First Christmas

Grandma, like the rest of us, dreads Christmas this year. She's already lost my grandfather. To lose Mom, her one and only child, is nearly unbearable.

Last April, when the doctor tells us Mom has only 24 hours, I collect Grandma from Beatrice, the little town in which she's resided most of her life, and drive her to Grand Island to say goodbye to Mom. We say almost nothing during the three hour trip to the hospital. I worry it will all be too much for my tall, striking grandmother who's not only diabetic but suffers from an ailing heart.

At the hospital, Mom wakes briefly, sees Grandma, and smiles. "Hi, Mama!" she chirps like a ten-year-old before instantly falling back into unconsciousness.

Grandma stops still then staggers and grabs the rail of the hospital bed. Concentrating very hard on something just outside the window, she pleads without looking at me. "You have to take me home."

So we drive all the way back to Beatrice.

"Goodbye, Grandma," I sob when I drop her off at her house. We cling to each other. The next time I see her, Mom will be gone.

Backing out onto the street, I watch her climb the stairs of her porch. Every step is a monumental effort, and she appears all at once decades older than her 72 years.

But now it is Christmas.

Nothing about it resembles last year. Dad's been commuting to Omaha for his new job during Mom's illness. After her death, we clean up the house, put it up for sale, and Dad and my youngest brothers and sisters move to Omaha in August. Joe and Rick are finishing school at Kearney State, Mick remains behind in Grand Island to work, and I move into a small efficiency apartment in Grand Island to get ready for my second year of teaching at Central Catholic. It's the first time I've ever lived on my own, and I miss Dad and my siblings in the very worst way.

Christmas caroling. From left: Carry, Tommy, Mary, Jeff, Terri and Deb

It's the little kids, however, who really struggle to adjust to their new lives. Dad enrolls them in their new schools. Coping with all the bewildering changes without Mom and her tender assurances makes it enormously difficult.

Thankfully, we are all together under one roof for Christmas. The new house in Omaha is a big split level that boasts a deep carpeted pit in front of the fireplace with room for all of us to sit. I sail into Beatrice in my little Pacer to pick up Grandma, and we arrive in Omaha two days before Christmas just shortly before my brothers Joe, Mick and Rick do.

"Your dad needs a wonderful gift," Grandma thinks aloud the next day after Dad departs for work. "It's Christmas Eve, and that poor man's been through the ringer."

The stress of losing his wife, becoming a single parent to ten children, and trying to save the dairy in Omaha has taken its toll on Dad. To top it all off, he's fighting off a bug which instantly alarms us.

"I'm fine!" he assures us before he leaves for work. "Stop worrying!"

Fiercely protective of our overworked father, we observe him closely. Deb and Mary fear he doesn't get enough rest. That's when we decide to pool our money together to buy him a waterbed for Christmas. Dad's always wanted one, and a local store in Omaha advertises a Christmas special - waterbeds for 199 dollars. Together, we come up with nearly 150, and Grandma offers to chip in the rest.

With no time to waste, we pile into my Pacer and hurry to the store.

"Sorry," the man at the store shakes his head. "That price is for a queen size only. The king is a hundred bucks more."

Crestfallen, we drag ourselves back to the car. Without question, our 6 foot, 7 inch father requires a king size bed.

"I could sell my plasma," Tommy suggests hopefully. "I saw a sign."

But it's not necessary for my ten-year-old brother to part with his blood. Grandma comes through.

"Let's go back to the store and buy that bed," she says determinedly.

It's shameless the way I zip the car around to take complete advantage of my wonderful grandmother's generosity.

"We'll expect you to bring that bed to the house today and set it up for us," she wags her finger at the waterbed man. Our sweeter than syrup grandmother can be formidable when she chooses.

"Yes, ma'am," the man nods obediently.

We can hardly wait for Dad to come home. Because it's Christmas Eve, he arrives earlier than usual, and we frantically make up the bed as soon as the waterbed guys depart.

"Merry Christmas, Dad!" we shout and laugh when he walks into his room and sees the new bed.

In his suit and tie, Dad stops dead in his tracks and stares at the new waterbed. Then a big slow grin creases his face. "What have you kids done?" he laughs.

Dad loves his new waterbed so much he won't even wait for it to warm up. Spreading a mountain of blankets over the top, he crawls onto the mattress, flops on his back, and growls in contentment as his body undulates with the gentle waves.

Jeff receives a much longed for Raggedy Andy for Christmas.

Even though Dad's waterbed is a huge hit, we fear that Christmas itself will be unutterably sad. The move to Omaha, however, in spite of its tribulations, somehow makes it better. If we have to celebrate without Mom, it's easier to do it in a new house that holds no painful memories of her laughter and warm presence.

Nevertheless, we uphold the yearly traditions. On top of Mom's piano, Mary and Baby Jesus are still guarded protectively by Joseph who's been headless for many years - since the time Tommy and Jeff played catch with him in the living room and Harry the Dog pounced to gnaw his head off.

The little kids draw each other's names and present each other with the same giant candy canes, giant suckers and books of Lifesaver candies which they will suck continuously all Christmas day and night.

The last gift to be opened is Uncle Carl's big box from Pittsburgh with the standard gift of stale peanut butter balls he prepares months and months beforehand and a fruitcake that will be crammed far back into the freezer until we discover its rock hard remains the following Christmas.

Christmas dinner is the big challenge. Mom was never known for her culinary skills, but she always insisted on mashed potatoes. Deb, Mary and I try, but our potatoes are a sodden, lumpy, milky mess. Finally, Dad hands us a box of instant mashed potatoes.

"New tradition," he says. They don't taste like Mom's, but they're not half bad.

We set the table with mismatched silverware and Mom's Christmas candles burned to nubs because nobody's thought to buy new ones this year. Dad brings out the turkey, and we fall silent to say grace. It's the only time emotion threatens to overwhelm us. We soldier through, however, and at the end, Grandma breathes tearfully, "Dear God, thank you for watching out for all of us this past year, and thank you for taking care of Patti."

We stare painfully at the table.

"No problem, Marge." Mary, clowning in a comically deep voice, saves the moment. Even Grandma laughs.

This first Christmas isn't great. But it's okay. We survive, and we'll remember it for its own special flavor.

Christmas 1979 will be the year that Tommy was willing to sell his blood for Dad's Christmas present. The year that we made instant mashed potatoes for Christmas dinner. The year that Grandma nearly fell into the pit in front of the fireplace. And the Christmas that Dad finally got his waterbed.

It was the first Christmas without Mom.

But thankfully, because we were all together, Christmas 1979 wasn't bad at all.

After Mom

At the church dinner after Mom's funeral, a nice lady from our neighborhood leans close to place a sympathetic hand on my arm.

"God needed your lovely mother more than you did," she shakes her head sadly. She is kind and well intentioned and doesn't realize what she's saying. I thank her for coming but then tactfully turn away to find my family.

God needs Mom more than my little brothers and sisters do?

From left: Mary, Carry, Rick, Terri, Tommy and Jeff

I don't understand which prayers God decides to answer or not answer. If a single good reason exists for God taking Mom, I can't think what it would be. Maybe God has nothing to do with it at all. Maybe he allows all our lives to simply march along - appalled as the rest of us when tragic events knock us sprawling to the ground.

In the early morning hours right after Mom dies, we return from the hospital. Dad gently wakes the little kids to break the terrible news that Mom is gone. Even though it's 2 o'clock in the morning, good Father Kurtenbach comes to be with us. My little brothers and sisters lean close to Dad on the living room couch while Joe, Mick, Rick and I sprawl on the floor. Harry, Mom's little mutt of a dog, climbs on my legs, circles twice and plops on my lap. The weight of his warm little body comforts me, and I wonder if poor Harry is as bewildered as the rest of us.

Long after Father Kurtenbach has departed, we lie in our rooms in the dark. I know my brothers and sisters are awake because I hear soft sniffles and occasional choking sobs.

In an instant, however, we all bolt up in bed. Harry the dog abruptly screams in the darkness. It's the only way any of us can describe it later. If a dog can scream, Harry does.

Curled up and asleep in Mom's recliner in the tv room, his favorite sleeping spot, he suddenly screams and flies through the house from one end to the other yelping in utter terror. At first we're too terrified to move, but in a second we're on our feet bumping into each other in the dark and scrambling to Dad's room. Rick flicks on the light, and the little kids leap into bed to frantically slide themselves under the covers next to Dad.

Harry hides under Dad's bed. My brother finds him and yanks him out. With the light on and all of us together, I tell myself there is a rational explanation for Harry's sudden and disturbing behavior.

"What's wrong with him?" Dad barks. The little kids cower next to him.

Harry shakes violently. He attempts to come when I call him, but his hind legs, weak with fright, collapse beneath him. My brother and I take turns consoling and hugging him then carefully check his paws for stickers or other injuries.

But there's nothing wrong with Harry except that he's scared to death. As soon as we release him, he crawls trembling back under the bed and refuses to come out. We all stare at each other with wide, frightened eyes. Every one of us thinks the same thing.

"It's all right now, kids," Dad says. "Everybody go back to bed."

It will be many weeks before we speak of the terrible night Harry the Dog screamed in the dark after Mom died. However, not long after that, Harry disappears. Carry and our small brothers Tommy and Jeff scour the neighborhood for days. But Harry is never found and never comes back.

Tommy flings himself on the couch after an extensive and fruitless search. "I think Harry went to find Mom," he cries disconsolately.

It would make sense. Harry adored Mom.

"Or maybe," Tommy wipes his eyes, "Mom came to find Harry."

When we are finally able to speak of Harry's bizarre behavior the night Mom died, even the little kids suspect Mom came home to say goodbye. Harry must have seen her, we decide.

"But did she have to scare us to death?" I wonder aloud. Dad says it would be just like Mom to have one more laugh before she went.

We will never know exactly what happened that trauma-filled night. Perhaps it was all coincidental and Harry merely had a horrible nightmare. Whatever happened in those early morning hours, Harry's terrible fright strangely helps to propel us through our grief. Mom is somewhere, we conclude. We hope it's wonderful and that she's not worried about us. Well, maybe a little worried. We hope that she's once more her happy, healthy, funny, quirky self. Most of all, we dare to hope we will see her again.

One May night a month or so later, just before school is out for the summer, a beautiful starry night beckons us outdoors. Joe and Rick have long ago returned to Kearney State for their finals, and Dad must finally go back to his job in Omaha but promises to come back in time for Deb's high school graduation. For the first time in our lives, it's just us without either Mom or Dad.

The night is too warm and inviting to waste, and none of us feels like going to bed. I am the oldest - a school teacher, for pete's sake - and should know better. Nevertheless, we all drift outside into the front yard. The little kids run and laugh. Carry turns cartwheels and Terri chases Tommy and Jeff under the light of a full moon. For the first time in months, my little brothers and sisters romp without a care like small wild animals. We sing and tell jokes and finally sprawl on blankets in the grass to look up at the stars.

Lounging in the mild warmth of approaching summer, we quite suddenly dare to be happy. Deb and Mary give ridiculous names to the constellations and search for planets.

"I'm trying to find Uranus," Deb giggles. "Get it?"

We lie close to one another, and the nearness of my brothers and sisters is a comfort I have never appreciated so much.

"Maybe Mom's up there looking down at us right now," Jeff yawns sleepily. It's almost 11 and very late for my seven-year-old baby brother.

We fall silent staring at the starlit sky feeling close to Mom and God and whatever it is that constitutes eternity. Jeff sighs and nestles close to Mary who draws him close.

"Maybe she is," I say.

It would be nice to think Mom hovers close above in the warm night sky watching over her kids.

Maybe Heaven is much closer than any of us realizes. In that moment, huddled together on a blanket under the sky, we feel without a doubt that Mom is near with the devoted Harry close at her heel.

And that one day, we will most certainly see them both again.