Bittersweet Christmas
BITTERSWEET CHRISTMAS
by Madeline Weatherford
Christmas was the most special holiday of all for my father. The preparations, gift-buying and decorating were no trouble to him-he enjoyed it all.
Mother told me that he introduced me to my first Christmas tree when I was nine days old. It was a small tree, but every ornament candle and strand of silver tinsel was meticulously hung in place, as only he could do it. When he had finally finished, he took me from my bassinet and held me up to see his handiwork.
Daddy lived long enough to decorate just four more Christmas trees-each one a little larger than the year before.
The year he died-after a short bout with pneumonia-Mother sat down with me for a talk about Christmas. "Madeline," she said gently, "Santa will be leaving gifts for you, but we won't be having a tree and decorations. It's just too much to do this year."
The morning of Christmas Eve arrived with no special arrangements for the next day, other than early mass and dinner at a relative's house. Just before noon the phone rang and Mother answered. After a pause, I heard her say, "That's very kind of you, but I think we'll spend the evening here together. It's the first since..." She recovered, thanked the caller again and hung up.
"Who was it?" I asked.
"One of our neighbors," Mother said. "She wanted us to come down this evening. I. . . I can't."
Mother was silent most of the day. Late in the afternoon, she changed her mind. She called our neighbor and told her we'd stop in for a few minutes.
"It's thoughtful of her," Mother said to me, "and we don't want to seem ungrateful."
When we rang the neighbor's doorbell, she kissed us and led us through the foyer. The living room beyond seemed dark with an odd-colored glow. She motioned us forward, and I stepped into the room and caught my breath. There, shining with colored lights and ornaments and gaily wrapped packages, was a magnificent Christmas tree. Seated around it, smiling broadly, were Mrs. Abrams, Mrs. Cohen, Mrs. Blount, Mrs. Dreyfus. "Surprise, surprise!" they chorused.
Today I can close my eyes and bring back that scene at will. Many times it has sustained me when things have gone badly, when I have doubted the human heart. I can still feel the love of those neighbors-those Jewish women who ventured into an unfamiliar tradition so that one little Christian girl without a daddy could have a merry Christmas.
by Madeline Weatherford
Christmas was the most special holiday of all for my father. The preparations, gift-buying and decorating were no trouble to him-he enjoyed it all.
Mother told me that he introduced me to my first Christmas tree when I was nine days old. It was a small tree, but every ornament candle and strand of silver tinsel was meticulously hung in place, as only he could do it. When he had finally finished, he took me from my bassinet and held me up to see his handiwork.
Daddy lived long enough to decorate just four more Christmas trees-each one a little larger than the year before.
The year he died-after a short bout with pneumonia-Mother sat down with me for a talk about Christmas. "Madeline," she said gently, "Santa will be leaving gifts for you, but we won't be having a tree and decorations. It's just too much to do this year."
The morning of Christmas Eve arrived with no special arrangements for the next day, other than early mass and dinner at a relative's house. Just before noon the phone rang and Mother answered. After a pause, I heard her say, "That's very kind of you, but I think we'll spend the evening here together. It's the first since..." She recovered, thanked the caller again and hung up.
"Who was it?" I asked.
"One of our neighbors," Mother said. "She wanted us to come down this evening. I. . . I can't."
Mother was silent most of the day. Late in the afternoon, she changed her mind. She called our neighbor and told her we'd stop in for a few minutes.
"It's thoughtful of her," Mother said to me, "and we don't want to seem ungrateful."
When we rang the neighbor's doorbell, she kissed us and led us through the foyer. The living room beyond seemed dark with an odd-colored glow. She motioned us forward, and I stepped into the room and caught my breath. There, shining with colored lights and ornaments and gaily wrapped packages, was a magnificent Christmas tree. Seated around it, smiling broadly, were Mrs. Abrams, Mrs. Cohen, Mrs. Blount, Mrs. Dreyfus. "Surprise, surprise!" they chorused.
Today I can close my eyes and bring back that scene at will. Many times it has sustained me when things have gone badly, when I have doubted the human heart. I can still feel the love of those neighbors-those Jewish women who ventured into an unfamiliar tradition so that one little Christian girl without a daddy could have a merry Christmas.
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