Once the box was opened, it was apparent that this “simple vehicle” was not so simple. It came with multiple screws, plastic pieces, stickers, pages and pages of vague instructions and a miniature Allen wrench... all of the things needed to put the motorcycle together. Both my husband and I worked on it, and it took almost three hours.
After careful inspection of a job well done I decided that the best way to test the new vehicle was to take a ride on it. The instructions indicated that it would hold up to one hundred pounds. The thought never crossed my mind that they actually meant it. I mean look at all of the other things the instructions mentioned that were not necessary—like the four extra screws! I hopped on. It was a great ride. I drove through the living room and around the dining table. I was having a ball until, well until we heard the sound... the sound of plastic cracking! I jumped off only to find that I had cracked the entire frame. My husband was furious and had that “what have you done” look on his face. I was hurt, offended and then panicked. It was 11:45 PM on Christmas Eve and I had just broken my son’s main gift. What was I going to do?
I immediately called the store where we bought the motorcycle. They always stayed open until midnight on Christmas Eve, thank goodness for us, and they had another motorcycle in stock. They said I’d have to hurry as they were closing in fifteen minutes. My husband, who was not speaking to me by this time, drove to the store and got the new motorcycle. By the time he returned home he was a little calmer but still thought I was a crazy woman and couldn’t understand why I had to try riding the thing in the first place.
We began again. Unfortunately, it didn’t go any faster the second time around, but we did manage to use more of the screws this time. At 3:00 AM the new motorcycle was built. Much to my husband’s relief, this time I decided that I would not try and ride it. I would let my son test it out in the morning. I got into bed tired, relieved and depressed. Depressed to learn the truth... I was too big for children’s toys and motorcycles.
Christmas morning came in less than four hours. My son was so excited about his new motorcycle—it was just like his dad’s. And Dad was pretty pleased too.
My son is now thirteen and his real motorcycle is in our garage... right next to Dad’s. I can’t say the child in me has gone away but I have learned that there are some things better left for the boys.
Now my husband and son go for their long motorcycle rides together. My son tries to talk me into going with them. I make eye contact with my husband and remember why this is “their” thing. I had my day on the bike in the living room and that was all I needed.
~D’ette Corona
The Gingerbread House
May the roof above us never fall in and may we good companions beneath it never fall out.
~Irish Blessing
A few years ago at Christmastime, a decision was made that would change things forever in my family. It was the year that the traditional family Christmas cookie baking extravaganza was done away with. It was not an easy decision to make. As we all know, there are certain traditions that, if not continued, create disappointment for your children. The tree must be just so big and decorated just so, the house, both inside and out, must have that certain festive glow, we must all sing “Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer” much to the disgust of my mother-in-law, and cookies, lots of cookies, must be baked. But my three sons were all adults now so I thought it would be acceptable to them if we deviated a little from the norm. Rather than the traditional cookies, this year would be the year of... the gingerbread house.
I will say, up front, that I am not a baker. I do not enjoy baking, I never have and I never will. I love to cook but baking just doesn’t do anything for me. But my daughter-in-law, Crescent, is an excellent baker. She loves baking and is very creative. She is the one who suggested that she and I make a gingerbread house together. She was so excited about the idea and wanted to start a new tradition in our family. I suggested that we make Christmas meatballs and decorate them but she just didn’t go for that. Oh well, I tried. Not wanting to disappoint her, I agreed that she and I would make a gingerbread house. Mike, who is my middle son and her husband, would also be there to help. Since he is a licensed general contractor and electrician, his help could be very valuable during the construction... or not.
This was going to be fun. I kept coming up with the most spectacular plans for our house. I thought we could make a three-story Victorian mansion. No. We would make a castle complete with a turret, alligators and a moat. No, no. We would make a replica of the Empire State Building... all 102 stories of it. “Hold on, Mom.” Crescent reasoned with me and kind of insisted that for our first try in the construction business, we should settle for a plain one-story ranch house. Boring, boring... but I finally agreed.
Crescent and I went to the market and bought the ingredients for the dough, the icing and all of the decorations we thought we could possibly need for our masterpiece. We bought gumdrops, chocolate chips, peppermints, candy swirl sticks, licorice, M&M’s, Red Hots, silver balls and sprinkles... lots and lots of different colored sprinkles. We were ready to start.
Mixing the dough for the walls and roof went really well. Making the dough for regular Christmas cookies had never gone this well; I was excited. Next step: we were supposed to roll the dough evenly to a thickness of 3/8”. Really? Were they kidding? Remember, I am the woman who is not a baker. I couldn’t roll anything to the same thickness, ever. But Crescent could do it and she was in charge. She took over, rolled the dough to the required thickness and then we got it in the oven. When it was ready, we cut out the pieces for the walls and the roof. After it cooled we were ready to build our spectacular house.
Before we could start to assemble our house, we had to make the icing—the “glue” that would hold our magnificent structure together. During the mixing, some of the powdered sugar got loose and went flying all over us and the kitchen counters and floor, but for the most part the making of the glue went well. The recipe said to put icing on the edges of the pieces of the walls, stand them up and hold them together for a few minutes while they dried. We did as we were instructed to do. We held the walls together with our hands, waited... waited... waited... and then slowly let go. Wow, how exciting! The sides of our house were standing up. The walls really held together—for all of about ten seconds. Then, down they came. Crash! We tried again and again. Same results... the walls came tumbling down. And please, don’t even ask about the roof. Was this really supposed to be fun? And where was Mike, the contractor, during this? He was standing way over there—laughing and laughing. Big help!
But by this time Crescent and I—and even Mike—were all covered in that special icing and the kitchen was unrecognizable. Icing was absolutely everywhere. I was going to have to call in the Hazmat team to spray us off. I do know now why they call the icing “glue.” In reality I think “cement” might even be a better description. Everything it touches sticks together... except of course, the pieces of our gingerbread house. Nothing could make those pieces hold together. Mike finally got out the trusty glue gun and glued everything together with real glue. That worked. And we also used toothpicks to help prop the walls up and keep the roof pieces from crashing down. Finally our house stood.
Actually once we did get the house standing, decorating it was fun. More of the decorations went into our mouths than went onto the house, but when all was said and done it looked... well, it looked... hmmm... really, really awful. Lopsided. Crooked. Cracked. Dripping in icing glop. The decorations that stood out the most were the toothpicks that helped hold the darn thing together. The chimney was at a ninety-degree angle to the roof so Santa would have a really hard time getting down it to deliver presents. The front door ended up on the roof and there were no windows. But Crescent, Mike and I were really happy. There were smiles, love and lots of laughter in the kitchen that day.
Did this become a new Christmas tradition for us? Did we make fabulous and intricate gingerbread houses each year for the
next hundred years? Are you crazy?! No way! Our construction business folded after one try. The new tradition we did start was going to the store right after Thanksgiving and buying a Christmas gingerbread house. It’s so much easier that way and there is nothing to clean up. The house would start out being part of our Christmas decorations and then, on Christmas morning, we would eat it and laugh about the year we tried to build our own house. And now, I have turned the Christmas cookie baking over to Crescent. She does a wonderful, delicious and beautiful job and creates new treats for our family each year. I think that, of all the people in our family, I enjoy those cookies the most because... I don’t have to bake them. All I have to do is eat!
~Barbara LoMonaco
Ho-Hoing in Hawaii
The sun lay like a friendly arm across her shoulder.
~Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings
“The snowman’s so cold we had to put a jacket on him,” I whined to my husband as I unzipped our youngest from his parka. “Hon,” I continued, “I’ve had it with snow; I want sun—hot sun. And palm trees, not pine trees. And beautiful, white beaches. And exotic fruit.”
Visions of pineapple began to dance in my head.
My husband, Rick, and I are a study in contrast. He likes cold; I like heat. He was quite content in the minus-thirty-degree weather and two feet of snow that engulfed our rural northeastern British Columbia community. We mud-wrestled (without the mud), and I won.
“Oh good, we’re going to Hawaii,” I gushed. “Let’s take the kids.”
This would be the first time my pale, sun-deprived body would bask on a tropical island, and I was tickled pink.
En route, our family—which included eight-year-old-twins and a two-year-old—discarded our mass of winter clothing: parkas, mukluks, sealskin mitts and hats. As soon as we landed in Honolulu I jumped out of the plane.
Swaying to the sound of exotic Hawaiian music, grass-skirted, lei-draped hula girls reached out with welcoming arms. I kissed the ground. Rick teetered along, feet barely showing under our ton of winter wear.
Our Honolulu apartment was spacious (a troop of Boy Scouts could have lived there), cool (Rick and I arm-wrestled over the air conditioning; he won and it stayed on), and best of all, it was only minutes from the beach and a shopping mall—Yes! Everything at our condo was sooo inviting: the exotic gardens, the game room, the swimming pool.
At the beach I almost expected our three sons to stare blankly at the sea. After all, they had never been on a beach where the water was so warm one could actually swim in it. Instinctively though, they knew what to do—charge!
Rick and I watched them dutifully from shore. I, the I-don’t-know-how-to-swim type, gingerly dipped my newly thawed toes into that wonderfully warm Pacific Ocean.
Ahhh... yes... warm sand we could dig our feet into, sun that actually heated our bodies, and malls, awash with familiar Christmas decorations and traditional Christmas songs.
And of course, there was Santa—the perfectly suited Santa.
He sauntered in—outside a beach-fronting mall, where a large crowd, including our family, awaited him. (No sign of any cumbersome reindeer). Santa was dressed in full regalia... almost. He had the customary pom-pommed red hat, fake white beard, red jacket with white trim... and beach sandals... and bright red shorts!
Our kids didn’t care what Santa wore; he was handing out presents: candy canes, balloons, trinkets of various kinds... and leis.
The kids took their turns sitting on Santa’s knees. There was the usual “Have you been a good boy?” question that garnered the usual “Yes, I’ve been very good!” answer. Santa blew up some ever-so-long balloons, which he shaped into animals—giraffes, elephants, fish—and handed one to each child.
“Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas,” Santa boomed.
After the merriment, it was time for breakfast—with Santa. At patio tables shaded by multicoloured umbrellas, to the gentle sounds of Christmas carols floating in the background, our family noshed on fresh croissants and exotic fruit. Before I could say, “Kids, leave that last piece of pineapple for me,” Santa and the kids—stacks of kids, including our own trio—skipped down to the beach, pied-piper style. There, Santa played beach ball with the kids, all of them appropriately clad in shorts or swim wear.
Rick and I, likewise attired, parked ourselves on lawn chairs and watched our kids get sand in their trunks. I wish I’d taken photos of Santa, but that would have meant eating less pineapple, a sacrifice I wasn’t prepared to make.
Two weeks later Rick dragged me back into the plane. As we neared our destination, muffled in sub-zero gear, I stared bleakly at the reappearing frozen landscape. “Don’t worry, dear,” Rick piped. “Your body and bleached hair will return to their natural colours in no time.”
I liked being red. I was going to flaunt that everywhere.
As the parents of four children (one more came along after that trip... not because of it) we’ve seen oodles of Santas over the years since then. But the most memorable Santa by far is the one who Ho-Hoed with our children under swaying palm trees in his flaming red shorts.
Visions of that Christmas still dance in my head, and that field-fresh pineapple still lingers on my palate.
~Chantal Meijer
Nothing Under the Tree
The best things in life are unexpected—because there were no expectations.
~Eli Khamarov, Surviving on Planet Reebok
“Don’t get me anything for Christmas!” my husband’s voice broke into my thoughts, which were full of all the Christmas preparations I planned to complete in the next few weeks. I looked at him and nodded, “You say that every year.”
“This year I’m serious. There won’t be anything for you under the tree or in your stocking, at least not from me. So don’t get me any gifts either. Put the extra money to more things for the kids,” he repeated.
I didn’t bother replying. We went through this every year. Most years I’d listen and get him a few little gifts so the children could enjoy watching him empty his stocking. Every year he’d have a gift under the tree for me and my stocking would have lots of surprises in it, sometimes costly surprises. Every year I wished I hadn’t listened to his instructions. This year I wouldn’t.
Days passed in a whirlwind of activities including baking, shopping, decorating and sending out Christmas cards and letters. My husband repeated his nothing-for-me message frequently. Each time I would look deeply into his eyes for the teasing glint that was sure to be there, yet he seemed more serious than in the past.
Finally, the gifts were all wrapped and under the tree, the items for stockings well hidden from prying eyes, and the children’s Christmas programs were done. Christmas Eve had arrived. I tucked the children in. Sleep would be delayed by their excitement so I curled up on the couch and settled in for a long wait.
“You know there’s no gift under the tree for you, right?” my husband asked.
“Yup! I checked.”
“Don’t have anything for your stocking either. So don’t be disappointed. I warned you. You listened and didn’t get me anything either—right?” he said.
I looked at him and smiled. I’d wait and see. Maybe this year he listened to his own rules and I’d be one up on him. Then I tried to shake those thoughts right out of my head. Since when had giving gifts become such a competition? That shouldn’t be what Christmas was all about.
I felt like I had barely laid my head on the pillow when I heard the children’s voices attempting to break into my sleep-fogged brain. “Get up. It’s Christmas! Get up!”
They pulled at our arms, urging us to hurry. They needed to see what Santa had put in their stockings. I pulled on my robe and followed them to the living room where I watched them eagerly empty all the treasures from the stockings. I loved to see their smiling faces. Then I turned to watch Brian empty his stocking. He leaned over and whispered for my ears alone, “I wasn’t supposed to get anything.”
I pulled a few chocolate candies an
d an orange from my stocking. He had been serious. There was no gift under the tree and nothing in my stocking. I tried to hide my disappointment.
Later that morning, we headed the few blocks to my parents’ house to celebrate with the rest of the family. As we entered their house the fragrant aroma of roasting turkey and pies filled our nostrils. Christmas dinner always provided a bountiful supply of scrumptious food. I quickly pitched in to help put the food on the table while the children ran off to play with their cousins.
Following the meal the children clamored for present exchange but first all of us women took on the mundane chore of kitchen cleanup while the men headed out to check the trucks and warehouse. With impeccable timing they returned just as we completed the last of the dishes and I looked forward to a relaxing afternoon of visiting. Brian looked at me and said, “Before we open the presents why don’t you take some of these leftovers to our fridge and bring back a couple of games for later.”
“Sounds good to me, but why don’t you go?” I replied.
“Nope, I’ll stay here. You go. Hurry back,” he countered.
I looked around but no one took my side. Frustration began building inside me when I asked him once more to do the errand and he again refused. I could not win this argument, so rather than creating an unpleasant scene, I grabbed my coat and jammed my arms into it. I pulled on my boots, grabbed some containers of leftovers from my mom and headed out the door, barely refraining from slamming it behind me. I mumbled and grumbled to myself all the way home and by the time I arrived in my own kitchen the frustration had turned to full-blown anger.
I yanked open the refrigerator door, shoved in the containers and slammed the door shut. I wheeled around, almost colliding with a huge dishwasher standing in the middle of the kitchen floor.