few younger than I, two teenage boys, and one captive husband, who was doing all the heavy lifting. Everyone seemed excited and cheerful, even the husband, who was being henpecked nearly to death by his wife, his mother, and his mother-in-law.
When the Senior Ladies started singing Christmas carols together, I knew without a doubt that Christmas fever had come to Hindsville. By the time we began setting up Christmas trees in the square, Grandma was afflicted with it and was angling to play Mrs. Santa Claus in the pageant.
“But I wouldn’t want anyone to think Oliver Mason and I are a couple. You know they have chosen that old coot as Santa Claus?” she was saying. “People could get the wrong idea.”
I hid behind a Douglas fir, trying not to giggle. This was, after all, the serious matter of Grandma’s reputation. “I’m sure they won’t. But if you’re worried about it, don’t play Mrs. Santa Claus.”
Wringing her hands, she let out a long, soulful sigh. “Oh, but I wouldn’t want the children to be disappointed.” As if no one else in town could possibly play Mrs. Claus.
“That’s something to think about.” I bit my lip to keep from laughing and pretended to be busy fluffing out the tree. “I guess you’ll just have to do it.”
Raising her chin steadfastly, she gave one swift nod. “I suppose I shall.”
And so she left me there and wandered off to begin campaigning in earnest. I continued working on the Santa House with Wanda Cox, a sixtyish neighbor of Grandma’s who was tall and slender and wore a beauty-shop hairdo that reminded me of the 1960s. With us were her daughter, Sandy, who was the fourth-grade teacher in town, and three other elderly ladies whom I didn’t know. With all of us working, the task went quickly, which was good, because evening was coming and it was getting cold. To keep warm, we talked as we worked, about kids mostly, because that was the one thing we all had in common.
“I worried about everything when Bailey was born, but with Justin, I just let things go. It’s a lot more fun,” Sandy was saying. She was pretty, a few years younger than I, with short blond hair, and a friendly personality that made you feel like you’d known her forever. I figured that made her good at teaching.
One of the ladies hanging garlands laughed. “It’s easier with the second one, isn’t it? By the time you’ve had four, you’re satisfied just to keep them all fed, diapered, and bathed. Mine were eighteen months to twenty-two months apart. It seemed like I never would get through washing diapers. Every day, another load of diapers. We had that old wringer washer, and I’d stand there and churn that thing, and churn that thing, then wring the diapers, and hang the diapers, and in the meanwhile, the children would be tearing up the house, or running in the mud hole, and here I’d go again.”
Wanda giggled along with her. “My mother used to put the babies in those long dresses, and when she had work to do in the kitchen, she’d pick up the table leg and set it down on the end of the baby’s dress. That way she’d know right where we were. Of course, she married at seventeen and had seven, so she had to do something.”
“Seven,” I breathed. “Wow.” I was thinking of how I felt half out of my mind raising one, and was trying to picture how it would be to have seven, still be in your twenties, and be living in the dark ages before wrinkle-free clothes and disposable diapers. It made my life seem like cheesecake.
The conversation went on like that for quite some time. We covered cooking, husbands, childbirth, weddings, college coursework then and now, and a touch of politics. And all the while we covered the Santa House with garlands and lights. With so many hands, it hardly seemed like work. Everyone was laughing and talking, discussing, humming Christmas songs. In spite of the cold turning fingers and toes numb, it was the best day I could remember.
We ate a
When the Senior Ladies started singing Christmas carols together, I knew without a doubt that Christmas fever had come to Hindsville. By the time we began setting up Christmas trees in the square, Grandma was afflicted with it and was angling to play Mrs. Santa Claus in the pageant.
“But I wouldn’t want anyone to think Oliver Mason and I are a couple. You know they have chosen that old coot as Santa Claus?” she was saying. “People could get the wrong idea.”
I hid behind a Douglas fir, trying not to giggle. This was, after all, the serious matter of Grandma’s reputation. “I’m sure they won’t. But if you’re worried about it, don’t play Mrs. Santa Claus.”
Wringing her hands, she let out a long, soulful sigh. “Oh, but I wouldn’t want the children to be disappointed.” As if no one else in town could possibly play Mrs. Claus.
“That’s something to think about.” I bit my lip to keep from laughing and pretended to be busy fluffing out the tree. “I guess you’ll just have to do it.”
Raising her chin steadfastly, she gave one swift nod. “I suppose I shall.”
And so she left me there and wandered off to begin campaigning in earnest. I continued working on the Santa House with Wanda Cox, a sixtyish neighbor of Grandma’s who was tall and slender and wore a beauty-shop hairdo that reminded me of the 1960s. With us were her daughter, Sandy, who was the fourth-grade teacher in town, and three other elderly ladies whom I didn’t know. With all of us working, the task went quickly, which was good, because evening was coming and it was getting cold. To keep warm, we talked as we worked, about kids mostly, because that was the one thing we all had in common.
“I worried about everything when Bailey was born, but with Justin, I just let things go. It’s a lot more fun,” Sandy was saying. She was pretty, a few years younger than I, with short blond hair, and a friendly personality that made you feel like you’d known her forever. I figured that made her good at teaching.
One of the ladies hanging garlands laughed. “It’s easier with the second one, isn’t it? By the time you’ve had four, you’re satisfied just to keep them all fed, diapered, and bathed. Mine were eighteen months to twenty-two months apart. It seemed like I never would get through washing diapers. Every day, another load of diapers. We had that old wringer washer, and I’d stand there and churn that thing, and churn that thing, then wring the diapers, and hang the diapers, and in the meanwhile, the children would be tearing up the house, or running in the mud hole, and here I’d go again.”
Wanda giggled along with her. “My mother used to put the babies in those long dresses, and when she had work to do in the kitchen, she’d pick up the table leg and set it down on the end of the baby’s dress. That way she’d know right where we were. Of course, she married at seventeen and had seven, so she had to do something.”
“Seven,” I breathed. “Wow.” I was thinking of how I felt half out of my mind raising one, and was trying to picture how it would be to have seven, still be in your twenties, and be living in the dark ages before wrinkle-free clothes and disposable diapers. It made my life seem like cheesecake.
The conversation went on like that for quite some time. We covered cooking, husbands, childbirth, weddings, college coursework then and now, and a touch of politics. And all the while we covered the Santa House with garlands and lights. With so many hands, it hardly seemed like work. Everyone was laughing and talking, discussing, humming Christmas songs. In spite of the cold turning fingers and toes numb, it was the best day I could remember.
We ate a
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