shelf outside my room: Buddha’s Christmas
“Winter is a coming in…”
Spring has sprung,
Fall has fell,
Now it’s winter,
Cold as hell.
My mother would chant this to me every winter. Pondering this brought up the following random memories of winters with my single mom.
When my two older brothers and I got into the decrepit ’48 Chevy (some years I was elected to clamber through the open window because the front passenger door didn’t open anymore) she’d say,” We’re off in a cloud of…” whatever was happening. If we were going to the dentist, it was, “We’re off in a cloud of Novocain,” or in the winter, “off in a cloud of Santas…” or “ice skates, or sleds, or huskies, or squirrels…”
We lived on a short but steep hill in the Catskill mountains and never had much money to spend on cars or proper tires. In the winter, it was a daring adventure to see if Mom could gun the engine to get our heavy boat up the hill and into our sloping driveway. If it had slithered sideways blocking off the few neighbors above us, she’d reluctantly have to call somebody to pull the car back down the hill to park it discretely alongside the lower road. Otherwise, the vehicle threatened to remain there until next spring.
When headed precariously downhill, she commanded me to curl up into the space underneath the glove compartment. I huddled there as she inched her way down the slippery slope.It was a breathtaking experience. When I think about it, the car was built like a tank and it probably was a very safe place to stash me in case of an accident. As our mechanic used to say, while supplying my mother every two years with yet another ancient vehicle, “Nothin’ like iron outta Detroit.”
My mother was not very physically inclined, but she did appreciate walking and the beauty of the mountains, even in winter. One night, as I was muttering over my social studies book memorizing dates and battles, she came up behind me and slammed my book shut. “Hey,” I protested. “I have a test tomorrow.”
“No, you don’t. It’s going to be a snow day or at least a two-hour delay for school. Get your things on, we’re going outside.” Our elderly dog wisely declined to join us for the inclement weather.
I tugged on snow pants, my damp wooly coat, and buckled up my squeaky black galoshes. Covered by hat and mittens, we trudged off downhill into the night. It was snowing huge wet flakes and we listened to the soft hush gathering all around us. We didn’t talk much, united in the rhythm of our steps and the occasional sound of cars cautiously shushing along on the highway at the far end of our road. The temperature dropped, and hard snow started zinging against the totally white ground. By the time we reached the highway, we stared, astonished at the millions of flakes swirling thick in the green glow of the single streetlight. Mesmerized, my mom and I held hands gazing up into the dazzling moment.
To our horror, once in a while my brothers and I missed the school bus and mom had to take us there herself. Living in the country, the central school we attended was 45 minutes away. She was never dressed when she fed us breakfast, packed my lunch, (my brothers always paid 25 cents for theirs) and sent us off to the highway where the bus would stop to pick us up. We would have to walk back all the way up the hill after realizing we were too late, or it hadn’t been a two-hour delay, only an hour delay. We had been left behind. My mother would throw her winter coat on over her pajamas and tatty bathrobe and shove us in the car.
The race was on. If she could manage to overtake the bus as it stopped for pickup after pickup, she wouldn’t have to drive us all the way. If she did catch up, there she was in her nightclothes for everyone on the bus to see! If she had to drive us all the way, the whole school would see! To us kids it was horrifying. Probably nobody noticed, but we sure did.
Christmas was the perfect holiday for Mom to get excited about. My siblings and I were once enthusiastically recruited to make bell ornaments to hang on the tree. We made paper mache and molded it over lightbulbs with flared bottoms, wrapped them in aluminum foil, and topped them with ‘snow’ made out of soap crystals. Twisted pipe cleaners poked through for hooks. My brothers were not impressed and ditched the project before even one bell was finished. Undeterred, my mother and I carried on. When I later inherited the box of our childhood ornaments, there were still two sorry bells among the few surviving glass balls. My own children were also not impressed, and those bells no longer ring out Christmas cheer.
My single mom was a delightfully complicated and challenging mother all year long. I just unearthed something that I wrote on the first Christmas after she died of AIDS following a massive March blizzard.
Christmas Tree, 1993
I miss my mother. I look at this tree growing crookedly out of my living room floor, waiting for my children’s hands to tug each branch down with the weight of their joy, and it is now that I miss her.
For the first time, Mom, I do not flinch to remember your inappropriate childlike zeal with the Christmas trees of my childhood. Each year, your oversized emotions were squeezed into another lopsided evergreen we managed to haul through our woods, and each year, the tree was redeemed by your words, “This tree has……character!” Somehow, your determination to wreak magic would prevail, and that tree would shine proudly with all the handmade theatrical glory you craved.
From underneath it’s branches, the presents you gave and received carried too many words with too many loud exclamations. They clumsily unwrapped your own girlchild seeking love she had not found.
When the room was lighted only by the tree, when subdued expectations met the darkening sky, you always sang. Freed with the full throttled exuberance of each carol, your heart swelled out loud and strong. Your heart was made visible by your beautifully cultured soprano voice. Today, I can finally join my voice with yours, bringing peace to both our childish hearts. I like to believe we are all made welcome by the celebration of loving children.
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