potluck supper in the fellowship hall of the church, which had once been the chapel. Built of native brownstone with ancient stained-glass windows in hand-hewn frames, old candelabra chandeliers, and beaded board paneling, it was a perfect setting for a Christmas dinner. Townspeople added to our number, and the supper soon looked like a major happening in Hindsville.
It was a picture-postcard event—long tables decorated with red tablecloths and garlands, and filled with food in dishes of a hundred different shapes and colors. The room was alive with a wonderful sense of community, people laughing and talking, discussing the events in one another’s daily lives. I was struck by how well they knew each other and how fortunate they were to have that sense of belonging. Watching the old people pass Josh around, I wished Ben were there to share the evening. He would have enjoyed the food and the conversation, and he definitely would have enjoyed watching Grandma campaign for the position of Mrs. Santa Claus.
She was working the room like a professional, shaking hands, kissing babies, calling in favors, even doing a little blackmail. She hardly paused long enough to eat supper. She finished up the evening by sitting with old Oliver, so everyone could see how they looked together. Watching the two of them made me laugh. Oliver looked like a smitten fifteen-year-old boy, and Grandma looked as if she were trying to swallow a dose of castor oil. When he laid a hand on her arm, she gave him a look that could have fried an egg. He didn’t seem to care. He just smiled and chewed on the end of his unlit cigar.
By the time the evening was over, Grandma had the election in the bag. No one was surprised when she won the position of Mrs. Santa Claus by an overwhelming margin. Grandma pretended to be honored and astonished, and laying her hand on her chest in a gesture of false humility, she walked forward to accept her costume. Then she promptly sat beside me, leaving old Oliver to fall asleep in the corner.
Grandma spread the Mrs. Claus costume on the table and began to discuss how embellishments could be made. When we got home later that evening, she started her work.
Over the next two days, I received sewing lessons and was endlessly tortured over the appearance of the costume, and whether Grandma should sit next to Oliver in the Santa House or on a chair beside it so she could hand out candy canes, or perhaps old-fashioned peppermint sticks would be better, and perhaps the line of children should file by her before they went in to see Santa Claus, because . . .
Meanwhile, I was growing more immune to Grandma’s rambling and complaining speeches. Even though Ben’s three-day trip turned into a week plus three days, the time seemed to pass quickly. He was due home the day after the pageant, with a nice paycheck—enough to catch up on most of the bills, at least for another month. I still hadn’t talked to him about my occasional fantasies of a life change, but the desire for something different in our lives was becoming real in my mind.
The day of the Christmas pageant dawned sunny and pleasant for December. Grandma fretted over last-minute preparations all day, until finally it was time to get ready for the pageant. I dressed Joshua in a red snowsuit, took pictures of him in the arms of the most perfect ever Mrs. Santa Claus, and away we went. We arrived at the secret Santa rendezvous location behind the post office with no time to spare, and Grandma was hoisted onto the firetruck by three volunteer firemen. She rode next to Santa Claus and even managed to hold hands with the old coot. Oliver’s red cheeks were a perfect addition to his costume, and there was no rouge involved.
At the Santa House, Grandma sat outside the door, handing candy canes to hopeful kids and admonishing them to be good. I recognized Dell Jordan in the line and was relieved when Grandma didn’t refuse her a candy cane, mention anything about welfare,
It was a picture-postcard event—long tables decorated with red tablecloths and garlands, and filled with food in dishes of a hundred different shapes and colors. The room was alive with a wonderful sense of community, people laughing and talking, discussing the events in one another’s daily lives. I was struck by how well they knew each other and how fortunate they were to have that sense of belonging. Watching the old people pass Josh around, I wished Ben were there to share the evening. He would have enjoyed the food and the conversation, and he definitely would have enjoyed watching Grandma campaign for the position of Mrs. Santa Claus.
She was working the room like a professional, shaking hands, kissing babies, calling in favors, even doing a little blackmail. She hardly paused long enough to eat supper. She finished up the evening by sitting with old Oliver, so everyone could see how they looked together. Watching the two of them made me laugh. Oliver looked like a smitten fifteen-year-old boy, and Grandma looked as if she were trying to swallow a dose of castor oil. When he laid a hand on her arm, she gave him a look that could have fried an egg. He didn’t seem to care. He just smiled and chewed on the end of his unlit cigar.
By the time the evening was over, Grandma had the election in the bag. No one was surprised when she won the position of Mrs. Santa Claus by an overwhelming margin. Grandma pretended to be honored and astonished, and laying her hand on her chest in a gesture of false humility, she walked forward to accept her costume. Then she promptly sat beside me, leaving old Oliver to fall asleep in the corner.
Grandma spread the Mrs. Claus costume on the table and began to discuss how embellishments could be made. When we got home later that evening, she started her work.
Over the next two days, I received sewing lessons and was endlessly tortured over the appearance of the costume, and whether Grandma should sit next to Oliver in the Santa House or on a chair beside it so she could hand out candy canes, or perhaps old-fashioned peppermint sticks would be better, and perhaps the line of children should file by her before they went in to see Santa Claus, because . . .
Meanwhile, I was growing more immune to Grandma’s rambling and complaining speeches. Even though Ben’s three-day trip turned into a week plus three days, the time seemed to pass quickly. He was due home the day after the pageant, with a nice paycheck—enough to catch up on most of the bills, at least for another month. I still hadn’t talked to him about my occasional fantasies of a life change, but the desire for something different in our lives was becoming real in my mind.
The day of the Christmas pageant dawned sunny and pleasant for December. Grandma fretted over last-minute preparations all day, until finally it was time to get ready for the pageant. I dressed Joshua in a red snowsuit, took pictures of him in the arms of the most perfect ever Mrs. Santa Claus, and away we went. We arrived at the secret Santa rendezvous location behind the post office with no time to spare, and Grandma was hoisted onto the firetruck by three volunteer firemen. She rode next to Santa Claus and even managed to hold hands with the old coot. Oliver’s red cheeks were a perfect addition to his costume, and there was no rouge involved.
At the Santa House, Grandma sat outside the door, handing candy canes to hopeful kids and admonishing them to be good. I recognized Dell Jordan in the line and was relieved when Grandma didn’t refuse her a candy cane, mention anything about welfare,
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