MY PRIZE FIGHTER ( Christmas story 1967)

“A time for Christmas. For Light has come into  this world. That is our journey…” 

My father was a resilient person. He’d weathered much. Worked hard. Lived much.  He was my hero. I thought he’d always be there. In a way he always has.  His never left me.

December 1967 my mother brought him home . For the last time. For the best Christmas ever.

I was only seven, but I remember her chopping wood, late into the night, so the fire would burn long on the hearth. The days were damp and soggy. Cold and unforgiving. And she brought him home for Christmas. It was a wonderful time. Though, to some, it may not have been. But to us,  it was.

Christmas Day the stereo played his favourite carols. He sat in the great chair, trying to sing, but the words would not come. But he felt them.

We didn’t have a lot of money. Lived on the small paycheck my mother made  by being a seamstress. Nevertheless, she made sure there was Christmas dinner with all the trimmings.  I can still smell the pungent scent of sage stuffing wafting through the house. She’d had her hair styled in a huge blonde beehive that stretched into infinity.

My father’s chair was set close to the fire, so he could enjoy the warmth. His eyes watched the flames lick at the dry wood, as we listened to it snap and crackle, like rice Krispies cereal.

My mother spent a huge portion of her earnings on a beautiful dressing gown. She wanted my father to have the best gift ever. Maroon satin, with velvet collar, velvet tie and  fabric stitched through with brown velvet lines. He looked like a fancy prize fighter. That’s what my mother said.

She was genuinely happy. She said it was Christmas, no matter what. It would always be Christmas. As it should always be.

I liked to run my hands over the soft collar of his Christmas dressing gown. He would try to smile and hum to the carols. I told  him it was okay. I would sing them for him. He  wiggled his finger at me, which was our way of communicating. I’d wiggle my finger back at him and giggle. My mother took photos of us that day. Four of them. Ones I keep  in a special place. 

Our  cat lay on the hearth getting toasty warm, as my Mother rattled about in the kitchen. The cat purred. My father dozed, as I sat with him. It was in the quiet  that we seemed to best understand each other.

My father didn’t really eat much of dinner.  We sat by the fire. My mother had set the table with all of her best antique chine. The china I use, to this day, when friends come over. But  he decided to stay in the big chair , so we brought plates over from the table to sit with him.  

I caught him  looking at my mother. And she at him. Their eyes locked in some silent thought. Something meant just for the two of them.

My mother cleaned up the dishes. The carols played, and the cat purred, and the fire flapped in the darkened room, as night fell.

We must have stayed in the Christmas quiet till the fire burned low. It was the best Christmas ever. I know that sounds strange. But it was.

My father was  my hero. He showed me how to be strong.  He died three months later. March 26 1968. My mother , strong willed as he was, passed away exactly twenty  years later, on March 26, 1988.

It was exactly how they had  dreamt of it, I imagined. I found his Christmas dressing gown in the closet , when I cleared out the house. I ran my hands over the velvet lapels. Just for a moment. To remember.  He  had only worn it that one time. 

 He taught me about finding great joy. My prize fighter.

 “While the morning stars sang together and all the angels shouted for Joy..” -Job 8:7

Photographs 2023

LIVER 1958 for COUSIN BOB

"Christmas is doing a little extra something for someone..."

                                                                                - Charles M. Schulz (Creator of Peanuts )

Cousin Bob made a surprise visit to my parents, one day late November 1958.  He  carried a folding metal chair. He placed it down in the kitchen, dusted it off and sat down. The metal scraped against  his long key chain. He was also carrying an accordion case.  He slid it into the kitchen. My mother stared at the box.  Then looked at my father who hid behind the newspaper. 

  "I've been taking lessons the past couple of years," boomed Cousin Bob.  He was loud. And happy.  My mother was at a loss.  My father lit two cigarettes and  alternated each one. Cousin Bob mopped his head. The chair groaned under him.

He told my mother he brought his own chair this time. Last visit was four years before. Being a large man of substantial proportions he had broken my mother's antique settee chair with the curved back. She spent months gluing it back together. She tried to send him the bill. He sent her a pair of slippers.

Now Cousin Bob was parked in her kitchen, sitting on a folded chair.  It didn't look too strong.  My mother looked at my father,  who purposely  smoked furiously and peeked over his newspaper.

My mother offered Cousin Bob a large glass of sherry.  His eyes lit up like an owl. He thanked her kindly  and sipped  at the beverage that was ice cold from living in the fridge.It was her cooking sherry but he enjoyed that sherry like it was the finest vintage.

Cousin Bob unpacked his accordion and harmonica that he attached around his head.  He said he would play some tunes while waiting for dinner. He was going to warm up with a glissando. My mother stuck her head in the fridge, trying to figure out what to feed him. 

"A glissando is a glide from lower to higher key," said Cousin Bob, oblivious to my mother's rummaging. "It goes like this..." He demonstrated. My mother jumped.  My father stamped out a cigarette and started another.

"Liver!" My mother brought out a packet and waved it at Cousin Bob. "Oh how nice," he said in between  chords. " I love liver," he bellowed.

That was supposed to be my father's dinner. He scowled. at Cousin Bob.  My mother hauled out onions and  a jar of homemade pickled beets.  Cousin Bob nodded enthusiastically. He played carols . Lots of them.  He hummed along over the din. My mother fried up liver and onions. My father scowled some more. But not too fiercely. The tunes were familiar and  catchy.

Cousin Bob finished playing twelve Days of Christmas for what seemed like the fifth time. He stashed the accordion under the table.  My mother plopped down a huge plate of liver and onions in front of him. He asked for ketchup. He used up whatever was left . My parents watched him eat their dinner.

 After Cousin Bob finished everything on his plate, he burped at last twenty times. My mother told me years later, she actually counted his burps. She placed in front of him  a small leftover Xmas cake, from a few years ago. Her last one. She kept it in the freezer and hacked off slices as was needed. Cousin Bob  drank a huge mug of tea. He ate what was left of the fruitcake, and said it was the best meal ever.

My mother sighed. She asked Cousin Bob to play  more carols. She sang  along. In her tuneless , offkey voice, drowned out by the instrument. My father  tapped his foot. Cousin Bob beamed. He only stopped once to ask what they would be serving  Christmas Eve......

Photographs 2023
 

MAGI (Christmas 2021)

"Once in our world a stable had something in it that was bigger than our whole world.." -C.S. Lewis

A corpulent  moon slumbered and died. Night waned and fell into the dusk that was almost dawn, but was not. Dark in the wind ,  he hurried along the street, thick with snow. Sleet  slapped at his cloak and the pack he carried . 

It had been a long journey. He watched the storm rage ,like  sands of the desert, as it tossed  souls into the passage of time.

He must keep moving. Must keep on…

His breath fell from speechless words. He uttered  no sound. He felt no cold. 

Dazed with wonder,he could not believe  he had been there. Together,  they had been with Him. Stood there. Kneeled on rough floors. Warmed their hands at His fire.

Their gifts of perfume fell at His feet. He felt afraid, and confused. Beyond the world, as he knew it. He remembered it now. Even though it was not far off in memory.

“I saw Him”  he thought to himself. “I saw Him…”

He  Dreamed sweet dreams,  as candles lit our way. We stood there,not knowing why we came. Why we found Him….Why He found us.

His throne was of tattered rags and hay to keep him warm. Smoke hung in the air,from the smoldering  fire  burnt so low.

“He looked at me” He said aloud to no one in particular.

I am no one. But He is king of us all. “He saw me….”

“And I saw Him. He. Saw. Me.” He wondered.

Mercy  follows me, he thought.  I must keep moving. He knew that there would be those who would try to find him. 

So he trudged on. Into the night. Into the bleak midwinter.

They had come from a long ways. Followed the skies. Followed that star that vanished when they reached Him. He felt evening  rain turn to snow. Their hearts lingered with Him. They did not stay long. Time was of the essence.    

“I weary….I weary of this world,” He said aloud to no one in particular. 

The path led to him, and now in the night his lonely world was gone. 

“I hear you now”

The star that led  to Him, had long gone. Replaced with ice and wind. He had to make his way home.They would be following him . And the others.  The snow would cover their tracks.  He must hurry.This wild morning of snow and shadow.

“He saw me”

This haunting, magical night.

He quickened his pace and pressed onwards. Ever onwards.The road home beckoned. No longer weary. No longer afraid. His journey beyond the moon, sheltered in the night. And blew on till he was lost in the distance…..

Photographs 2021