I was too old, I suppose ‑‑
especially by today's standards. Still, I believed. I ignored the other kids'
claims about Santa Claus. I thought putting up the Christmas tree was a
pleasure, not a chore. When I did have chores, I sang Christmas carols to pass
the time. I refused to think of the holidays as anything less than magical.
On Christmas Eve, a
sprinkling of snow dusted everything, proving me right. Snow for Christmas! Not
so much that Grandma couldn't come over for Christmas dinner tomorrow ‑‑ just
enough. Everything sparkled when the streetlights came on. Just before I went
to bed, a flock of birds flew away north to give Santa one last report on good
boys and girls.
That Christmas Eve, I
wore my watch to bed, eager for it to read six o'clock, the earliest time we
were allowed to get up. Long after my little sister fell asleep, I lay awake,
dreaming. For a while, I knelt in my bed and looked out the window, hoping to
catch a glimpse of reindeer in the sky. Then when it seemed it must be nearly
morning, I pulled up my pajama sleeve and looked at my watch in the glow from
the streetlights.
Nine o'clock!
It would be hours and
hours till morning!
The watch was still
ticking, so I decided it must be running slow. I set it ahead fifteen minutes
to compensate, then tried to sleep again.
The next time I checked,
it was only nine‑thirty! Obviously, something was seriously wrong with that
watch. Again I set it ahead a bit to make up for its slowness.
I don't know how many
times I reset my watch that night. Now and then, between my attempts to control
time and make Christmas come faster, I nodded off. Once I woke to the sound of
what I was sure had been prancing hooves. Another time, as I drifted out of
sleep, I thought I caught a whiff of pipe smoke.
Finally, my watch read
six o'clock. I slipped out of bed and into my robe and crept out to the living
room to turn on the Christmas tree. The mounds of colorful packages, the
sparkle of the tree, the quiet magic of the morning made the torture of waiting
seem worthwhile.
My parents found me
snuggled on the couch, just taking it all in. Of course, they shooed me back to
bed since it was only three o'clock in the morning!
It didn't matter. I slept
well till my sister pounced on my bed and shook me awake. She was right to be
excited, I thought: something beautiful awaited her.
I think that was the last of the real
Christmases: the Christmases where the
tree was like something out of a fairy tale and the wrapping paper covered
happiness and hints of magic were everywhere. Eventually, I could no longer
deny the truths and practicalities of the holidays.
Still ‑‑ I love a
Christmas tree, the secrets of packages, the gathering of family. There's still
a bit of magic in every Christmas.
And I don't have to turn
back the clock to capture it.
I love to read what other writers have to say about writing. Their words can be inspiring, amusing, and even educational. Here are some more quotes from my collection:
