A CHRISTMAS YARN

Peering out into the bustling, crowded street two stories below gave me a slight reprieve from my three-week-old office job, and my holiday worries. Christmas had become a symbol of commercialization, a negative impact on humanity. However, it was only three days away, approaching whether I liked it or not. I had three children ages eight, seven and four tremendously anticipating the upcoming event; truth of the matter be told, I was broke. Our recent relocation had been costly and there wasn't enough money to put food on the table, in addition to presents under the tree. Observing the mall shoppers across the street scurrying in and out, reminded me of mice scurrying through a maze looking for cheese. Lucky for them, I thought. 

The short loud ring of the fax machine followed by that all too familiar high-pitched whine broke the reverie. I stood in front of the sluggish fax machine patiently waiting for the curled up reminder to get back to work, and without looking at it, I sat at my desk stretching it out in front of me. As I scoured the memo from the main office, my heart started to race and my face flushed with disbelief, while choking back the tears willing to fall. Every employee was going to receive a Christmas bonus in our paycheck on Friday, Christmas Eve. Although I realized I'd succumbed to the commercialization of Christmas, an enormous weight had just been lifted, and it looked like Christmas was going to happen after all.

Shopping on Christmas Eve means bumper-to-bumper horn-blowing traffic, waiting in endless lines while listening to the mindless chatter of last-minute shoppers, to the constant blaring of Christmas music on the intercom, and, for me, a necessity. Although now I had money for gifts, it would be tight to cover all the expenses required to conjure up Christmas. Selecting gifts for the kids was easy; they needed everything. As I shopped quickly and deliberately, my thoughts flew to the abundant Christmas tree merely existing in my small tidy living room at home, an anonymous gift propped proudly by the back door a few nights earlier. With the hours melting away, I made a quick decision to bypass the decorations to try to save the money for the "Santa" gifts, and haphazardly grabbed a couple skeins of Christmas yarn.  A few hours later, loaded down with a trunk full of delightfully inexpensive presents, I rushed home to tuck them away before the kids got home.

That evening we settled down in the cozy, dimly lit living room to decorate the neglected, naked tree together. The Christmas yarn consisting of intertwined threads of holly green mixed with Santa-suit red, and angelic white, was to be our tree decorations. It would just have to do. 

The kids, oblivious to the lack of traditional decorations, chattered enthusiastically as we each tied the Christmas yarn into our own personal version of bows onto the thick, sticky pine branches, enjoying the strong pine forest scent permeating the joyful room. Melissa, the surrogate mother of the family, tied small purposeful tidy bows, while Megan, the quiet follower, tied big loopy bows with long tails. Cory, the youngest, unable to tie his own shoes let alone a bow onto the tree, rambunctiously assisted by pulling the yarn out of the skein for the rest of us. We popped popcorn in hopes of stringing it for the tree, but hysterically found out it only works in the movies. We ended up decorating the popcorn too, with oozing warm butter and a whisper of salt, then ate the rare treat instead.

 By the end of the evening, the tree was adorned in a delicate spray of holiday-colored bows, depicting an old-fashioned Christmas. Finally, tucking the children into bed, I playfully warned them to fall asleep fast, so Santa could come. Silently I prayed there would be enough time for that miracle.

Armed with several rolls of invisible Scotch tape, even more rolls of cheerful Christmas wrapping paper and a sparkling, cold bottle of White Zinfandel wine, I opened the bedroom closet to find a huge pile of toys staring out at me.

 A train set, a pink radio, fuzzy purple slippers; an endless mound of toys demanded my attention. Deciding to bypass the wine glass, I took a refreshingly large unladylike swig of the wine straight from the bottle, wiped my mouth and began the task. As the wine washed over the stress of the day, toy after toy, I began creating Christmas. 

Several hours later the big pile of toys had evolved into a big pile of eager presents strewn on top of my modest bed. With the weary chore of the wrapping complete, I quietly opened the bedroom door to listen for any possible stirrings from the kids. The coast clear, I began tiptoeing down the stairs with armload after armload of half-priced memories from Santa and placed them carefully under the naked yarn tree. Upon delivering the final load, I gazed in disbelief that Christmas, even if it was a Charlie brown Christmas, literally stood in my home. 

Maybe it was the overwhelming relief, perhaps it was the wine, but as I stood glued to the floor, a tear trickled down my face. Soon torrential sobs of self-pity laced with pride escaped my heart. I sobbed for everything my children didn't have: purple bicycles, red tricycles, crisp, new clothes......a father. And I sobbed for all that we did have: ample food on the table, a sturdy roof over our head.....each other. Completely spent, I dragged my tired body up the stairs and crawled under the cool sheets of contentment for a short nap.

Twenty-two years have come and gone since that Christmas and for me, it still conjures up memories of hardship rather than joy. Remembering was simply too painful for a long time. It was just a few years ago, at Christmastime, we sat around the table to reminisce the past about our favorite Christmas. Much to my surprise, all three grown kids agreed their favorite was the year we had the "yarn tree." 

Not one of them remembers anything of the gifts that year, just how much fun it was to have a tree with only yarn bows. My oldest daughter informs me that although she wasn't aware of the financial strain at the time, in looking back, she realizes the implication of the yarn now. Sometimes as I realize the unpleasant, hectic, societal pace at Christmas, I think back to the yarn tree and remember a simpler time, with a smile on my face.

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