Farms,
ranches, and orchards made the foothills of San Francisco’s South Bay a
wonderful place to live, especially at Christmas. My three boys didn’t have
snow or sleds, but they had hills to climb, fields for kite-flying, and fresh
country air.
A favorite
memory of mine dates back to a special Christmas Eve in 1962. We’d just had a
baby girl, Suzanne. Our youngest boy, Ricky, 5, spent hours just watching her.
“Mom,” he’d say, “if she gets any more beauty-fuller, I’ll just die!”
Every night,
Ricky thanked God for sending Sue, saying she was “the best Christmas present
in the whole wide world.” His heart overflowed with joy.
On Christmas
Eve, we snuggled around the fireplace. I read The Night Before Christmas and we
watched a holiday movie. I was answering Ricky’s question about caroling,
explaining that people used to do this to spread the joy of Christmas, when his
brothers started yelling:
“It’s
snowing! Everybody look! It’s snowing!”
Our entire
neighborhood was blanketed in white. The hills glowed in the moonlight. It was
unbelievable. Snow in California! My boys jumped all over the yard, the
excitement and wonder almost more than they could handle.
Suddenly,
Ricky slammed through the front door. “Mommy, I just got a great idea!” he
said. “I want to sing Christmas carols to God and our neighbors! Can I, Mommy?
I have to sing carols to thank God for this great Christmas. He’ll hear me
better outside, and I’ll stay just on our street!”
“But it’s
dark and cold, and I don’t want you wandering around alone,” I said. Billy, 11,
and Louie, 8, had just come back inside. “Your brothers will go out and sing
with you.”
“No way!”
they yelled. “What if our friends see us?”
“No one will
see you, because I want you to stay in our front yard,” I said. “God will hear
you well enough from there. So hush up and bundle up.”
Ricky beamed
with pride. Billy and Louie mumbled as they stomped out the door behind him,
kicking imaginary rocks.
The three of
them stood in the snow and the moonlight. Bundled up in coats, hats and gloves,
they looked like figures in a Norman Rockwell paintings except that the two
taller boys looked like they were facing a firing squad. I was sure it’d be
over after one lisping melody. Suddenly Ricky stepped forward, threw his little
arms wide, tossed his head back, looked skyward and let ’er rip.
“Thy-a-lent
night! Ho-oh-lee night!”
Sue jolted
awake, screaming. Neighborhood dogs began yelping. Birds screeched and flew
away. But never in my life have I heard man or beast make purer sounds of love
and joy. This little man made sure God heard every word he sang.
As Ricky
belted out one Christmas carol after another, porch lights popped on up and
down the block. One neighbor must have suspected mayhem, because a police car
cruised slowly past our house. I expected Billy and Louie to trample each other
fleeing the scene of the crime, but they didn’t.
As a small
crowd of smiling neighbors formed in front of our house, my heart swelled with
pride. Billy and Louie were singing with their brother.
They faced
the house, stocking caps down over their faces, coat collars pulled up high,
hands cupped over their ears. They had no idea what was going on behind them or
that they were part of a wondrous Christmas and favorite memory none of us
would ever forget.
No comments:
Post a Comment