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.
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.
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.
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. |
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.
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