A Tale of Ten Oranges

A chicken in every pot.  An orange in every sock.  Well, at least we always had the latter.  Every Christmas Eve, as we slept, my Mom would sink a huge orange into each of our Christmas socks.  Yes, socks. 

There were ten of us, kids.  We surely never had the indulgence of satin and sequined stockings-all hanging in a row.  Hell, no.  We would search through the clean laundry, on Christmas Eve, and fight over the longest ones, the ones without any holes-as if there would be anything that might fall through!  And then we'd tack them up- on the mantel- in the order of our birth.  I was always ninth. 

And then we'd wait with that joyful anticipation-that happiness that glows like an ember deep in your belly.

I don't know what we were thinking- because every Christmas morning-the stockings would be empty- save the rounded orb in the toe of each sock-weighing each down- like so many pendulums marking the times of our lives. 

I once asked Mom, why the oranges?  I had often heard about the trinkets and candy that filled the stockings of my friends.  I would pretend to have been treated to the same, to avoid feeling that sick twist of shame and envy.  I remember that she told me that it was the ultimate treat to receive an orange on Christmas morning. 

"When I was kid, you have to remember, it was the Depression.  Fresh oranges were considered to be a delicacy!  Every Christmas morning, we'd get oranges-not one in each stocking!  Oh, no!  There were nine of us kids, and my Mom would slice the oranges into sections, like citrus moons, and we'd each get two or three.  C'mon!  We were in heaven!" Her eyes were lit from within, far away, as she told me this.  I was not impressed- her gem of a memory lost to me-I would have preferred the trinkets. 

My Mom and Dad always waited to the last minute to shop.  Mom didn't have her license back then, so she'd have to wait until Dad could take her and probably, until Dad's check came in. 

We'd all have our lists drawn up-filled with scribblings of our utmost desires-Barbies to bikes.  Dad and Mom would head out on the Eve, probably stopping for a beer or two, before tackling the gargantuan task before them-shopping for ten kids on a shoestring.  I wonder, now.  Despite the sheer craziness of their late night shopping foray, might it have been a nice night for them. Just getting clear of all the kids for awhile-on this impossible, mad shopping spree.

What a scene that must have been!  My Mom would probably be over her head, lost in mounds of sweaters, all in a tumble from careless, harried Christmas shoppers.  I can just see her ,tsk-tsk-ing, at the disorder- with pursed lips and a furrowed brow- telegraphing her disapproval, and resolving, then and there, to fold each item neatly before she made her own choices. 

But as she folded each and every, she'd be making careful selections from the pile, proudly commenting aloud, to no one in particular, on her choices, "This blue will be gorgeous on Maggie with her blue eyes! Won't this green sweater set be just right with Mary's reddish hair?"  Her delight would be palpable amongst the grumpy last- minute shoppers around her. 

Mom would always find the oddest articles of joy.  One year, we all got black leotards and gold lame slippers- with elastic shirring- and little golden bows.  I remember feeling like a June Taylor dancer, that Christmas morning.  For weeks afterward, my sisters and I staged dance shows, emerging from a curtain fashioned from an old blanket hung from a length of clothesline.  Our soft shoe shuffles seemed to make all the adults laugh, but we were undaunted in our routines! 

Mom would always get us each at least one thing from our lists-I always wanted a new doll. Each object of our affections would be placed atop our own pile, each pile recognizable to its dreamer by the gift atop. 

Sometimes we got group gifts.  I remember the year that Mom and Dad brought home three bikes-two were glimmering chrome and red-earmarked as the "Boys'" bikes. And one, a beautiful abalone green,in my memory, was the "Girls'"  bike.   The inequity was lost to us as we knew that we would just have to take turns.  And learn to ride boy bikes!

There was a great incline on the beach road that we lived on, then.  I can remember anxiously awaiting my turn and then mounting the silvery steed with the grace of a cowgirl hitting the dusty trail!  I would stand, as I pedaled, to get the power I needed to reach the hilltop.  And then with a graceful arc, I would turn at the top and look down at my sisters-stick figures at the bottom of the hill-waiting their turns.  

This was a moment to savor. I would grasp the warm molded plastic handles with the curvy finger indentations.  My fingers formed perfectly to the mold and made me really feel at one with my steed.  I would suck in the rarified air, in that hilltop moment, survey the scene, and then gently push off.  Then, I'd pedal- ten or twelve cycles-fast. 

And then-oh, just ultimate joy!  Legs at rest, balancing on the metal pedals, head tucked into the wind, I would fly down that hill.  The warm winds would dry the sweat on my brow and toss my hair back like a wild pony's tail!  The sheer speed would make me laugh out loud.  My reverie would diminish, somewhat, as the size of my waiting sisters grew.  For then it would be one of THEIR turns.

I do remember an odd twinge of shared joy, however, as I would surrender the bike to one of my giggly sisters.  She'd quickly clamber aboard for her own wild ride.  And somehow, I too could bubble-just a little- with her joy as she ascended the hill.

We sure learned to share, then and there. 

And were our rides more delicious-than our friends-who had their very own bikes- ready to ride without a care.  I'd like to think so.  I think I know so.

And another Christmas, there was a ping-pong table.  I remember being bowled away by its pure size!  When the cardboard carton was literally torn away by my frenzied brothers, we saw this beauty.  It was huge and green, like a chalkboard at school.   Chalky white lines marked the boundaries and a taut white net snapped into place, fairly begged for the first contestants.  There were four paddles and about five tubes of little balls.  We needed those.  Dad predicted well.

The boys quickly commandeered the table and were the first to learn the art of ping-pong.  They would delight in the samurai-style- smash- action serves and returns, which would crumple the stiff papery balls.  They would laugh.  We girls would be angry at their wasteful boy antics.  But we were younger- and smaller-no match for their testosterone- fueled play. 

After a few hours, they'd tire and we girls would get control of the table.  I loved the rhythmic tick- tock sound, as the ball ticked the table, cleared the net, tocked the opposition's table surface- only to return again.  It wouldn't be long before an audience of sorts would appear-brothers usually-taunting us about our level of skill-wagering to play the winner.  In this fashion, the boys would reclaim the table and we would be left to watch and wait for them to tire.

Again, we learned to share, then and there. 

And so here I am, on this Christmas morning, dropping an orange into each of our silky, sequined stockings.  Now I can see:  funny how age gives you a clarity that is lost to trinket- seeking youth. 

I pull the orange out of my own stocking, study its pebbly rind.  Savor its color.  Remember her story. Those oranges-one for each and every sock- represented the bounty of the Season that she wanted for us all.  Dad's group gifts taught us to share.  The sharing made the object so much more valuable, in the end.

I let the orange roll off my hand.  It slides to the bottom of the stocking and rests there-in the toe- a gentle, bulbous reminder-to share and to love.  Lovely pendulums-marking the times of our lives.