No Father for Christmas Eve, a coming of age story, with humor. Colorado Rockies, December 1944. Fiction.

No Father for Christmas Eve.  part 1.

No Father for Christmas Eve, a coming of age story. Part 2.

A small town in the Colorado Rockies
December 1944.

A coming of age story, with humor

I was 11 and all was not well. I was always betwixt and between everything. My sister, Martha, was 22 and Uncle Brad had come to live with us. At 16, Brad was still very much a boy and his boyish ways had graced our lives ever since Grams and Gramps’ airplane had crashed over the Denver Rockies five years earlier.

When Brad came to live with us, he was 11 – just the age I am now and far too young to live by himself -- or with strangers -- and so, his living with us was to benefit him, as well as us.

Reservoir in Colorado Rockies, Wiki

Colorado Rockies, Wiki

Mom was a doctor in our small Colorado town, and Dad was in the Air Force – and with both of them being away a lot -- we needed all the help we could get. When Grams and Gramps were alive, Grams practically lived with us, helping raise us in Mom’s frequent absences. Bra<d’s living with us would have been just fine if he was 16 the way boys were supposed to have been in 1944. My life would’ve been much easier if Brad had been mature for his age, instead of woefully, annoyingly, painfully immature.

As it was, he teased me, constantly, which only added to the misery that any normal 11-year-old girl feels when she is betwixt and between her family’s expectations, between society’s expectations, and between growth spurts.

At 11, I was short, and had a stick figure: I had no hips and no promising little buds pointing outward from my blouse. It seemed as if the wondrous development I’d seen bless other girls my age was passing me by. There were times I ached to return to the cute scamp of a girl I’d been at five, but there were other times I desperately longed to become a woman. Although I didn’t have much idea of what kind of a woman I’d actually like to be, I never wanted to use Mom as an example.

As beautiful as Mom was, she was a professional woman -- and a doctor at that -- which required her to make minute but genuine sacrifices in her femininity. I didn’t want to make that pact with the devil. I wanted to become a beautiful woman, with all the privileges afforded such beauty.

This would make up for the cruel twist of fate cast in my direction by my having been born into my rather insane family – and with me – Meggie -- Margaret Mary McDonald, age 11 but budding girl wonder, I was the youngest in that rather insane family, at that.

On good days, Brad chased me around the house, flipping a towel at me, trying to hit me with it. On bad days, when Brad was naughty -- he hid frogs in my bed, then waited until I climbed under the cool sheets, turned off the light and felt slimy frog legs jump over my tender, pre-pubescent body. It was then that I let out the most hideous, blood-curdling scream, at the top of my lungs.

I was certain Brad eavesdropped outside my bedroom door until he heard me scream, because no sooner did I scream than I heard him scramble up the wooden stairs -- two at a time -- climb into his own bed and turn out the lights, pretending to be none the wiser. But I knew.

I didn’t want much from my miserable, 11-year-old life: I only wanted sanity. I wanted Brad to grow up, to become interested in girls, leave me alone, and to leave home. As for my parents, I wanted them to stay home with me. And as for Martha, my older sister and self-proclaimed know-it-all Princess, I wanted her out of my life.

Winter was the worst season, by far, with snow often blocking the front door to the ranch house, and Mom out working. As a general practitioner, she made house calls on a daily basis. She brought many babies into the world, and had saved just as many townspeople. Mom must’ve been the most popular woman in town.

Dad was an officer stationed in the South Pacific, but he was trying to come back for his Christmas visit. As often happened at Christmas, he often got stuck in San Francisco, and I was worried that he might get stuck in California again this year. Since we were close to Denver, the mile-high city, we were high up in the Rockies, which made it difficult for buses or planes to get through.

Martha got a pass on everything that resembled responsibility, simply because she was studying for her entrance exam to medical school. The rest of us were supposed to put our time to ‘good use’, implying that although Martha most certainly was putting her time to ‘good use’, we most certainly were not. I resented the implication that the rest of us were not doing anything that resembled ‘good use.’

And so it happened that it was I who was left to do the chores. On a ranch the size we owned, chores were plentiful and required muscle. It was on those cold December mornings before the sun peeked over the Rockies that I rose early to milk the cows, feed the horses and clean their stalls. It was much too much work for any one child to do, much less a small, 11-year-old girl. To be fair, Brad often helped me on winter mornings. But I never felt Brad did his fair share, for a boy his age and size.

Of all the memories I have of my childhood, it was Christmas, 1944 that most stands out as being memorable. Being longer on memory now than I was short of stature then, this is how I remembered that Christmas.

The worst of Brad’s teasing was the Sunday before Christmas when he served a plate of his boogers to me, at my lunch table. I reckon he spent a lot of time pickin’ them because there were so many. After putting tin foil over the top of the plate and storing it in the fridge for a month until they dried out (and no longer resembled snot), he decided to try out a new dessert on me.

“Meggie, I have a surprise for you! A new French dessert you’ll just love.”

He removed the tin foil to reveal what looked like dried nuggets. Since these dried nuggets didn’t resemble any dessert I’d ever eaten or had seen a photo of in Mom’s gourmet magazines, I had my suspicions. Unwisely, I gave Brad the benefit of the doubt.

“What are these?”

”Try them,” he said, winking, as my heart plopped into my stomach. This was one of those times when Brad’s winks were a bad sign. A very bad sign.

I tried them. “No idea,” I said. “What are these?”

”Boogers.” Brad grinned from ear to ear as he saw my obvious displeasure, as I began to turn colors and run to the bathroom, putting my hand to my mouth. I could taste vomit.

I spit out the several boogers in my mouth, drank lots of water, and nearly puked my guts out. Brad laughed the entire time.

”If you were my brother and you were my size, I’d strangle you,” I’d said to Brad.

”Good thing I’m your Uncle."

“You don’t act like it.”

When I told Mom about this, she just said, “Leave it be, Meggie.”

‘Leave it be. Leave Brad be. Leave Martha be. Leave Martha to her studies.’

I was sick of hearing ‘Leave it be.’ As the youngest, I bore the brunt of everything. Martha got first pick and Brad got second. By the time they were done picking, there was little left for a small 11-year old with a big heart and an even bigger hurt.

The teasing continued right up until Christmas that year. “Mom! Brad swat me with the towel, again.”

My ears hurt from the sting of Brad’s accidental hit to my left temple. “Brad, you hit my ear. My ears are ringing and I see stars. Mom, Brad’s doing it again.”

Mom scolded Brad as if she actually meant it. “Brad! You’re 16 years old. I want you and Meg to decorate the tree while I’m gone. Oh, and did you finish your mail delivery?”

Brad looked sheepish.

“No? Meg’ll help you. That needs to be done, and dinner, too. We’ll have stew. We don’t have any rations left for more meat this week. Meg, you and Brad cut up the vegetables and leftover meat.”

Brad and I groaned, in unison.

“I want all three of you to get along nicely while I’m delivering Mrs. Brown’s baby. After I’m done, I have to attend to Mrs. Harriman, who’s got scarlet fever. I’m afraid I’ll be very late tonight. Christmas Eve is up to you kids. No Father for Christmas Eve.”

“Father’s not coming?” I asked. I held back salty tears as a lump formed in my throat. I began to suspect the worst.

“A telegram just came.” Mom read the telegram. Buses not running. Stop. Planes grounded. Stop. Will send word. Stop. Apologies. Stop. Love, Dad. Stop.

“And now, I must go out.” Dr. Katherine McDonald grabbed her doctor’s bag, and wrapped her wool cloak tightly around her, then wrapped her long, white wool scarf to secure her cloak, and added a hat, gloves, and her heavy boots.

I was afraid that Dad might not make it. Again. San Francisco had great weather but here in the Colorado Rockies near Denver, we could never count on weather decent enough for planes to land.

“We’ll make do, Meggie. And Brad, I’m counting on you. As my little brother, you’re the Man in the family.”

“I’m 16, six years younger than Martha, and only five years older than Meg. “

“Never mind how old you are, Brad. I need you to help Meg and Martha. Everything needs to be done. Promise me you’ll see to it that everything’s done.”

Brad rolled his eyes. I knew what that meant. He was going to try his darnedest not to obey Mom. He was Mom’s baby brother, born when Mom was 28, or Grams’ happy accident, as Mom always liked to call the unfortunate event of Brad’s birth. As the baby brother, Brad never liked to listen to his big sister.

Mom tried to start the blue Crosly wagon, but the battery was dead. ”Drat,” Mom said. “I’ll have to walk. Only half a mile. With the snow as heavy as it is, it’ll be faster to walk. I was low on gas rations this week, anyway.”

Mom began to walk to the Browns, but the wind was severe, and it blew icy snow into her face. She struggled to keep her footing on the icy road. The blizzard picked up pace.

At first, I had hopes this day might be better than most. Brad smiled at me as if he might want to help me. He acted almost like an adult. But as the day wore on, doubts began to surface. I did not know what Christmas Eve would bring. I would try my best to be optimistic.

Brad smiled sweetly as he spoke to me.

“Meggie, I need your help delivering the Christmas mail. We’ve got only one more bag to deliver. Can you get your Red Flyer fired up? It won’t take long, with both of us working.”

I seized on the moment. I wasn’t going to let Brad get away with five years of deliberately induced misery with one-seemingly adult action. I would make Brad pay for those five years.

“Brad, here’s the deal. You apologize for five years of chasing me around the living room, trying to hit me with a towel. Apologize for the three times the towel hit me on my head or my ear. Last time you hit me on the ear, my ears rang and I saw stars. Apologize, Brad. Apologize.“

“Meg, I apologize. I won’t do it again. Not today, anyway.”

“Brad!”

“OK. I won’t do it again. Now we need to get your Red Flyer ready.”

“Still too easy, Brad. I want a real apology. And I want you to help me every day for the next year. With my chores. All of them.”

“The next year? All your chores? Can I think about it? Can we talk about it?”

“Promise, Brad. Promise.”

Brad squinted, sighed, then exhaled through his teeth.

“Well, Meggie, I guess you deserve it. I haven’t exactly been the best uncle. You are a little girl, and I am 16. Okay. I’ll help you, every day. Just don’t be bratty to me about it. Okay?”

“Well, okay, Brad. But don’t go bossing me around.”

Another blast of icy snow hit me in the face. “The storm is looking pretty bad, Brad. I’m not looking forward to this.”

“Our ancestors walked from Missouri to the Rockies in winter storms. If they could walk across these little mountains in the snow, we can deliver the mail on Christmas.”

I loathed the lecture that Brad always brought out as a trump card when it suited his purpose to do so, because I knew he’d just as easily find some measly excuse to get out of something when that suited his purpose.

The wind was biting. It took all afternoon to deliver 100 pieces of mail. I did my darnedest to run each letter up to the house fast-- by running on my 11-year-old legs as quickly as I could while Brad wheeled the wagon heavy with mail -- squeaky wheel by squeaky wheel -- on the increasingly slippery streets.

As I helped Brad with the mail, I slipped into a reverie about my first blizzard, when I was five and in kindergarten. I often daydreamed to distract myself from the everyday unpleasantness that surrounded my life.

It was six years earlier when Grams was visiting us, helping Mom. I was in kindergarten, and sure -- I saw snow outside the schoolhouse -- but I was a very big girl of five, a girl who’d seen snow plenty of times. I made a growly face at the snow, as if my pretending to be ferocious could make the blizzard disappear.

I resolved to walk the mile home in the snow, just as I’d done every day that year. Two blocks into the walk when I could no longer see my hands in front of my face, I knew my plan to walk home in the snow was a very, very bad idea. The wind was strong and the snow blew directly into my face, freezing my cheeks, lips and finger tips, right through my mittens.

It was by the grace of Providence that I made it home. As I stumbled in the door of our ranch house, I looked and felt as miserable as a half-frozen kitten. Grams took one look at me, and took a fright. She stripped off my wet mittens, boots, hat and scarf from me, then stripped off my coat, sweaters and leggings.

As I stood shivering by the fire in my undies and undershirt and saw my clothes soaked through as they hung on a chair – I gazed wide-eyed and slack-jawed at my body – and saw that from my legs to my cheeks, I was bright red. In the mirror, I could see my lips were blue.

My teeth chattered. I was miserable and nearly in tears. Grams gave me hot chocolate, dressed me in warm flannels, and tucked me in bed. I resolved to never be that cold, ever again. I slept through that afternoon until the next morning, learning a lesson I will never forget: to respect nature but to avoid blizzards.

Continues to part 2, finale, tomorrow.

Copyright © 2008, Kathryn Esplin-Oleski. All rights reserved.