Al6 Terrace Review — Wednesday, December 19, 1990 —

Ta | es O f Chi rl is ima S - — = Holiday stories by Terrace Review freelance writers ,

A Legacy
by Stephanie Wiebe

"Can I help you?" The sales
lady’s voice was forced friendly,
edged with the fatigue of
Christmas Eve.

Jamie stared at the garments in.
his hands. "Uh, no thanks, I’m still

thinking." The sweater was a beige

vee-neck, the boring style his Dad
favoured, and the scarf was filmy
pink with white flowers, perfect
for Gram. As unexciting as they
were, these would finish off the
last of Jamie’s gift list and allow
him to get home-early.

But there was also the sweatshirt.
He examined it again, hesitating.
before he put it back onthe shelf.
The sweatshirt was a heavy wiiite
cotton, the kind all the kids wore,

and he wanted it with-an urgency .

that bordered on need. He'd been
eying it since September. Until last
week, he’d even wondered if there
might be one wrapped in one of
the boxes under the tree, but he
overheard his mother saying how
she just couldn’t understand
spending that kind of money on a
shirt, only because of a brand
name. Of course ‘she wouldn’t
understand, she’s so OLD. They're
all old, Mom, Dad,

and Gram. They really couldn’t
know how important something like
this is when you’re thirteen. He
couldn’t believe they’d ever even

BEEN thirteen.

His Grandpa would’ve known.
Grandpa always understood the
way Jamie felt. Somehow,
Grandpa never seemed as old as
the rest of them, as if there was a
young person stuck inside him,
even when he was dying. Jamie
felt a shiver across his back as he
thought of that.

This was going to be such a
boring Christmas. His married
sister was staying back east with
her in-laws, so it would be only
him with Mom and Dad and
Gram. Gram didn’t say much
anymore, she just sat with a
blanket on her lap and smiled at
nothing. Both Mom and Dad
seemed tired this year. And it
would be the first Christmas
without Grandpa.

Grandpa had been sick through
the summer. Everyone knew he
was dying, but nobody would
actually say the words. Except
Grandpa. In September, he went
into the hospital. Jamie used to
walk there right after school for a
quick game of blackjack or five-
card stud. He didn’t have a lot of
friends io hang out with anyway,
though Grandpa said that was
because he "marched to the beat of
a different drummer", as if that
was a thing to be proud of. Jamie
didn’t think so.

Mom didn’t approve of
Grandpa's teaching poker to Jamic,
but she tolerated it. She had to.
Grandpa said it was the only thing
that kept him going, knowing he
still had valuable skills to pass on
to his grandson. "And you can’t
deny a dying old man one last

' pleasure" — when Grandpa said
that, ‘she always shut up.

while Grandpa dealt the chips, his

LV. tubes hanging from his skinny
white arm as he counted and
stacked. Then Grandpa would cut
the deck "thin to win", somehow
mustering the energy to rub his
weathered hands together in
anticipation of a good deal. ..
Grandpa had a perfect poker
face. As cards were drawn and
discarded, and Jamie talked,
Grandpa’s lined face never
wavered from its calm, direct
expression. As if the cards he held
were only props in a play, the
game and conversation continued

on a parallel, until finally Grandpa

-would casually lay out his hand.
~ "Read ’em and weep.”

it wasn’t until later, after Jamie
had gone home to supper and
homework, when he was lying in
bed listening to the television
natter from the living room, that
Jamie would think about things
that Grandpa had said while
gathering his royal flush. Things
that really meant something, like

."Don’t worry about what others

think of you, Jamie, you're the
only one you have to face in the
mirror." Or "Stay on the good
Straight road, Jamie, and let the
others veer off course — they’ll be
lost, but you'll know your way". It
seemed to Jamie that Grandpa
knew all the answers to life.

Jamie mentioned this to Grandpa
once, how Grandpa’s messages
seemed to re-surface at night.
Grandpa said, "That’s an echo,
Jamie, an grandfather’s echo that
goes on forever. Part of me will
always be with you." Then he laid
out his aces and kings, and cackled
with pleasure. .

But Grandpa had died in
October. He was gone now, though
sometimes at night, Jamie could
hear Grandpa's echoes in his head.
But it still didn’t feel like
Christmas, not at all. He put the
sweatshirt back on the shelf. As
the sales lady rung up Dad’s
sweater and Gram’s scarf, he
thought about getting home and
stretching out on the = sofa,
wondering if he could nap his way
through the dull holiday. He
gtabbed the bag and went home.

Supper was quict. Mom tried to
spark some conversation, but Dad
wasn’t going for it and Jamie had
no interest. When Mom mentioned
the family going to Midnight
Mass, Dad sighed and Jamie rolled
his eyes and Grandma smiled at
nothing. They finished the meal in
silence.

It was around ten, as "White
Christmas" was ending with Bing

Crosby’s final big number in the
snow, when Jamie looked up at
Gram and saw her nod to Mom.
Mom walked over to the tree, and
pulled out a wrapped box, sliding
it across the carpet to Jamie. "This
is for you, Jamie."

Jamie stared at the present,
confused. He was never allowed to
open a gift on Christmas eve, not
even when he was a little kid and
had begged. He slowly slid the
ribbon off one end, and tore at the
tape.

It was the sweatshirt, the white
one. Jamie looked up and around,

- first at Mom, then Dad and Gram.
Jamie would set up the cards.

Mom gently shook her head ‘at
him, and Dad

looked away,

.. blinking fast. Gram had a tear
Sliding down her wrinkled cheek,

but she was still smiling.

There was a tag pinned onto the
shirt, and Jamie felt a lump in his
throat as he read it.

. "To Jamie — You can wear this
to church. With love, Grandpa." .

_ Another echo from Grandpa.
Suddenly it felt like Christmas.

Future artifact
by Harriett Fjaagesund

The strangest Christmas we
ever had was the year my mother
bought ar‘ industrial strength
christmas tree, She said she was

_tired of cleaning up pine needles

and tinsel and bits and pieces of
glass from broken tree balls.
This tree, she proudly boasted,
would require no decorating or
watering or cleaning up after.
It took my father three days to
fit the thing together because it
came with complicated book

length instructions, an enor-

mous pile of nuts and bolts, a

thick metal spine fashioned into

a triangular base at the bottom,
and huge slabs of silver bough-
shaped metal polished to a
blinding sheen. Painted on the
boughs were big red splotches
that we assumed were meant to
represent tree balls. By the end
of the second day, dad'swore the

whole thing had been forged in —

hell.

When the tree was finally all
in one piece, we stood back and
gaped. The thing was massive,
taking ‘up one entire corner of
the living room, and looked
tough enough to withstand hur-
ricanes, fires, floods, and all
future forms of industrial pollu-
tion. The worst part though was
that it resembled a tree with a
bad case of measles. Even mom
looked doubtful.

Someone suggested that
perhaps a few decorations
wouldn’t hurt, so out came the
boxes of glass balls and thread-
bare garlands and tinsel and
homemade ornaments that only
resembled christmassy things if
you used your imagination, and
three long strings of tree lights
that always worked fine when
tested but burned out the mo-
ment they were strung on the
tree. .

Now we had the problem of
how to attach all this stuff be-
cause the branches all point
downwards and were as slick as
a sheet of black ice. Mom
draped a piece of tinsel across a
bough; we watched in silence as
it slowly slid down along the
branch, paused a second at the
tip, then floated gracefully to
the floor.

We tried glue but the only
kind we had was a foul-smelling

concoction that didn’t work very

well. Besides, someone had to
hold the ornament against the
bough while the glue dried and
that took just about forever.
Then we tried tying the garlands
together at the top of the tree
and letting them drape down,
hoping to attach ornaments to
them, but that didn’t work
either because the garlands prov-

ed too old, their rotten strings
«disintegrating into ‘puffs of dust.

Mom finally: scrounged up

two big balls of butcher’ s twine
she'd been saving. Dad cut it in-

- to appropriate bough lengths be-

cause mom balked at the sugges-

tion of doing what we'd tried

with the garlands. She said she
wasn’t about to put up with a
Christmas tree that had twine

‘running up and down its length. -

So dad tightly tied pieces of
twine around each branch, but
no matter how tightly he tied the
twine, the weight of the balls
and ornaments eventually pulled
it off. We finally gave up and
concentrated on the tinsel.

We discovered that by dabb-
ing glue on each piece it stuck

fairly well to the twine and.

would save us the chore of trying
to slip the tinsel underneath each
piece before dad - tightened it.
My brother begged some dis-
carded pine branches from one

‘of the neighbours and we piled

those around the base.

By the end of-the day globs of
drying glue and sticky tinsel lit-
tered the floor, our clothes, and
even some of the furniture.

Pieces of smashed balls and a

few broken ornaments crunched
underfoot. The air was so ripe
with the smell of glue that our
cat fled out the front door at the
first opportunity and flatly
refused to come back in.

The tree wasn’t much im-
provement. If anything, it look-
ed even more diseased, especial-
ly since some of the gluey tinsel
had dried at strange angles. A
neighbour stopped by and asked
which was holding the tree

‘together — the twine or the

tinsel? Everyone laughed except
mom, who gritted her teeth and
made a comment about other
people throwing stones at glass
houses. .

I don’t know what happened
to that tree, we only used it that
one Christmas, but the subject
became taboo around mom. We
always had a live tree after that,
and mom never grumbled too
much about the muss and fuss.

I wouldn’t be surprised if a
hundred years from now some-
one passing through a museum
might stop and stare at a huge
metal tree painted with bright
red splotches, and wonder at
what strange pagan rites people
practised way back in the dark
ages.

All species
by Harriett Fjaagesund

Santa had almost passed over
Terrace, having completed his
gift-giving chores for the town,
when he heard a faint whimper
from far below, Even though he
had a tight schedule to keep,
Santa slowed his reindeer. That
lonely sound reminded him of
something. Over the trees and
house tops he saw a small build-
ing set off by itself, and it was
from there that he whimpering
was coming.

A sign set out front read TER-
RACE ANIMAL SHELTER. A
deep sadness grew inside Santa
because he knew what this place
was — this was where many lost
and unwanted creatures were
sent. And for some, Santa knew,
this place would be Death Row,

because if they weren’t adopted _

within a‘ certain length of time

then they would. have to be Put. .

to sleep.

Santa also knew that the peo-
ple who ran the shelter were ~
good people with big hearts who
truly cared about each animal
they received, but they were only
human and could not perform
miracles.

Santa shook the reins and his
reindeer gracefully descended,
coming to a stop in front of the
building.

Inside he found a mother cat
with five newborn kittens, a
large brown dog that was blind
in one eye, and a small black and.
white Puppy.. The whimpering
was coming from the puppy.
Santa, who. understands ° the
language of: all animals, knelt
down before the little fellow and
asked why he was crying... .

The puppy looked unhappily
at Santa. ‘‘I was playing in the
snow with my little human, we

. were chasing snowflakes, and

then somehow I got lost and
couldn’t find him anywhere!’

-he wailed. Santa sat back on his

heels, thinking hard. Then he

‘reached inside his red coat and.

pulled out a piece of paper.
Written in a childish scrawl was
a note that read PLEASE SAN-
TA I LOST MY PUPPY HIS
NAME IS RALPH AND
COULD YOU PLEASE FIND
HIM YOUR TRULY JIMMY
BROWNE.

Santa smiled, then held the
note out to Ralph, explaining
that he needn’t cry anymore be-
cause he knew where his little
master lived and that he would
take him home right away.
Ralph jumped up and began to
dance around Santa’s feet, bark-
ing furiously.

Santa then turned to the
brown dog and asked why he
was at the shelter. ‘‘I’m here
because I have only one good
eye, and humans want a dog
who can see with two eyes,’’ he
answered sadly. ‘‘And you?’’
Santa asked the mother cat.
‘“Why are you here?”’ “I had a
very good home and was well
loved,’’ she purred, “‘but then
my humans stopped loving me
when they discovered I was preg-
nant.”’

Santa thought for a long mo-
ment, then turned to the brown
dog again. “I know a young
man who would love you even if
you had no eyes. And you,
young mother, '’ he said to the
cat, ‘‘There is a family with
room enough in their hearts for
you and all your kittens. All of
you shall come with me!’’

Before leaving, Santa wrote a
note of explanation and laid it
on the desk so the people
wouldn’t worry when they came
in the next day and found ali the
animals gone. Then, in the
twinkle of an eye, Santa and the
animals climbed into his sleigh

and were soon out of sight.

Of course this story isn’t real,
‘but wouldn’t it be nice if it were?
You may not have a pocketful of -
miracles, but you can make the
world just a little better by
remembering that each and
every one of the creatures who
share this great planet with us is
as unique and individual as you

and I. May there someday be.

peace on earth among all God's

creatures, . Tegardless of what

. species they. may be. -

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