Carma’s Christmas

by Carma Rossi

December 1942 was bringing to a close another lean year. We were still suffering the effects of the depression, although, fortunately, Johnny had a job as a laundry supervisor at the new Bushnell Hospital. With the promise of permanent work, we had recently moved to Brigham City.

Little John, age three, and Yolanda, four, were eagerly looking forward to Santa’s visit, but they had kept me tied so close to home that I didn’t know anyone in town except the landlord. Even though I felt I would die of loneliness, I was too shy to improve my situation.

On Christmas Eve, on the way home from work, Johnny picked up a tree. They were cheaper that close to Christmas. The children had been put to bed twice already. The fragrant evergreen stood undecorated in front of the living room window of our small house, looking as forlorn as we felt. Neither of us uttered a word, trying not to infect each other with our gloominess.

Little John, in his blue pajamas, wandered into the room, ducking his head from the bright light. “When’s Santa coming?” he asked for the fourth time.

“Now you go back to bed, or he’ll never come,” Johnny threatened, as he untangled the strings of tree lights.

“Wanta hear the music,” Little John insisted in an effort to delay his exit.

“I’ll turn it up a little more, but you scoot!” Johnny barely brushed his bottom with a threatening pat. “You don’t want to wake Yolanda, do you?”

“Landa not asleep,” he said. As if to prove the point, Yolanda, in pink pajamas appeared in the doorway, too. The glint in her black eyes faded when she saw the naked tree. “Aren’t you going to trim the tree? Santa won’t find us.”

“Back to bed!” I ordered. Johnny seemed to need my reinforcement.

“I want to hear the music,” Yolanda also insisted.

“All right, all right. I’d think you would be tired of that same record.

We had played “White Christmas” at least twenty times. Johnny had brought home an inexpensive portable record player for our Christmas. After the purchase price, he had had enough money to buy only one record. His selection of “White Christmas” made us even more homesick for our families.

“Now I mean it. To bed!” Johnny ordered.

Little John and Yolanda disappeared into their bedroom at the no-nonsense tone in their father’s voice.

Johnny strung the lights on the tree while I unwrapped the ornaments, one by one, from their wrinkled tissue wrappers. By the time I had placed the last ornament on the green branches, the whispering and giggling from the bedroom had been replaced by long, even breathing. Little John and Yolanda slept at last.

Johnny brought out a doll for Yolanda - a doll with black hair to match hers. He lifted a little red wagon out of the box, ever so gently so it wouldn’t rattle, and put it under the tree. I stood on a chair, smoothing the crinkled silver icicles between my fingers and laying them on the branches. Johnny sat in his easy chair, directing me to the sparse spots. The strains of the music droned on for at least the twenty-fifth time: “I’m dreaming of a White Christmas...”

“We will have that record worn out the first night,” I mused from my perch on the chair. Absently, I glanced out the window and was suddenly aware that three young soldiers were standing on the sidewalk staring at me. Feeling extremely self-conscious, I went on straightening the icicles through my fingers. My first impulse was to draw the drapes, but that would have been rude. Well, they were rude to stand there and stare at me. They didn’t move. They just stood there as if someone had yelled, “Freeze!”

Then the lanky one “unfroze” and opened the door. “Please, sir,” he said. “I know this is out of the ordinary, but could we just step inside and look at your tree? It looks so beautiful from the street.”

Johnny cleared his throat. “Of course, come on in.” He opened the door wide and the three stepped into the warmth of the living room. They rubbed their cold hands together and stood awkwardly, breathing in the aroma of the tree.

“Nothing like a Christmas tree,” the lanky soldier said. “Looks like a fairy tree. Those icicles remind me of the old legend of the poor family who didn’t have anything to put on their tree and during the night the spiders decorated it. Remember?”

We all laughed, a little nervously. Still they stood, simply admiring the tree.

“You fellows stationed at Bushnell Hospital?” Johnny asked.

“Yeah, medical corps. You know the restrictions. No tree. No Christmas spirit over there at all,” the chubby one ventured. “We’re just on our way back from a movie in town. It’s tough being away from home at this time of the year.”

“Where do you live?” Johnny asked, trying to encourage conversation.

“Minnesota,” the chubby one said. “We always cut our own tree back home.”

I thought I detected a brighter glisten in his eyes as he said that last word. He blinked hard. “Hey, look at that black-haired doll. Reminds me of my little sister. Would you believe it? I sent one just like that for her Christmas. Hope she likes it.”

“She’ll love it,” I said, warming up to these homesick boys in uniform. That’s all they were - boys!

The eyes of the blond soldier left the star at the top of the tree and traveled down to the foot. “And that little red wagon. Guess you’ve got a boy and a girl?” He grinned. I nodded. “I haven’t seen a red wagon in years. Reminds me of the one I got one Christmas. Mind if I pull it?”

“Of course not,” Johnny replied.

The soldier laid the doll in the wagon and pulled it around the living room chuckling to himself. He was a little boy grown tall. They briefly chatted of home, then the lanky one said, “We’d better be getting back to the hospital.”

“Let me get you a drink of hot, spiced cider. I’m sure you can smell it simmering on the stove,” Johnny offered.

“Oh, no. We don’t want to inconvenience you. We just wanted to see a real live tree in a real live home.”

“I insist. It will warm you for the cold walk back to the hospital,” Johnny said. “Sit down.”

“Oh, no thanks. You’ve been real nice,” the chubby one responded.

“Here, want to help?” I offered, forgetting myself in the interest in them. The lanky one eagerly took a handful of icicles and started to straighten them as he had watched me doing. He could reach the high spots without a chair.

“I don’t want to spoil the tree, “ he said hesitantly.

“You won’t. You’ll do me a favor. You’re so tall,” I urged.

Johnny brought in mugs of hot cider. There was more talk of home and past Christmas trees while they sipped their cider and ate fruitcake. Too soon they were saying their goodbyes on the porch. “You don’t know how much it’s meant to us these few moments. Merry Christmas!” Warm smiles wreathed their faces as they trudged on up the street.

Johnny and I sat alone. Suddenly, the tree was more dazzling than any we could remember. The music became the most melodious way had ever heard. Each sock hanging from the back of a straight chair bulged with an orange, a banana, hardtack and nuts. What did it matter that there were only a doll and a red wagon under the tree? The children would be delighted. Our hearts were overflowing with gratitude as we enjoyed our quiet hour together, far away from family and friends.

Johnny broke the silence and put words to my own thoughts. “You know, those fellows have changed my whole outlook. We have each other and the kids, and that’s the most important. It took those lonely soldiers to bring the Christmas spirit into our home.”