Holiday Memories

The book is selling great! Thank you to everyone who bought the book or Kindle version. I hope you enjoy it. John, one of my involuntary volunteer editors, told me it was the kind of book you had to finish once you started reading. I love getting the texts with the pictures of arrival, seeing a part of me all over the country. Sadly, it is too big to fix a wobbly table leg, but it can replace an entire sofa leg if necessary! The enormous size seems daunting, but only because I used a larger font.

It's that time of year when we begin to complain about dealing with shopping, wrapping, cooking, baking, and all the other tasks of the holidays. I don't know how my parents did it, but somehow, we always had a good Christmas. It is also that time of year when I bore my daughter to tears with stories of long ago. Here is one that didn't make the book for lack of space, but is a favorite holiday memory.

Brand New Pair of Roller Skates

"Brand-new pair of roller skates" was “the song” of 1971. Donna wasn’t married yet and was home for the summer, quarter breaks, and holidays. I knew the song because Donna sang it constantly, until it festered under our skin, and Mom and Dad had a steady chorus of “I’ve got a brand-new pair of roller skates, you’ve got a brand-new key.” 

Mom must still have had that song ringing in her ears that Christmas, because I got a pair of roller skates.  They were steel-wheeled, with a metal platform and claws that tightened and gripped my shoes, crunching my feet.  The key tightened those roller skates painfully to keep the child from separating from the skate. 

I had one of my usual ear infections that Christmas and remember feeling miserable and not very enthusiastic. Tubby was excited about my present, though, and tried to get me to try them out. When I just didn’t have the energy to play with my Christmas loot, he finally gave up. 

“Let me try them.” He announced.

I handed over the skates and the key. Tubby attached the iron maiden devices to his shoes and stood up. Tubby had failed to account for a few facts about our lives. Not being good at physics, he overlooked that our old house had long sunk so that the living room tilted at a steeper than forty-five-degree angle. He also forgot that the skates had no brakes. And most importantly, his foolish self didn’t know how to roller skate.

“Watch me, Pooch!” Tubby yelled as he stood up at the uphill end of the living room.  Letting go of the wall, he began to move forward.  As the cracked linoleum angled downward, he began to pick up speed.

“Help!” He screamed.

There was no help.  I was too sick, Donna was never one to jump into danger, Dad thought he was being an idiot in the first place, and Mom would have been barely a speed bump. 

Tubby flew past the rest of us on the couch, heading west on a downhill slalom. Tubby was spinning his arms through the air as he went by us. He was trying to stop his feet and look down.

Crashing headfirst into the Christmas tree, Tubby buried himself among the branches. His face was hidden, and he stayed there ominously, not making a sound.

The tree was one of Dad’s special trees, cut from state land. The branches were uneven, the trunk was twisted, and he had unceremoniously nailed the trunk to a board. Mom tied it with twine to staples in the wall, which had remained year-round for that purpose. 

Because of the twine string tether, the tree didn’t fall over. Instead, as Tubby dived forward, it lifted from the bottom and angled toward the wall. 

“Did he break his damn glasses?” Dad wanted to know.

I started crying.  I didn’t even get to try my new roller skates even once, and now Tubby probably broke them.  Donna found it hilarious.

Mom ran over to the tree.  As Tubby finally began to fight his way out of the tree, the few ornaments that remained hanging after the collision fell and shattered.  As Tubby fought off tree branches and crawled backward on his knees, Mom lamented the smashed ornaments.

“Oh, that’s the last one you damn kids didn’t break that I got from Grandma.  Oh no, these are the ones we got from your Aunt Evelyn.  I always like those.  Well, shit, I’ve had these since before I had you kids.  I think this one is older than your father, yup, that one was a real antique.  Nope, they don’t make these kinds anymore at all.  Guess if I want something nice, I have to pack it up my ass.  I don’t know why I even bother to have a tree around here if you kids can't stay out of it.”

Dad was relieved. Tubby had pulled his head out, his glasses still on.  I was grateful my skates were metal and undamaged.  Mom cleaned up the mess and moved the Christmas tree's load-bearing staples to the corner, where, “You damn kids can’t wreck it again.”