Pa smiled and said, “I guess we’ll just have to wait and see what the old guy brings. Right, Ma?” When Ma smiled back, I took it for a sign I was going to get one or the other.

  Ma said she would set an alarm clock and wake me up at five Christmas morning. “I’d drive you,” she said, “only I never did get around to learning how. And I wouldn’t count on your Pa. He don’t much like the idea of you being an altar boy in the first place. But I’m so proud of you, honey. I know you’ll do just fine.”

  Christmas Eve I went to bed a bundle of nerves. It had turned cold, below zero, and the wind was howling like a wolf outside. I didn’t much like the prospect of hiking the twelve blocks to the convent even though I knew Ma would have me buttoned, wrapped in scarves, and ear-muffed like the mummy in our geography book. And I just knew Pa had no intention of getting me a dog, even one with short hair. But most of all, I was scared about being the only altar boy at Christmas morning mass in the convent chapel, with the first row of nuns so close they could hear the way I mumbled most of the Suscipiat prayer without really saying the words. I fell asleep rehearsing the prayers at the foot of the altar in Latin.

  Christmas morning Ma woke me up, but Pa was waiting for me in the kitchen. He surprised me by saying, “I’m drivin’ you down to those sisters’ place. No man should be walkin’ that far this time of day in this weather, let alone a kid. The priest likely won’t show up.”

  I followed Pa out the back door to the ‘35 Ford that never got parked in a garage because we didn’t have one. The car was so cold, Pa had a hard time moving the stick shift on the floor into neutral. Holding the clutch down with his left foot, he pumped the accelerator with his right foot about twenty times, his head and upper body bobbing with each pump. Finally he pulled out the choke on the dashboard, moved his foot from the accelerator pedal to the starter button and stepped on it. At first, nothing but the sound of the starter grinding. Then the engine made a low, guttural, humming sound. It choked, coughed, sputtered, hummed again, and finally caught. The whole car shook, the engine trying to catch a rhythm, like a fibrillating heart. Pa pushed in the choke, let out the clutch, stepped on the accelerator, and we chugged down the alley on the way to the convent with about twenty School Sisters of Notre Dame in full dress uniform waiting to hear me mumble the Suscipiat.

  When we arrived at the convent, Pa said he’d wait for me. “Do the engine good to warm up, and the heater’s goin’ good now.” I didn’t try to talk him out of it, because I knew Pa liked to sit in that car. Sometimes he’d go sit in that car for an hour or more, doing nothing. He felt safe in there, I guess. And maybe it made him feel like a man of means, owning his own car and all. Besides, it was starting to snow, and I had forgotten to wear my galoshes for the walk home.

  I entered the convent by a side door and walked down a hallway to a door that opened into the small sacristy that had another door opening to the altar. The chapel could also be entered from the rear through the nuns’ living room that was always open to the chapel. There were five pews along one wall and a narrow aisle to access them.

  From the sacristy that morning, I could hear the steady hum of the nuns in their pews reciting the rosary. My mind picked up the even pacing and the melody of their voices, and I began a silent recitation with them. I stepped quietly to the door leading to the altar. It was open a crack, and I looked out at the pews with the nuns, heads bowed, folded hands moving rosary beads—not the five-decade rosaries you get assigned in the confessional for certain sins I won’t reveal here, but the fifteen-decade rosary each wore on her belt at all times.

  I looked at the altar, saw the candles already burning, and offered a short prayer of gratitude. Candle wicks have uncanny and mysterious powers for escaping the tapers of fourth-grade altar boys. The rest of the altar was dressed and decorated with red poinsettias.

  “Merry Christmas, Richard.” It was Father hustling into the sacristy from the hallway. “I’m glad you got a ride here. Too cold to walk.”

  “A ride, Father?”

  “Yes, I saw your dad freezing his … well, freezing in your car out back.”

  “My dad?”

  “I didn’t know you were Smitty’s boy.”

  “You know my dad, Father?”

  “Of course. He’s been delivering … well, delivering supplies to the rectory since he bought the tavern. Drops a case off at the convent now and then, too. I told him to get in here and watch his son serve Christmas mass, or I’d find a new supplier.”

  “But he ain’t Catholic, Father.”

  “Neither was Jesus. Now let’s get these good sisters their Christmas mass.”

  I guess I never felt so light and relieved and grateful in my entire boyhood. Father and probably all of the sisters knew I was only half-Catholic, and it didn’t matter. And they all knew Pa. And Pa was at the back of the chapel, watchin
g me serve Christmas mass to all of the School Sisters of Notre Dame at Our Lady of Lourdes Parrish in full dress uniform.

  When I held the paten under their chins, I knew Pa was wondering what the hell I was doing. The same when I rang the bells and poured water and wine into the priest’s chalice.

  Oh, it was a proud and thankful moment for a fourth-grade boy. Proud because I didn’t make any mistakes, and thankful because the sisters said the prayers at the foot of the altar with me; and with them carrying the load, I rattled off the Suscipiat without a hitch.

  Pa had the Ford running and warmed up when I crawled into the car after the mass. Before he put the shift lever into first gear, he said, “That was somethin’, Son. Somethin’ I never saw before. Where’d you learn to do all that?” I don’t think he expected an answer, and it’s a good thing because I was grinning too hard to answer.

  When we got to the side street leading to the alley behind Smitty’s Bar, Pa drove past it.

  “Where we goin’, Pa?”

  “Let’s take a little ride before we go home.”

  “But it’s still dark.”

  “I know the way, light or dark.”

  We drove halfway to Peshtigo to Roland Schmedley’s farm. Roland was one of Pa’s Lutheran customers. The lights were on in the house and in the barn.

  “I figured they’d be milkin’.” Pa said, “Come along.” I followed Pa into the barn. Roland and his three sons were indeed milking the herd of Holsteins. We all said, “Merry Christmas” and commented on the cold outside.

  “Cows keep the barn warm,” Roland said with a thick German accent. Then he led us to a stanchion with no cow in it. “Pick out any one you want,” Roland offered. I looked into the stanchion. On the floor, lying on a bed of clean straw were Roland’s hunting dog, Emma, and five beagle pups, all nuzzling their mother’s belly.

  “Looks like Old Whiskers left your Christmas present here, Son,” Pa said, grinning like I’d never seen him grin before.

  One of the pups looked up at me, and I grabbed it before someone said, “Wake up, Richard. You’re dreaming.” So when we got home to Ma that Christmas morning, I was a half-Catholic boy with a Lutheran dog and a firm belief in miracles.

  Christmas is Coming and So Are We!

  Many of us who spent our pre-retirement lives in cold climates had a post-retirement dream. It looked something like this:

  “Honey, let’s sell the big house and all the stuff we don’t need. We can downsize, buy a condo down south, and spend our old age relaxing in sunshine and balmy breezes.”

  “But, dear, what about our family here? Won’t we miss our children and grandchildren? And what about Christmas?”

  “Listen, honey. You can bet they’ll want to come visit us, get out of that cold and snow. Christmas in Florida for all of us! Doesn’t that sound great?”

  “It does. The kids seem excited to get out of the cold … Oops, there goes the computer again. More e-mails.”

  You’ve Got Mail!

  From: Little Sister Mandy in Runny Nose, MN

  November 6, ‘[email protected]

  Hi Moms and Pops,

  So there you two are in your new Florida condo like all retired, relaxed and warm.

  Honestly, totally GREAT! Lucky you.

  Little Ezra says, “Miss you.” Honestly, his first-grade teacher is such a grump. She got all bent because he bit some other kid. Like, I mean, where did he learn that if not in school? I just told her she should make the other kids set better examples. Then Big Ezra’s mom told me he bit every kid and half the dogs in town until he was in fifth grade. So it must be in the genes or something. The school will just have to wait for Little Ezra to outgrow it. Honestly, Big Ezra never bites anybody anymore.

  Hey, how about Christmas? I mean, like how will we all survive not being together for Christmas? Honestly, I hate to think about it. Big Ezra says you should invite us all down there. Him and his big ideas! Honestly.

  I suppose we could bring sleeping bags. With Barbie, Joe and their twins, and Charlie, Rose and Aesop, that would only be ten—and you two. Well, anyway, like think about it. I mean it could work out, you know? You do have two bedrooms and two bathrooms. And we are family.

  Big Ezra says his Christmas present to Daddy would be some advice on how to manage his 401-K (whatever that is) now that he’s retired and has all that money. Honestly, Big Ezra is soooo smart about business stuff. He says just don’t take any advice from Joe. Big Ezra says Joe can’t even manage his kids. I don’t know why Barbie married him anyway. Honestly, all he ever gave her was hyperactive twins.

  Gotta go!

  Think about Christmas

  Little Ezra sends xxxx. Me too!

  I’ll e-mail the others about Christmas

  You’ve Got Mail!

  From: Big Sister Barbie in Fourwheel Drive, MN

  November 7, ’99 @aol.com

  Dear Mama and Daddy,

  What’s this about you two hosting Christmas in Florida? GREAT IDEA! (Even if it was Big Ezra’s.) The twins can’t wait for Popo to take them to see Mickey and Shamu (like you promised you would, Daddy). Maybe you could take Aesop and Little Ezra too and give us stressed-out, UNRETIRED parents a day (or two—hint, hint) at the beach without kids.

  Joe and I are totally, I mean TOTALLY exhausted. Even their Ritalin doesn’t slow down Hans and Fritz. They’ll probably drown Mandy’s and Charlie’s kids in your pool.

  Daddy, Joe says not to take any financial advice from Big Ezra. Joe says Big Ezra doesn’t know his … from the S&P 500 (whatever that is). Why did Mandy marry him, anyway? Joe says there’s big money to be made in office buildings in Escanaba, Michigan. And he knows a guy who can get you in on the ground floor. Joe says your money would be safer than in U.S. treasuries. He’ll explain it all to you Christmas.

  Whoops! Gotta run. Hans and Fritz kidnapped the neighbor’s cat again and are giving it a haircut in the kitchen. Uh-oh, I hear a dog in there, too. Always something! More later.

  Later: The cat looks pretty bad. Think about putting Friskers in a kennel while we’re there for Christmas.

  Love always,

  Barbie

  You’ve Got Mail!

  From: Charlie Boy in Capnmittens, MN

  November 8, ’99 @Juno.com

  Hey there, Folks,

  Never thought my own parents would leave their only son freezing in Minnesota while they’re living it up in a new condo in sunny Florida. Me and Rose can hardly wait for our turn to retire, and that’s the truth.

  Just clicked on an e-mail from Mandy. You sure you want us all there for Christmas? Sounds like fun to me and Rose. Rose says not to worry about the cooking. She’ll take care of it all. You know Rose and her fancy meals.

  I promised Aesop that me and him would bust a gut eating those good old Florida shrimp. Buy a load of jumbos before we get there, Mom, and I’ll pay you back.

  Hey, Dad, nothing goes better with shrimp than a cold beer, right? Lay in a good supply of Bud for me and you. And get some of that fancy-schmancy microbrew for Rose. You know Rose! I’ll pay you back.

  Rose just yelled no kitchen cleanup for her if she’s doing all the cooking. Mandy and Barbie can do the dishes, right, Mom?

  Aesop wants to know if your pool’s got a diving board. He wants to show Grams and Gramps his famous cannonballs. Better warn your neighbors. Santa promised him a surfboard and scuba gear to try out in his rich grandparent’s pool. Maybe you could buy it for him down there so we don’t have to haul it down on the plane. Try to get a deal, right, Dad? I’ll pay you back.

  And, Mom. Could you pick up a Christmas present for me to give Rose? You know what a klutz I am about shopping. I think I still owe you two a present from last year. Try to stay under twenty-five bucks, but get something that looks like it cost a lot more. You know Rose. I’ll pay you back.

  See ya’ll soon. Can’t wait. Rose and Aesop neither.

  Brother Charlie Boy

  P.S. Don’t forget them shrimp
.

  You’ve Got Mail!

  From: Little Sister Mandy in Runny Nose, MN.

  November 9, ’99 @aol.com

  Hi again, Moms and Pops (A.K.A. Grandma and Grandpa Claus),

  I guess I really got the ball rolling, huh? Everybody’s going to Florida for Christmas. Honestly, I mean beyond COOL, like TOTALLY AWESOME!

  No work for you two though. We kids will do everything. I’ll do the cooking, Mom. Except would you do your pot roast and baked beans, and maybe your seven layer salad? I mean, who could even try to do those like you do? Honestly. And Big Ezra says it wouldn’t be Christmas if you didn’t bake a Kringle for breakfast and your GREAT EGGS BENEDICT. Thanks, Mom.

  I’ll cook everything else, and Barbie can help. And Rose can clean up the kitchen. She should do her share too, right, Mom?

  One more thing. Big Ezra wants Little Ezra to have a REAL Christmas tree like he had when he was little. Big Ezra is sooo romantic. He says a blue spruce with lots of pine cones might be a little hard to find in Florida, but if you really shop around, he’s sure you can find one, even if it is a little expensive. And get a real tall, bushy one.

  Be sure to send Santa a map to your condo. Little Ezra still believes! Big Ezra’s mom said he believed until fifth grade. Isn’t that great? Honestly, even if he did get teased a lot.

  Pops, Big Ezra says not to touch any ideas about your money Joe gives you with a ten-foot blue spruce. Get it?